The Restaurant Read online

  And all the time, every single minute of tomorrow, and however many days follow tomorrow until she forgets about his phone call, she’ll do her best to stay in the moment, and leave the past where it belongs.

  As she turns off the kitchen light, her phone rings again. She looks at the screen and sees his number.

  She presses the answer key.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says immediately, before she has a chance to speak. ‘I shouldn’t have pushed you. If you’d rather we didn’t meet, that’s OK. If you’d rather I left you alone, I will.’

  ‘I … I don’t know. It feels …’ She can’t finish.

  ‘Why don’t you think about it? I won’t ring again, I promise. I’ll leave it to you, if you want.’

  She stands by the door, a slice of light from the hall cutting into the darkness of the room, picking out the toes of her shoes, making the side of the stainless steel recycling bin gleam. She doesn’t want to think about it: she can’t take any more uncertainty. She has to say yes or no to meeting him. She should say no.

  She doesn’t want to say no.

  ‘I think … we could. Meet, I mean. But just for a short while.’

  ‘Really?’

  She catches herself nodding. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great, thank you. Half an hour tops, I promise, whatever time suits you, any day between now and Wednesday. You pick the time and the place.’

  Is she wrong to do this? He makes it sound like such a small thing, such a minor event.

  ‘When and where, Em?’

  She should say tomorrow, or the day after. With the restaurant closed, Monday or Tuesday are the obvious choices. But now her nerve is failing her. It’s too soon, it’s happening too fast. She needs more time to get her head around this.

  ‘Wednesday,’ she says. Wednesday afternoons are usually quiet, with Tuesday her weekly deadline for the other job. ‘Three o’clock.’

  ‘Will we say that park, the one behind the cinema?’

  It’s small and quiet, and located far enough away from anyone she knows. ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll see you by the gate then. Thanks, Emmy, look forward to it.’

  Emmy. The word jabs at her heart. He was the only person to call her Emmy: she’s Emily or Em to everyone else. I’m Ferg to my friends, he said, the first time he took her out, so he became Ferg to her too.

  Emmy and Ferg. Ferg and Emmy. Whichever way she said it, it had always sounded right.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she says, and he echoes it, and she ends the call and closes the kitchen door and climbs the stairs, thinking, Two days. Three if you count Wednesday.

  Monday and Tuesday crawl past: hard to believe they contain the same twenty-four hours as all the rest. Again and again she retraces their two short conversations, alternately berating herself for agreeing to meet him, and hopeful that their encounter will turn out to be casual, unemotional.

  By Tuesday evening she realises she has to find someone to confide in, or go mad.

  She rings Heather. ‘Can you talk?’ Because Heather, never having met Fergal, never having heard the story of him, might be the only safe person to talk to.

  ‘I can. Your timing’s excellent – Lottie’s just gone to bed. What’s up?’

  ‘I don’t know where to start,’ she says.

  ‘Try the beginning,’ Heather suggests, so Emily begins four years earlier and ends with the two phone calls, and Heather listens without interruption.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ she says, when Emily finally comes to a halt, ‘I don’t believe he left you on your wedding day. That’s one mean and nasty thing to do. Lord knows I’m no expert on men – I wasn’t five minutes with Lottie’s father, and there’s been nobody important since – but it seems to me you maybe should’ve torn up that letter when you got it, honey.’

  And everyone else would tell her the same. Emily feels suddenly despondent, defeated. She sits back on the couch, closes her eyes. She shouldn’t have agreed, shouldn’t have answered his call.

  ‘Hey, like I say, what do I know? You’ve decided to meet him because you’re sweet like that – good for you. When’s it happening?’

  ‘Three o’clock tomorrow. In a park.’

  ‘Broad daylight, neutral ground, that’s good. So I would say just be careful here, OK? Wear your pretty yellow dress so he’ll realise what an idiot he’s been. Stay casual, and let him see that you’re happy with your life now.’ Pause. ‘You are happy, right?’

  ‘Of course I am.’ Of course she is. ‘Very happy.’

  ‘And you’re not in any danger?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Of falling for him again. Of everything starting up again.’

