One Moment, One Morning (29 page)

They head to the taxi rank outside the station. The queue is short and in a couple of minutes Lou and Sofia are ensconced on the back seat of a cab.

‘Budge up,’ says Vic. ‘Oh, sod it, never mind. I’ll sit in the front.’

With a huff, Vic plonks herself next to the driver and shuts the door.

‘Where in Kemptown?’ asks the driver.

Lou leans towards him. ‘Top end of Magdalene Street, please.’

Air escapes from the puffed plastic seat as she sits back, and she is acutely conscious of Sofia’s presence beside her. It is as if the space between them is filled with static. She imagines it like one of those Van de Graaff generators; she had a small one in the early 1980s shaped like a globe: it shot sparks when you held your hand close to it, tiny forks of lightning connecting to your palm.

Vic swivels round. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Bit peckish,’ says Vic. ‘I’m not sure I’ll last the whole night without anything.’

It’s as Lou expected; it takes a lot to fuel Vic’s height and flamboyance, so she’s thought this through earlier. ‘We could go to that tapas place on the Lanes, if you’re happy to, then everyone can have what they fancy.’ There’s lots of choice, and it’s not expensive, so Lou won’t have to create a fuss about being vegetarian or strapped for cash. She has one worry, nevertheless: ‘If that’s OK by you, Sofia? I think it’s quite good – the owner is Spanish – but it still probably won’t compare to the tapas you can get at home.’

‘That’s fine. I am sure even bad tapas are better than a lot of English food.’ Sofia smiles and winks, teasing. It only makes Lou flustered – she’s not sure how to react.

They dump their bags at Lou’s flat and swiftly head out. The restaurant is a brisk ten minutes’ walk away, and when they arrive it is already buzzing. Gingham tablecloths and wooden tables and chairs are packed tightly together; there is barely a seat free.

‘Wonder if Howie’s here? Save us waiting.’ Vic scans the room. ‘Ha! There he is.’

She is right: sitting at a table in the far corner, a bottle of wine open before him, is a familiar figure: goatee-bearded, bespectacled, close-shaven head, peering at the menu. Inevitably, Vic’s leopard-skin presence distracts him and he looks up and beckons them over.

Vic eases her way through. ‘Hiya. How are you?’

Howie grins. ‘Fine. You?’

‘I’m great. Blimey, though – you look totally different. Last time we met you were a pirate, and I was a Madame.’

‘So you remember each other,’ Lou interrupts. She is conscious Sofia is standing politely, waiting. ‘Howie, this is Vic’s friend, Sofia.’

‘Sofia?’ Howie raises an eyebrow.

Lou can detect innuendo in the gesture. Damn it, she thinks. I should never have confessed to him Vic is setting me up – it’ll only intrigue him and make me more self-conscious.

Howie hands the menu to Sofia the moment she is seated. While she is perusing he directs her: ‘The chorizo is very good.’

‘Sofia’s Spanish.’ Lou feels protective. Howie can be full on at times; that’s why he and Vic got on so well previously – two drama queens together.

‘I don’t eat meat,’ Sofia explains.

Lou is surprised, and pleased – more common ground.

‘That’s pretty unusual for a Spaniard,’ observes Howie, filling their glasses. ‘How did that go down at home?’

‘One of the reasons I left,’ says Sofia wryly.

‘So, been here long, then?’

‘Seven years.’

‘You should move to Brighton,’ says Howie. Like many who have adopted it as their home, he is evangelical about the city’s allure. ‘It’s full of vegetarians.’

‘I do love it here.’ Sofia glances up, catching Lou’s eye.

That was a sign, wasn’t it, Lou thinks, approbation of my city? Or am I imagining it? She half wishes Howie would talk to Vic, instead; after all, they’ve met before. But of course Howie is more interested in Sofia – he knows Lou may fancy her. She couldn’t have created a more titillating opportunity for him if she’d tried.

‘So tell us about yourself,’ Howie continues. But his interrogation could be useful: he might get her to reveal what Lou is too diplomatic to ask.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Let’s start with what brought you to England.’

‘I’m a designer. My firm were doing a big project here, and they wanted someone who could speak both Spanish and English to oversee it. So they sent me. I’ve probably been there a bit too long now, but I love the people and they are very good to me.’

