The Night That Changed Everything (29 page)

‘The advert said there was central heating?' I ask when I notice there are no radiators.

The landlord waves a finger in the air like, yes, he's just remembered the advert
did
say that.

‘I'll just go and get it,' he says, disappearing without another word.

Russ and Tom are wearing the forced smiles of people who can't think of anything positive to say.

‘I could paint you something to hide some of the damp,' says Tom eventually. ‘That could be my moving-in present.'

‘Fucking hell, Tom,' says Russ, ‘are you gonna rob the paint aisle at B&Q?'

The two of them have offered me my old room, but the whole point of this is to move forward, not backwards. Though admittedly
this
doesn't feel like much of a step forwards.

‘You should see his latest doodles, though, Ben.' Russ clocks Tom giving him an evil. ‘All right, all right: sketches.' He pulls a pear from his pockets and starts eating it like a chicken wing. ‘Actually, they're shit hot. Like, you know sometimes you have to lie and be enthusiastic because it's your mate—'

‘That's what I have to do with Avril's poems,' says Tom.

We turn to him, shell shocked. Tom has never said anything remotely unflattering about Avril before.

‘Well, well, well,' says Russ, lodging an arm around Tom's shoulder. ‘This
is
a devilish development.'

‘Oh, leave him alone,' I say, as Tom starts to blush.

‘No, no, no. Come on, buddy – what are they like? Can you give us a bit of one?'

Tom shakes his head and hides under his fringe.

‘How's work?' I ask to help him out.

‘You were the talk of the office for two days,' says Russ. ‘That's the most epic resignation anyone has ever seen.'

‘What happened after two days?'

‘We got a toaster in the kitchen,' says Tom.

Russ approaches the two-seater couch. He scrutinizes it and then slaps the cushion, producing a plume of dust.

‘So what have you been up to, buddy?' he asks, putting down the toilet seat and sitting there instead.

‘Well, obviously I've been working four nights a week at the bar.'

They nod, wordless, as though expecting me to continue.

‘Jamie has let me give the menu a revamp.'

‘That's great,' says Russ, but I can tell from his tone that he's doing that false enthusiasm thing on
me
now.

‘We really respect what you did,' says Tom. ‘Giving up a steady job to go follow your dream.'

‘What is your dream, by the way?' says Russ.

They're starting to sound like Mum. She's so worried she asked if I wanted the careers advisor at her school to call. And I don't have a comeback, because I'm no closer to knowing what I want to do with my life than I was when I quit six weeks ago – and now I'm having to extend my overdraft. I reckon I'm going to have to do some freelancing in HR to tide me over.

Which reminds me: I still need to get my deposit back from Rebecca, and we probably need to discuss the furniture we bought together at some point. I haven't wanted to push it, what with her having to cover the rent on her own, and I know she's good for it.

‘Why don't you try to get a full-time job as a chef somewhere?' asks Russ.

The thought hadn't even occurred to me. It would be pretty cool, but then . . .

‘I can't afford to retrain. You'd need qualifications unless you want to peel potatoes for a year – and I wouldn't even be able to pay the rent on
this
place on those wages.'

I approach the window to see if I can spot the landlord but it's thick with dirt on both sides.

‘I've got a second date tonight,' says Russ.

‘What's supposed to happen on the second date?' I enquire. ‘Kissing, sex?'

‘You're asking the wrong person.' He stands up and then pulls the chain for effect. ‘I can never tell whether they're up for anything physical, so I've developed a test.'

I cross my arms, intrigued.

‘I'll initiate some kind of physical contact. I might pretend I can read palms so I can take their hand. Or I'll challenge them to a thumb war, and if they're reluctant, you know it's not going to happen, but if they're, like, ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR, I DECLARE A THUMB WAR before you've even stuck your hand out, you know you're in.'

Finally the landlord returns with an electric heater, which he places in the centre of the room.

‘There you go, central heating.' He laughs, but his face straightens when he realizes no one else is. ‘So, what do you think?'

‘What are the neighbours like?'

