snug-fitting trousers.Prosecco is on tap, and behind the bar are wooden shelves lined with spirits and sweet wines. ‘This man makes the best cocktails,’ Annie informs me, sitting down on one of the leather stools, ‘not that that’s much use to you when you’re pregnant. Where’s Joe, Edoardo?’
‘Downstairs, teaching,’ he says in a strong Italian accent, talking as he serves a couple of customers. ‘He has a lunch tasting session on wines from Alsace.’
‘You should nip down, say hello,’ Annie suggests.
‘Maybe later.’ I grab a menu and tap it against the bar.
Annie registers my agitation. ‘Rebecca? What’s going on? You’re nervous, aren’t you?’
‘Not at all!’ comes out a high-pitched squeak.
She swivels round on her stool, examines my face, my eyes. ‘Rebecca Harte! It’s something to do with Joe, isn’t it? Why did you two really lose touch?’
I look away, pretending to examine the specials on the blackboard. ‘Oh, it’s complicated, Annie.’
‘Was he an ex? I mean, if he’s an ex …’
‘He’s not. He wasn’t … I mean.’
‘… oh my God, of course it’s going to be weird for you seeing him again! I don’t keep in touch with any of my old boyfriends. Ugh!’
‘He wasn’t an ex, nothing like that. We shared a house at university, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, but what happened next? You said it was complicated?’
When I catch Edoardo listening behind the bar, I ask her if we can sit down. Then I’ll tell her the whole story. Or at least part of it anyway.
Annie and I find a table in the corner of the restaurant. We each order a slice of spinach-and-bacon tart with a green salad.
As I tell Annie about Olly and why I am living with my parents, she doesn’t utter a word. I don’t imagine she shuts up very often.
‘Fuck,’ she says finally, pushing her plate aside, her food only half eaten. ‘I don’t know what to say, Becca.’ She leans towards me, takes my hand. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m lucky,’ I reply, determined not to cry. ‘My parents are being really supportive and my sister lives close by, and at least I will get to know her twins a little better and …’
‘But how are you ?’ she asks again when she sees tears in my eyes.
I think of the scan, of Olly’s voice, the events of yesterday. No one will believe me. ‘Alone,’ I say.
*
‘We met at university,’ I tell her. ‘Later he qualified, became a music teacher and taught the piano. He was talented, had a real gift with children.’ I have kept the letters Olly’s pupils wrote to me. Barnaby, Olly’s star pupil, who played the piano at his funeral, had drawn an elephant, and along the trunk he wrote, ‘I will never furget Olly. He was very speshell’.
‘Olly‘s real passion though was writing.’
‘Did he get anything published?’
I picture Olly writing at his desk, music playing in the background. This was the script that was going to be his big break, he’d say. ‘You’ll be able to paint again, Becca, we can move out of our shoebox. I will make it,’ he said, urging me to have faith in him.
‘He was about to send …’ I stop dead when I see Joe striding across the restaurant towards the bar. It’s that same confident walk.
‘Becca?’ Annie says.
He glances across to our table, looks at me. I smile and for a second see a flicker of recognition in his eyes and am sure that he is about to come over, but then there’s a blankness in his expression and he walks away. Annie swings round to see what I’m distracted by. ‘Did he see you?’ she asks.
*
I’m convinced he saw me, though Annie is saying she’s sure he didn’t, that he’s busy running his class, and, ‘Let’s face it, Becca, you’re the last person he’s going to expect to see in here after ten years. He might not even recognize you.’
Yet Annie had recognized me. In the past ten years I haven’t changed dramatically in looks. I’m still five foot seven, my chestnut-coloured hair
‘Downstairs, teaching,’ he says in a strong Italian accent, talking as he serves a couple of customers. ‘He has a lunch tasting session on wines from Alsace.’
‘You should nip down, say hello,’ Annie suggests.
‘Maybe later.’ I grab a menu and tap it against the bar.
Annie registers my agitation. ‘Rebecca? What’s going on? You’re nervous, aren’t you?’
‘Not at all!’ comes out a high-pitched squeak.
She swivels round on her stool, examines my face, my eyes. ‘Rebecca Harte! It’s something to do with Joe, isn’t it? Why did you two really lose touch?’
I look away, pretending to examine the specials on the blackboard. ‘Oh, it’s complicated, Annie.’
‘Was he an ex? I mean, if he’s an ex …’
‘He’s not. He wasn’t … I mean.’
‘… oh my God, of course it’s going to be weird for you seeing him again! I don’t keep in touch with any of my old boyfriends. Ugh!’
‘He wasn’t an ex, nothing like that. We shared a house at university, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, but what happened next? You said it was complicated?’
When I catch Edoardo listening behind the bar, I ask her if we can sit down. Then I’ll tell her the whole story. Or at least part of it anyway.
Annie and I find a table in the corner of the restaurant. We each order a slice of spinach-and-bacon tart with a green salad.
As I tell Annie about Olly and why I am living with my parents, she doesn’t utter a word. I don’t imagine she shuts up very often.
‘Fuck,’ she says finally, pushing her plate aside, her food only half eaten. ‘I don’t know what to say, Becca.’ She leans towards me, takes my hand. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m lucky,’ I reply, determined not to cry. ‘My parents are being really supportive and my sister lives close by, and at least I will get to know her twins a little better and …’
‘But how are you ?’ she asks again when she sees tears in my eyes.
I think of the scan, of Olly’s voice, the events of yesterday. No one will believe me. ‘Alone,’ I say.
*
‘We met at university,’ I tell her. ‘Later he qualified, became a music teacher and taught the piano. He was talented, had a real gift with children.’ I have kept the letters Olly’s pupils wrote to me. Barnaby, Olly’s star pupil, who played the piano at his funeral, had drawn an elephant, and along the trunk he wrote, ‘I will never furget Olly. He was very speshell’.
‘Olly‘s real passion though was writing.’
‘Did he get anything published?’
I picture Olly writing at his desk, music playing in the background. This was the script that was going to be his big break, he’d say. ‘You’ll be able to paint again, Becca, we can move out of our shoebox. I will make it,’ he said, urging me to have faith in him.
‘He was about to send …’ I stop dead when I see Joe striding across the restaurant towards the bar. It’s that same confident walk.
‘Becca?’ Annie says.
He glances across to our table, looks at me. I smile and for a second see a flicker of recognition in his eyes and am sure that he is about to come over, but then there’s a blankness in his expression and he walks away. Annie swings round to see what I’m distracted by. ‘Did he see you?’ she asks.
*
I’m convinced he saw me, though Annie is saying she’s sure he didn’t, that he’s busy running his class, and, ‘Let’s face it, Becca, you’re the last person he’s going to expect to see in here after ten years. He might not even recognize you.’
Yet Annie had recognized me. In the past ten years I haven’t changed dramatically in looks. I’m still five foot seven, my chestnut-coloured hair
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