  ‘Oh, no. No danger of that at all.’

  ‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’d like to come to lunch tomorrow, give you another boost, but I got a painting job across town, so best of luck. I really hope it goes well, sweetie.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Let me know, OK? Give me a quick call afterwards.’

  ‘I will.’

  She hangs up, drops her phone onto the couch. What should have been the fourth anniversary of her wedding, their wedding, is just a few weeks away. The date, every year it recurs, never fails to subdue her, to cause private tears. She wonders if it ever crosses his mind, or if the twentieth of June is just another number on his calendar.

  If they’d married, she might be a mother now. She imagines a tow-headed toddler, a rascal with his father’s smile and her dimple. Birthday parties with cakes and candles, miniature clothing flapping on the line. Photos sent to Portugal, her brother rising to the challenge of being an uncle. Skinned knees, a tricycle in the back garden. Visits from the Tooth Fairy, holiday resorts with kiddy camps.

  The following day the hours crawl along again, slower than treacle. In the morning, while her dough is proving, she writes a letter to her mother.

  Everything is fine here. Business is good, thankfully, lots of tourists. Mike’s sister had a baby girl on Sunday; they’ve asked him to be godfather, which he pretends to scoff at, but I suspect he’s charmed. Daniel was in twice last week. He’s talking about changing his car. The weather’s improved, no rain for three days and lots of blue sky. My neighbours across the road have gone to Achill for a week; I’m watering their window box.

  All the trivia she can come up with, leaving out the one thing she can’t stop thinking about.

  Lunchtime is blessedly busy, keeping her moving from kitchen to restaurant for most of the two hours, forcing her mind to focus on who wants what, and who has yet to be attended to, and who needs more bread, or a water jug refilled. Astrid appears, but Emily has time only to take her order and deliver it, and accept payment when it’s offered.

  ‘You’re up to your eyes,’ Astrid says, upon leaving. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’

  ‘It certainly is. Sorry we hadn’t more of a chat. See you soon, take care.’

  And before she knows it, lunchtime is over and the place is empty, and it’s suddenly a quarter to three, and she’s left Mike with most of the washing up, and a promise to pay him back.

  Something is doing somersaults in her abdomen as she pulls the front door closed and sets off to meet the man who broke her heart. Wearing not the yellow dress that Heather suggested, because she put it on and thought it looked like she was trying too hard. Instead she’s in comfy old jeans, a pale blue hoodie and her pink canvas shoes, with her hair pulled back into a big clip and her heart thudding painfully in her chest.

  All the way to the park, she calls herself a fool. Every step she takes, she questions her decision to meet him – and yet something draws her on, some force propels her towards the little park behind the cinema. Half an hour, she tells herself. Not a minute, not a second longer.

  And there he is, standing by the gates.

  ‘There you are,’ he says, sliding his phone into a pocket. Weightier by a few pounds, face a little fuller. Hair shorter and blonder, skin tanned. Check shirt, chinos. Smi
ling.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ he says. Keeping hands in trouser pockets, not attempting to hug her. Not doing anything she could possibly object to. ‘You look great.’ Tiny new lines crinkling the skin at the outer corners of his eyes. ‘Thanks for coming.’ Teeth whiter against his tan.

  ‘Hi,’ she says. She attempts a smile. Is it evident on her face, the confusion, the mix of emotions the sight of him is causing? She feels the possibility of tears, and prays fervently that they don’t fall. Maybe Heather was right: maybe she should have dressed up, spent a bit more time making sure she looked her best. It might have given her more confidence now.

  He takes his hands from his pockets then and spreads them in a gesture she remembers. The movement sends her a waft of his cologne, or aftershave. It’s not one she remembers. ‘Which way do you want to go?’ he asks.

  Over his shoulder she sees a few little children with their parents in the small playground, and a runner making her way around the path, and an older couple in matching raincoats seated on a bench. Nobody familiar. ‘This way,’ she says, striking left along the path, and as they set off the sun slides out from behind a cloud and pours light onto the grass of the playing field off to their right.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘a restaurant.’