‘Upstairs you've got David and Debs,' he says. ‘Professional couple, very quiet.'

I give the place a final once-over. ‘OK, then – I'll take it.'

I clock Russ and Tom making eye contact.

‘This is the first place you've looked at,' says Tom.

He's right, but it's also the only place on the website in my budget, and it's on the border of Greenwich and Blackheath so I could just about walk or cycle to Arch 13.

‘I'll need references,' says the landlord.

‘I can sort that,' Russ says. ‘We used to live with him.' He emulates the landlord's hands-on-hips stance. ‘He's a great cook, he's clean, he's, you know, a bit flaky, so you're best tying him down to a long tenancy but—'

‘I can get references,' I interject.

‘OK, then,' says the landlord, clapping his hands together. ‘When can you move in?'

Jamie plonks two half-full plates on the stainless-steel worktop. He looks flummoxed.

‘What's wrong?' I say, inspecting the remains of the Vietnamese rolls with nam jim sauce, one of my new dishes. ‘Has there been a complaint?'

He starts searching the kitchen.

‘No complaints,' he says. ‘They want a to-go box.'

‘Have we got any to-go boxes?'

‘I don't know, no one's ever liked the food enough to ask for one.'

The orders keep flying in. Mediterranean platters, ceviche, rare beef sandwiches on pumpernickel bread.

‘Two halloumi kebabs,' calls Erica, pinning the order slip to my board.

I prepare everything from scratch, deseeding and chopping the peppers for the kebabs, ribboning the courgettes and squeezing lemon over the cheese. What I love most is the instant feedback. An empty plate is my version of the crowd going wild when Agüero scores a goal.

I lose track of time, and before I know it I'm wiping down the kitchen and joining Jamie at the bar, enjoying the tired satisfaction of a job well done.

There aren't many people left now. A couple sitting at the window cup hands across the table, silent but entirely at ease. Another pair share a margarita, their eyes chained as they lean into their respective straws.

Before I started going out with Rebecca I was never one of those single people who hated Valentine's Day, but today, if I'm honest, it has bothered me. But it's not about Rebecca any more. It's about me, my life. When we were together it was as though I was climbing nicely up a Snakes and Ladders board – but then I landed on the longest snake, and now I'm having to start again. And most days I just get on with it. The problem with Valentine's is that you have no option but to think about it, because everywhere you look there are happy people who are ninety spaces ahead of you on the board.

I watch Jamie place a metal stirrer into a cocktail shaker to create a makeshift bell. He uses it to call time.

‘I don't get why you're always single,' I say, nodding at the bundle of cards stashed down the side of the till.

Jamie was with Freckly Fiona for the four years before uni, but since then his longest relationship has been a couple of months.

‘You get tons of girls coming in here to see you.'

Jamie draws his phone from his pocket for no apparent reason and places it on the bar. The final couple say goodbye as they leave.

‘I just don't want to risk messing anyone around after what happened with Fiona.'

I remember getting regular updates on her reaction after Jamie told her he didn't want to do long-distance at uni. She wrote to him every day for four months, then turned up at his halls with a collage she'd made with photos of them together. That's why everyone knew him at uni, apparently, because after that he was famous: the lad with the stalker ex.

I used to find all this quite amusing, but for the first time I can understand how Fiona must have felt hearing that the person she loved didn't want her any more. And who am I to laugh? I'm the fella who went round to my ex's house with an engagement ring.

‘I know we dated for ages,' he says, ‘but I never thought it was for
life
.'

Jamie goes to lock the door.

‘So now you only want to get into something if you know it's for real?' I say.

‘Exactly. I promised myself I'd always be straight up with people.'

‘And you haven't met anyone you felt like that with? Not even Tidy Tania?'

When Jamie retakes his seat he twirls the ice in his tumbler for a few seconds. ‘Not even Tidy Tania.'

I should have known this route of conversation would lead my mind to Rebecca. Jamie would never break any of her confidences, but he is adamant she'd never do the online dating thing, and he's probably right, but it's still hard not knowing what she
is
doing.