‘So where are they based?’

‘East Croydon.’

Howie makes the leap in a flash. ‘So you
could
move here! Where do you live now?’

‘Dalston.’

‘Good God, woman – it must take you an
age
to get to work from there.’

‘It’s not that bad – just over an hour. And I have lots of friends nearby.’

‘But if it’s friends you’re after, then where better than here? It’s full of dykes.’

‘I like my friends. They’re special.’

Lou is glad. So far, it’s looking rather promising. Sofia seems to have similar priorities: friends are important to her, too. And it sounds as if Sofia’s company rates her highly – she must have talent. But Lou mustn’t get ahead of herself. She reins herself in; if Sofia is as attractive and accomplished as she seems, Lou is concerned she’s out of her league.

‘Well, clearly we’ll have to work on you.’ He turns to Lou and Vic. ‘Won’t we?’ Then he reaches over for the wine, tops up their glasses, signals to the waiter and hands him the empty bottle. ‘Same again, please.’

As the waiter turns back to the bar, he nearly collides with a fellow diner, on her way to their table.

‘Hello,’ she says.

Lou gulps. Crazy-coloured hair, quirky clothes, cute face: it’s the student from behind the bar in the pub on Trafalgar Street.

Well I never, thinks Lou. What are the odds of this? I don’t get so much as the bat of an eyelash in months, then I meet two nice-looking women in one evening.

She’s just thinking romantic possibilities seem like buses when the girl says, provocatively, ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ She flashes that same flirtatious smile she gave when she served Lou at the Lord Nelson.

‘Indeed,’ says Lou, taken aback by her directness. ‘Small world.’ Again she feels herself blushing.

The girl says, ‘Didn’t know you ever came to Brighton. You should have said.’

And Lou realizes – the girl’s flirtatious smile is not for her at all.

It’s not Lou she’s recognized: it’s Sofia.

Anna and Steve are watching television. A comedy quiz where the guests comment on current affairs, it is one of Anna’s favourite programmes. She associates it with winding down after a busy week; she enjoys the ironic humour and banter. The lights are low, the fire is lit, flames flicker on the ceiling, and Anna, snuggled under a rug on the sofa, is the most relaxed she has been in days. Then Steve gets to his feet.

‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

‘To buy some fags.’

At once Anna braces, suspicious. ‘Oh.’

He doesn’t look at her; he doesn’t have to. She knows. But before she can take issue, he is gone.

Anna pulls her knees in tight, wraps her arms around them. They have done so well today, Steve has been wonderful; why must he do this? It’s no better because she can see it coming.

He is gone slightly longer than he should be; she is just beginning to worry when the door slams. He enters the room again, clutching a plastic bag. ‘Fancy a glass of red wine?’ He removes his cigarettes, puts them on the mantelpiece, along with a bottle.

She shakes her head.

‘I’m going to.’

She sighs. ‘It’s a bit late.’ It’s not, of course, but Anna doesn’t know how to voice the fact that she understands a glass of red won’t be his first drink of the evening. Those extra few minutes have betrayed him: he will have bought some vodka, with luck a quarter bottle, but more likely half; downed it, perhaps with a can of Red Bull, while he was out. Yet Anna can’t accuse him of that without precipitating a scene, so instead protests about the hour, even though she knows it’s pointless and makes her sound a killjoy.

‘It’s not even ten!’

It is like being struck, this tone – he is both defensive and aggressive in one. And whereas in days gone by she would have let it go, she is now increasingly conscious of how important honesty is within a relationship. She can’t get her head around what compels him to head off into the cold, make his sneaky purchase, then swig it on the street corner, furtively. She has never seen him do it – he hides it from her – but she knows. It is so seedy, so desperate.

She shudders.

This is all it has taken – a few centilitres of spirits, a few moments of time – to destroy the tranquillity. The television is still on the same Friday-night show, but now the laughter seems canned and forced; the fire still flickers, but its flames no longer seem to warm the room. Anna still has a rug wrapped tight around her, but now it is to provide protection, not comfort; a shell she wishes was harder, more resistant.

*     *     *

‘So,’ says the girl. ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’

‘Oh, er . . .’ Sofia is stumbling – is she blushing, now, too?

