The Love Square

by Laura Jane Williams

  ‘No but seriously,’ said Sharon, getting a proper look at her. ‘I thought you were off men?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Are you telling me you’re not on the pull? That you wore false eyelashes for me?’

  Penny reached for her face self-consciously. ‘Is it too much?’

  ‘No, no,’ Sharon insisted. ‘It’s the perfect amount.’

  ‘I just wanted to remind myself that I can be cute, when I try.’

  ‘You’re cute all the time!’ asserted Sharon.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ Penny said. ‘It’s not often I go out somewhere so fancy on a school night.’

  ‘You look gorgeous and if you wanted to tell me the same I wouldn’t be offended.’

  Penny laughed. This is why she found it so easy to be around her – Sharon was fun and to-the-point and never took anything too seriously.

  ‘Sharon!’ she said, as if only now seeing her for the first time. ‘Look at you! You’re a knock-out!’

  ‘Why, thank you.’ Sharon pushed her forearms under her boobs to emphasize the low cut of her top.

  ‘I hope you’ve checked those things lately,’ Penny prompted, as the driver looked at them both in the rearview mirror.

  Sharon nodded. ‘Once a month, in the shower, like you taught me,’ she replied.

  Penny winked at her.

  Sharon lived around the corner from the café with her partner and two kids in a Victorian terrace her parents bought for £260,000 twelve years ago, and was now, aided by London inflation, worth a cool £1.2 million. Sharon used to work in FinTech – financial technology – but gave it all up when she had kids to become a florist, age thirty-nine. She was talented, and did the flowers for Bridges. That’s how Penny had met her two years ago now.

  ‘I’m excited,’ Penny told Sharon as they arrived, joining the queue at coat check and rifling through their handbags for change to tip the porter. The women had been invited to the soft opening of a new restaurant in Notting Hill called Ecclesiast. Dofi, a colleague from Penny’s days at Grayshott Hall – the first ‘proper’ kitchen job after culinary school for them both – had gone out on her own finally. Penny had been just as ambitious as Dofi once, but after the cancer her priorities had shifted. A little North London café was one thing, but Penny knew a whole restaurant that did lunch and dinner, could turn a hundred and fifty covers a day, employed scores of people and was probably vying for a Michelin Star, was quite another. Penny was able to be genuinely happy for Dofi though, because – perpetual singleness aside – Penny was actually really in love with how she’d set up her own life, too. They both had businesses that were right for them.

  ‘Huh. I was sure I’d put some pound coins in here,’ Penny muttered, absentmindedly still searching her through her clutch. ‘Have you got two quid?’

  A voice boomed over her shoulder as she looked through her bag one last time: ‘Just these two please, Darius.’ As a man passed two coats to the coat-check attendant, one brushed Penny’s bag, tipping it out of her hands and onto the floor.

  She crouched down without thinking to collect the spilled contents before they were trampled on, as Sharon bristled, ‘Hey, excuse you! I think you owe my friend an apology, sir!’ She said the ‘sir’ sarcastically, making it clear the man who’d barged past them was anything but a gentleman. Good old Sharon.

  Penny stood as the perpetrator turned to face them.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t see—’ the man started, a slightly odd melody to his words, like maybe English was his second language.

  ‘Oh!’ said Penny in surprise. ‘I know you!’

  In front of her was the bread delivery guy who’d been in the café the other week – still handsome, but cheeks flushed now. Penny literally saw his recognition of her rise up to his eyes just seconds after she’d recognized him.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, coolly, obviously taken aback to see her. ‘I’m sorry about that. My spatial awareness obviously needs some work.’

  ‘No,’ Penny insisted, trying to sound kind and friendly. She didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable at the sight of her when it was he who’d been brave by giving her his number. ‘It was me – I wasn’t looking where I was stood. I was looking for change. I’m sorry.’

  God, that face. Francesco’s face. And his voice, too – his voice gave Penny’s body a physical reaction. Her nipples bristled under her dress. Her breathing changed. Why hadn’t she texted him?

  Francesco nodded, his face impassive. Penny couldn’t get a read on him. The friend beside him said, ‘Do you guys need tip money? I’ve got change.’

