Then, with the muscles in his toes tensed as he prepared to rise and make as dignified an exit as possible, he saw a flash of color at the door and there was Peggy in a bright red coat, hair sopping wet from rain. She plonked herself down in the chair opposite with a half-mumbled greeting and thrust a crust of bread into her mouth.
“Christ,” she said. “What’s this I’m eating—a hubcap?”
“I think it’s focaccia.”
Peggy grunted and, with some difficulty, swallowed.
“You know when you married Diane?” she said, ripping a bit of bread in two.
Andrew’s heart sank. Not this. Not this already.
“Mmm-hmm,” he said.
“Did you ever think that there’d be a point where you’d be staring at her as she sat on the living room floor with a beer can balanced on her belly like a drunk, horizontal Christ the Redeemer and think to yourself: How the hell have we ended up here?”
Andrew shifted awkwardly in his seat.
“Not word for word, no,” he said.
Peggy shook her head slowly, gazing into the middle distance. There was a lock of rain-damp hair hanging down at the side of her face. Andrew felt a strange urge to reach over and tuck it behind her ear. Was that something he’d seen in a film? The waiter appeared at the table, his smirk replaced by a slightly disappointed, almost apologetic smile now that Peggy had shown up.
“Would you like to look at the wine list, sir?”
“Yes please,” Andrew said.
“Don’t bother about asking me, mate,” Peggy muttered.
“I apologize, madam,” the waiter said, bowing theatrically before sauntering off.
“Annoys me, that,” Peggy said. “For all he knows I’m an off-duty sommelier. The wanker.”
On the one hand Andrew was enamored of Peggy’s righteous ire. On the other, he feared the chances of piss in their linguine had just been significantly increased.
After a glass of wine and the arrival of the starters, Peggy seemed to relax a little, but there was still an undercurrent of frustration and as a result conversation was hard going. Andrew began to panic in the increasingly long stretches where they weren’t talking. Being silent during meals was for married couples on holiday in brightly lit tavernas with only their mutual resentment of each other left in common. This wasn’t going according to plan at all. What he really needed was something to snap them out of it. His wish was granted, but perhaps not quite in the way he would have wanted, when a man in a yellow coat straining against his enormous form barged into the restaurant. His sleeves were stretched over his hands and he had his hood drawn tight over his head, the effect of which made it look like an incredibly large child was barreling toward them. As he stomped closer he yanked his hood away from his face, showering some nearby diners with raindrops. Heads were turning. The look on each face conveyed that very particular fear when someone is behaving outside the normal boundaries in a public space, namely: What is about to happen and am I going to be able to trample my way out first if it all kicks off?
“I could be wrong,” Andrew said, trying to sound calm, “but I think your husband’s just walked in.”
Peggy turned around and immediately got to her feet. Andrew folded his hands in his lap and stared at them, feeling pathetically scared in the face of the inevitable confrontation.
“So you’re following me now?” Peggy said, hands on hips. “How long have you been standing out there? And where are the girls?”
“With Emily from next door,” Steve said in a voice so low it sounded like he was in slow motion.
“Okay, and just to check, that isn’t just another lie?”
“Course not,” Steve growled. “And who the fuck’s this little shite?”
Andrew somewhat optimistically hoped it wasn’t him Steve was referring to.
“Never mind who he is,” Peggy said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m just nipping to the loo,” Andrew said with a manic brightness, as if this would make him impervious to being punched. The waiter stood aside to let him past, the smirk returned to his face.
When Andrew plucked up the courage to come back to the table, Peggy and Steve were nowhere to be seen, and Peggy’s coat was gone. Some of the other diners were risking covert looks up at him as he took his seat. Others were looking out of the window, where Andrew could now see Peggy and Steve. They were standing in the street outside, hoods up, both gesticulating furiously.
Andrew hovered by the table. He should go out there. He should at least pretend to himself, if not the rest of the restaurant and the snarky fucking waiter, that he was going to go out there. As he drummed his fingers on the back of his chair, still deciding what he was going to do, the yellow blob was suddenly gone, as if carried off downriver by a strong current, and Peggy was heading back inside. She looked like she’d been crying—it was hard to tell because of the rain—and mascara had snaked down her cheeks in two thin lines.
“Are you o—”
“I’m really sorry, but please can we just eat?” Peggy interrupted, her voice hoarse.
“Of course,” Andrew said, shoving some more shrapnel bread into his mouth and consoling himself with the fact he hadn’t been punched in the face by a giant Geordie.
—
Peggy went to eat the last mouthful on her plate, changed her mind, and set her knife and fork down together with a clang.
“I’m sorry you got called a shite back then,” she said.
“No need to apologize,” Andrew said, thinking that it should really be him apologizing, for being such a coward. “I’m guessing we’ll skip the puddings then?” he said.
The hint of a smile returned to Peggy’s face. “You’re joking, I hope. If there was ever a time for emergency sticky toffee, then it’s now.”
The waiter came over and cleared their plates.
“I don’t suppose sticky toffee pudding’s on the menu?” Andrew said, with his best stab at a winning smile.
“As it happens, sir, it is,” the waiter said, seeming disappointed at this.
“Oh, champion,” Peggy said, offering the waiter a thumbs-up.
—
They both finished their puddings at the same time, returning their spoons to the bowl with simultaneous clinks.
“Snap,” Peggy said. “How much food have I got on my face, by the way?”
“None,” Andrew said. “How about me?”
“No more than usual.”
“Glad to hear it. Actually, you have got a little bit of . . .”
“What?”
“Mascara, I think.”
Peggy snatched up her spoon and looked at her reflection. “Ah Jesus, I look like a panda, you should have said something.”
“Sorry.”
She dabbed at her cheeks with her napkin.
“Do you mind me asking if everything’s okay?” Andrew said.
Peggy continued to dab. “I don’t,” she said. “But there’s not much to say, so . . .” She smoothed the napkin flat on the table. “This might be a bit weird, but can I ask you to do something?”
“Of course,” Andrew said.
“Okay, so close your eyes.”
“Um, sure,” Andrew said, thinking this was the sort of thing Sally used to make him do that would invariably end up with him being in pain.
“Can you picture a moment, right now, where you and Diane were at your happiest?” Peggy said.
Andrew felt the heat rising on his cheeks.
“Have you got something?”
After a moment, he nodded.
“Describe it to me.”
“How . . . how do you mean?”
“Well, when is it? Where are you? What can you see and feel?”
“Oh, okay.”
Andrew took a deep breath. The answer came to him not from something written on a spreadsheet, but from somewhere deep inside.
“We’re just out of university, starting our lives together in London. We’re in Brockwell Park. It’s the hottest day of the summer. The grass is really dry, practically charred.”