Lou is quick to assess. This is no straightforward platonic encounter, she is certain.

‘My, um . . . friends,’ mutters Sofia, eventually.

The girl looks round the table. Sees Lou, does a mild double take. ‘Don’t I recognize you as well?’

‘Mm,’ Lou nods, wishing she didn’t.

‘So where do I know
you
from?’

Lou catches Howie’s eye. She can tell he’s filling in the gaps at a thousand miles per hour. Doubtless he’s given the three of them a very fruity past history already.

She struggles to set the record straight at once. ‘I saw you in the Lord Nelson, a couple of days ago.’

‘Yes, that’s it!’ The girl laughs, clearly unfazed by the situation.

‘So you here with friends too, then?’ asks Lou, hoping to appear cooler than she feels. Not that she’s really interested in why the girl is at the restaurant; she’s far more concerned with what her relationship is to Sofia, how they know each other. There is such a frisson in the air, she can’t suppress a stab of jealousy.

The girl nods at a nearby large group. ‘It’s my mate’s twenty-first. We’re nearly finished’ – Great, thinks Lou – ‘but we’re going on to the Candy Bar later, if you want to join us.’ Lou’s heart sinks again.

‘Ah . . . right,’ nods Sofia. ‘Um . . . yeah. Maybe . . .’

Lou can hardly keep her emotions under control: one minute she’s buoyed, thinking the girl is hitting on her; now – only seconds later – she’s hitting on Sofia and Sofia’s responding. Her whole evening seems to be disintegrating, but of course she’s powerless to object. As the girl saunters off seductively, she suppresses a shudder.

Suddenly, Vic pipes up. ‘I hate the Candy Bar. It’s way too young for us.’

‘And they won’t let me in,’ says Howie.

Lou wants to cheer. She is just relaxing slightly when the girl turns, comes back and says to Sofia, ‘Oh, before we leave, you did promise me your number before, remember?’ Lou can’t believe her audacity.

‘Um, er . . . yes,’ responds Sofia, all of a dither. Hurriedly, she gets out a pen from her bag, scribbles the digits on a napkin, and hands it to her.

*   *   *

Anna and Steve sit in silence. The television is on, but Anna is no longer watching. She can’t focus; she can’t speak. She is so enraged with Steve, so disappointed in him, she knows if she were to say anything, she wouldn’t be able to disguise her anger. That would only provoke the hostility that inevitably accompanies his drinking, so it’s better to say nothing. But then containing her fury only turns the pressure inwards; she feels like a can of fizzy drink that’s been dropped on the floor, a cylinder stretched so tight that liquid will spray everywhere the moment the top is unsealed.

For half an hour she sits like this. Eventually she can’t bear it any more. So she lifts the blanket from round her knees, picks up her mobile from the coffee table and gets to her feet.

‘Now where are you going?’ asks Steve.

‘To make a cup of tea.’ She can’t resist spitting, ‘Why, do you want one?’

‘Of course I don’t.’

‘Right, then.’

‘Why are you taking your mobile?’

‘Because I want to make a call.’

‘It’s a bit bloody late for that.’

She checks her watch: he’s right. It is half ten. The only person she would normally feel able to ring at this hour is Karen, and she can hardly phone her tonight of all nights – not with the funeral tomorrow.

She pauses in the hall, considering. Perhaps there is someone she could speak to, or at least text . . . She heads to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. Whilst she is waiting for it to boil she taps:

Hi Lou, hope you’re having a nice evening, whatever you’re doing. Sorry to bother you so late, but perhaps you could give me a ring when you get a moment? Tomorrow, or whenever. I’d like to ask your advice. Nothing to do with Karen – it’s my stupid boyfriend this time. Take care, Anna x

She takes a moment to re-read it. Even at this hour, the professional writer in her won’t permit a reprieve. She presses the backspace several times, deletes ‘
my stupid boyfriend
’ and amends it to ‘
me
’. In so doing she is absolving Steve, but she also figures that it’s unreasonable to dump her frustration on Lou at 10.30 on a Friday night. She presses ‘Send’, drums her fingertips on the countertop. She wishes she could speak to Lou right now, but the odds of her having her phone switched on, or hearing it if she does, are negligible. For the time being Anna must wait, contained.