  Sharon held out her palm to reveal two coins. ‘We’ve sorted it,’ she said. ‘I found some in my bag.’ Penny could tell she was waiting to have the situation explained to her – how everyone knew one another.

  There was a pause as Penny and Francesco took each other in, neither really smiling or frowning, just looking, both wondering what to say.

  ‘I didn’t text,’ Penny settled on, right as Francesco said, ‘Well, have a great night. This should be really good.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Penny. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Penny faltered.

  ‘What did you do?’ asked Sharon, looking between them, confused.

  ‘Enjoy your night,’ said Francesco’s friend. It all happened so fast. Francesco was already walking towards the dining room to be greeted by the hostess before Penny could think of anything to say to keep him chatting. She watched him go. The friend half-smiled at them and turned away himself.

  ‘Ahhh,’ Penny moaned, scrunching up her face.

  ‘What was that?’ probed Sharon. ‘Or rather, who was that?’

  ‘Oh god. He came in the café a couple of weeks ago and Stuart told him to leave his number for me but I didn’t use it. I think he was a bit embarrassed. Like I’d stood him up or something. I wonder why he’s here, and how he knows Dofi.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sharon, taking Penny’s coat from her for the porter. ‘You’d be embarrassed, too, wouldn’t you? If you hit on him and he said he’d call and then he changed his mind.’ She slid the tip money across the counter. ‘I mean, nobody died, but still. Even my ego would be bruised over that.’

  ‘I know,’ Penny said. She was still watching the space where Francesco had stood. He was even more attractive than she’d remembered. She felt awful that he’d seemed so awkward. Had she been awkward? She’d definitely been awkward.

  ‘Is there a reason you didn’t text him?’ Sharon said, following her gaze. ‘Because, if you don’t mind my saying so, that seems a little short-sighted. He’s …’

  Penny exhaled through her nostrils loudly. ‘Yeah. He is.’ Then she added: ‘There was a reason. Like I said, and, may I remind you, you agreed it was a sound idea – I’m not doing men right now, am I?’

  ‘I’d do that one, though,’ snickered Sharon, raising her eyebrows suggestively, and Penny gave her a playful shove.

  ‘Do you think he’s too handsome?’ Penny asked, letting the waiter unroll her napkin and place it on her lap. ‘Look at him. A man like that could rely on his face for his whole life, never having to develop a personality.’

  ‘I definitely don’t think a man like that is a riot in the sack, put it that way. I’ll bet he’s never had to even try to get a woman into bed,’ Sharon mused.

  She stabbed at the sharing plate between them.

  ‘The best ones are like my Luke. He didn’t become hot until he was twenty-nine and grew into his lanky frame and started to see a proper barber. Before that he was so unlucky in love that he didn’t have sex until he was twenty-five. Not even third base. He was a proper Chris Martin type. Don’t tell him I told you that.’

  ‘Luke lost his virginity at twenty-five?’ Penny said, amazed. ‘How old was he when you met him?’

  ‘Thirty-one. But because he’d never been hot, he worked really hard at sex and it was all about me. You
know how with some men it’s like, the script is three minutes kissing, one minute rubbing over your trousers, two minutes oral and then he sticks it in until he comes, because that’s the objective? That he comes?’

  ‘Depressingly, the answer to that question is yes.’

  ‘Not with Luke. He’d be down there all afternoon if I asked him to. Just wants me to have a good time. And from the second or third time we were together I realized I was coming harder with him than anyone before because it never felt like a rush. He wasn’t getting my pleasure out of the way so that he could get his own. It was as if just having me naked was the pleasure for him. I suppose because for fifteen years he didn’t really have that.’

  ‘Awwww! All he wanted was a naked woman in his bed and then he got you! I can’t believe I didn’t know all this!’

  ‘Ah,’ whispered Sharon. ‘I don’t like to brag.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ teased Penny.

  ‘Yeah,’ laughed Sharon. ‘I do.’

  Penny kept stealing glances back in the direction of Francesco as they chatted, so much so that she’d angled her chair in a way that meant she didn’t have her back to him. She was sure he was looking at her, too.