Whenever something happens my first instinct, even after all these months, is to call her, because she was my first tell, and I was hers, and you take that kind of thing for granted until it's gone.

Sometimes I find myself wondering how the cinema is coming along, or how she is getting on in the flat on her own.

Jamie downs the dregs of his whisky and tells Erica he'll finish clearing up.

‘Listen to us,' says Jamie. ‘Talking about relationships on Valentine's Day. All we need are some pyjamas and we could have a sleepover.'

He starts to remove glasses from the washer. Martini, flutes and hurricane glasses hang from a beam above the optics, while each tumbler has its own shelf around the tills. The faceted beverage glasses are stacked upside down on the bar itself. Everything has a place.

‘Mate, with your new menu and my natural charisma,' he says, and I loop my eyes, ‘business has never been so good.'

‘We should celebrate with a cocktail,' I say.

‘OK, but I've made enough tonight. You're up.'

‘I wouldn't know where to start.'

‘It's got booze in it – it's practically gravy.'

‘Touché.'

He collects three bottles from the back of the bar and signals for me to come round.

‘We'll have Rob Roys,' he says. ‘It's pretty much a Manhattan but with Scotch instead of rye or Bourbon.'

‘What am I doing?'

He fetches a measure. ‘Four ounces of Scotch, two ounces of sweet vermouth and five or six dashes of bitters. But first you need some ice.'

I get to work.

‘Shaken, not stirred,' says Jamie, in the voice of Sean Connery.

‘Eh?'

‘You know the reason we shake instead of stir?'

‘No.'

Having measured everything out, he points me to the shaker, which I place over the glass.

‘Shaking with ice makes the drink go colder quicker. It takes twice as long to get the drink to minus seven Celsius – that's the lowest it will go – if you stir. Twenty shakes, forty stirs. But if you shake for too long, the ice will dilute the drink. Try it.'

I do as he says.

‘What now?' I say.

‘Use the strainer to pour it into the Martini glasses, then garnish with a little bit of lemon zest.'

When I'm done he lifts his Rob Roy, takes a sip and pouts. ‘This is almost as good as one of mine.'

We cheers to that, then Jamie starts wiping the tables.

I find another cloth and join in. ‘We make a good team, don't we?'

‘I wish I could offer you something full time,' he says. ‘The lease only allows food four nights a week, and even then it's supposed to be bar snacks.' He picks up a discarded menu. ‘We're already pushing it with your Brazilian jim jams.'

I laugh. ‘It's fine, I get it.'

‘I'm loving working with you, though,' he adds.

‘Me too, mate.'

We trade a grin.

‘This is all getting a bit homo-erotic,' he says. ‘Let's talk about tits or something.'

We pause to sip our Rob Roys, which do taste pretty good even if I say so myself.

‘Hey, did I tell you I've got a place at a mixology competition?' says Jamie. ‘The London heats are at the end of the month. The winner goes through to the national finals.'

I pause mid-wipe, impressed. ‘I reckon your parents would be pretty proud if they took the time to come and see what you're doing here.'

Jamie twists his lips to one side but doesn't reply. He clears the bar top and circles his cloth, round and round.

‘The lease is up for renewal in October,' he says casually.

‘Is it?' I say.

He stops and looks at me intently. ‘The lease that says we can only serve food four nights a week – the terms are up for renewal in October.'

What is he saying?

‘What are you saying?'

‘I'm saying, maybe we should go into business together?'

I stand there, dumb having struck me right on the chin, and it takes me a moment to come round.

‘But I haven't got any money – I've even had to disown my Malayan tiger.'

‘I've got a good relationship with the bank.'

I let his offer sink in. Money aside, it does feel kind of . . .

. . . right.

It's like the glasses: everything has a place, and maybe mine is here, with my best mate, doing something I love.

‘I mean, we'd have to get a proper business plan together,' says Jamie. ‘And it wouldn't be something you could just back out of after a couple of months if you got bored.'