  Penny couldn’t believe what had happened in the café that morning. It was so conflicting – theoretically, she knew she was worthy of being loved, or at least fancied, but in practice she was so utterly petrified of it. She was terrified of being let down, yet again. Because there always seemed to be an ‘again’. And another. And another. But then, how she felt seeing Francesco this second time, how silly and nervous and electrified she felt in his presence – it was a hell of a rush. There was no way she was imagining the connection. Not now she’d felt it twice. It was this exact feeling that always made her reason, okay. One more shot at hope. Why not?

  ‘Two things,’ Sharon said. ‘First: you’re going to hurt your neck if you keep straining to see that guy. Second: try the watermelon and pecorino salad. It is very, very good.’ She waved her fork into the air in the direction of the dish closest to her.

  ‘I told you Dofi knew what she was doing,’ Penny said, reaching over. ‘I mean, everything is just magnificent, isn’t it? So good. She taught me a lot of what I know about pairing flavours.’

  ‘You need to do something like this at the café,’ Sharon insisted, going in for more. ‘I’d be there every day for it.’

  Penny took a forkful and turned in Francesco’s direction again as she chewed.

  She couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Okay,’ said Penny. ‘Take two. I’m going to go and talk to him. You’ve convinced me.’

  ‘Not that it took a lot,’ replied Sharon. ‘I think you convinced yourself.’

  ‘Don’t make me tell you to piss off,’ uttered Penny, scowling playfully. ‘Not when I’m about to be gutsy.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Sharon, grinning, as she stood to lead the way into the lounge area for after-dinner coffee. ‘Into battle we go,’ she trilled over her shoulder. ‘Waterloo here we come.’

  ‘I’m saying it: piss off.’

  Penny heard Sharon laugh. ‘You know I’ve got your back,’ she said, honing in on two high-backed chairs alongside Francesco and his friend.

  ‘Are these seats taken?’ Sharon asked, smiling brightly. ‘Can we?’

  Francesco didn’t seemed surprised to see the two women, who sat down before hearing one way or the other. Penny looked nervously at Sharon for encouragement, who nodded in Francesco’s direction as if to say, talk to him.

  ‘Hi,’ said Penny, with a small, self-conscious wave. ‘How are you?’

  Francesco smoothed his hair back. ‘Ego-bruised,’ he said, having decided as he’d eaten dinner to address the elephant in the room. He had a feeling he’d end up talking with Penny again. Their energy was like two very strong magnets, pulling in the other’s direction. ‘But otherwise good,’ he added, smiling. He wasn’t above poking fun at himself now he’d had a drink and relaxed.

  Before Penny could reply a woman walked over, crouching down to kiss both of Francesco’s cheeks, saying: ‘Chef Cipolla, always a pleasure. I meant what I said about needing a new pastry chef, you know!’

  Oh, he’s a chef too, thought Penny. I wonder where.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Francesco replied, grinning. ‘Nice to see you, Brigitte.’

  ‘You too darling. Goodnight!’

  Penny’s mind worked quickly. Cipolla. The woman had called him Chef Cipolla. She turned the name over in her mind and then it came to her. Chef Cipolla! It was his coconut and peach milk bun she had eaten maybe two years ago now, that was light and well-risen whilst also aromatic and deep – an exquisite example of the mastery of food, of baking. She’d always taken note of his name in food press since then and it was beginning to dawn on her that she did, in fact, know his face from promo shots and the odd feature. If she’d felt like he was familiar to her, it’s because he was.

  Chef Cipolla.

  ‘Francesco Cipolla,’ Penny said, understanding now. ‘Conosco il tuo cibo!’ She slipped into the rudimentary Italian she’d learned on trips to Sicily with her Uncle David as a teen. I know your food. Francesco’s eyebrows raised just enough for her to understand that her Italian had impressed him, which was exactly the effect she’d wanted. Francesco’s work was quite legendary, and she’d had no idea it was he who’d dropped off the bread delivery that day. Safiya had had Chef Cipolla help her out. He was famous! Food world famous, but famous nonetheless.

  Penny continued: ‘Ce l’avevo a Bristol, due anni fa – complimenti.’ I had it two years ago, in Bristol.

  ‘How about a little English for the cheap seats in the back?’ Sharon said, looking from Penny to Francesco, understanding that the spark had caught and that she’d have to excuse herself any moment now. Sharon looked at his friend, who seemed otherwise tone-deaf, to see if he’d noticed too. He was leaning back in his armchair, his brandy about to spill, eyes gently closed. He was incredibly drunk.

  ‘Sharon, this is Francesco Cipolla. He’s one of the most famous pastry chefs in London. In England, maybe.’

  ‘I accept the compliment,’ Francesco said, eyes twinkling. Penny felt a stirring in the lowest part of her pelvis. He was grinning widely – exactly like that first morning they’d met.

  ‘God I’m drunk,’ said Francesco’s friend, opening his eyes. ‘Excuse me. Bathroom.’

  The three of them watched him stand in silence. Sharon’s phone buzzed.

  ‘I’m just going to check on the kids, if you’ll pardon me,’ Sharon said, picking up her phone and taking her chance to leave them alone. ‘I won’t be a minute.’ She reached out a hand towards Penny as she stood, squeezing it once and letting Penny squeeze it right back – their special code for ‘Yup. I’m fine.’ Penny turned back to Francesco and smiled again. He held his whisky in his hand, swirling it in his glass. Not knowing what else to do or say, Penny pressed the plunger of the cafetière on her table, releasing the aroma of coffee.

  ‘Dofi said you two have known each other a long time,’ Francesco said.

  Penny’s heart beat faster. ‘Would you like any?’ she said by way of reply, motioning to the coffee cups.

  Francesco nodded. ‘I would. Black, please.’

  Penny filled the cup meant for Sharon and handed it to him. As he took it she said, ‘You asked Dofi about me.’ It wasn’t a question.

  Francesco shrugged lightly. ‘I asked about you, yes.’

  ‘Any other breaking news?’

  Francesco pretended to think about it. ‘You trained together,’ he said. ‘You opened Bridges two years ago, you don’t post much on Facebook. Let’s see. What else? Oh, yes. You’re a terrible tipper, kick puppies, eat children for breakfast … have poor dental hygiene … and you have one of those funny heart-shaped signs in your living room that says “This home runs on love, laughter, and very cold gin”.’

  Penny giggled. ‘What a torrid accusation!’

  ‘Nothing a bit of mouthw
ash wouldn’t fix.’

  ‘I meant the sign. Did she say it was written in cursive?’

  ‘Hey, don’t diss them. I actually really like those signs. My parents have loads of them. So does my grandmother.’

  ‘I think my mum used to have one, too,’ Penny beamed. ‘Anything else that Dofi scandalously revealed?’

  Francesco stroked his chin in thought. ‘She said you’re a brilliant chef but don’t push yourself – don’t make that face, she said it kindly, like a proud but frustrated parent – and she said she thinks you’re single, but let the record show I didn’t ask the question directly. She volunteered that information of her own accord.’

  ‘I should have texted you,’ Penny said, guiltily. ‘I am single. I’m sorry if I seemed rude.’

  Francesco smiled. ‘I’m a big boy. I’ll manage. It’s the name of the game, isn’t it?’

  ‘What, “Big Boy”?’ Penny said. Francesco raised his eyebrows. She added: ‘The name of the game, I mean.’ What was it about him that made her say the cringiest things? Big Boy, for crying out loud. Maybe she should go to one of those flirting classes in West London, the ones that taught women how to be coquettish and cool. Penny definitely needed help.

  ‘I can’t tell if you’re flirting with me,’ he said.

  Penny smiled. ‘Neither can I.’

  Francesco bit his lip, just slightly. ‘I think you can.’

  Penny shook her head. ‘I’m not very good at it.’

  Softly, he said, ‘You’re better than you think.’

  Penny felt herself blush. ‘Are you trying to unnerve me?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be very gallant, would it? No. I’m not trying to unnerve you. I think I’m actually a bit unnerved myself.’

  Penny liked his forthrightness, and his vulnerability. ‘Why were you delivering bread that day when you’re Chef Cipolla?’ she asked.

  Francesco laughed. ‘I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ he replied.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning, I’d woken up at Safiya’s house because I’d slept on her sofa the night before, after I’d got very, very drunk with her and Michael. Michael is my friend, he’s the one that fell off the bike.’