  ‘Yes.’ It’s surreal, being in his company again. It makes her tongue-tied, stiffens her gait. She keeps her gaze directed straight ahead. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. ‘It was Gran’s shop.’

  ‘I didn’t know she had one.’

  Didn’t he? He met Gran lots of times. He called her Mrs Feeney until Gran said, It’s Bridie. The first time Emily brought him home to meet her, he presented her with a box of Thornton’s chocolates. Mum got them for me, he admitted, when Emily praised him.

  ‘She had a hat shop for years.’ She glances at him. ‘She died. Did you hear?’

  He nods. ‘Mum told me. I’m sorry. I know you were close.’

  She remembers wondering at the time if he’d get in touch. Wanting him to make contact, wanting Gran’s death to bring him back, to bring them back – but he didn’t. Sarah came to the funeral: she’d met Gran when Emily and Fergal got engaged. She lined up with the other mourners to shake Emily’s hand, but she didn’t quite meet her eye.

  ‘So what’s it called then?’

  From the playground a wailing erupts. Emily halts to look across, sees a woman scooping up a toddler.

  ‘The restaurant,’ he says, stopping too, but ignoring the sound. ‘What did you call it?’

  The woman rocks and shushes the child, who bawls on. He must know what it’s called: Sarah would surely have told him. ‘The Food of Love,’ she says, the words bringing heat to her cheeks. She resumes walking, quickens her pace. Wills him not to laugh.

  He doesn’t laugh. ‘The Food of Love,’ he repeats. ‘It’s different. I like it, though. What sort of food do you serve?’

  ‘We don’t have a particular … We’ve got a small menu, just a few dishes.’

  Silence. She wonders if he’s wondering about the ‘we’. Their steps have become synchronised, like marching soldiers. They always held hands when they walked: in cold weather he’d draw hers into his jacket pocket. His hands were always warm, even on the chilliest days.

  ‘Listen,’ he says then, ‘Emmy, I need to say something.’ The sun is sliding in and out of the clouds, washing the park with light, pulling it away again. There’s a vacant bench twenty feet ahead of them. ‘Could we sit?’ he asks.

  She doesn’t want to. All at once she doesn’t want to hear what he needs to say, but she’s here, so she must. She lowers herself onto the end of the bench, shoulders tight, palms flat on her thighs. He adopts a sideways position, facing her, so she feels compelled to look at him. At his face, at the space between his eyes.

  ‘You must hate me,’ he says, and stops. She waits, makes no protest. ‘I don’t blame you. What I did was unforgivable, and … I’m not sure that I can explain it.’ He takes a breath, gives a bleak smile. ‘Jesus, that sounds like such a cop-out.’ He runs an index finger beneath his mouth. Another remembered gesture.

  ‘Look,’ he says, ‘the truth is, I panicked, Emmy. I just – panicked. The morning of the wedding I was putting on my suit, and I – I came out in the worst cold sweat. I thought I was going to throw up the full Irish Mum had insisted on making for me.’ He spreads his hands again. ‘It was a panic attack, Emmy. I knew it was, even though I’d never had one before. I just knew – I knew I couldn’t go through with it.’

  Couldn’t go through with it. He makes it sound so terrifying, like leaping from a plane with a parachute on his back, or diving off an eighty-foot cliff into the sea. What was so frightening about spending the rest of his life with the woman he’d professed to love, the woman he’d asked to marry him sixteen months earlier?

  Unless he had never loved her. Unless it had all been a lie between them.

  She thinks of something else. She frowns. ‘But it wasn’t on the spur of the moment, was it? You went to Canada, right afterwards. You must have made plans. You must have bought a ticket.’

  He grimaces. ‘No, I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t go right afterwards. I went to Dublin, and stayed with friends for a week while I got organised.’

  ‘What friends?’

  ‘… I don’t think you know them. Gary and Jean. I was in college with Gary.’

  The name doesn’t ring a bell. Neither of them does. Oh, what does it matter, why rake up the past? All that matters is that he left her.

  ‘Why?’ she asks then, finding the courage finally to look directly into his eyes. ‘Why did you propose to me?’

  ‘Because … I thought it was what I wanted. What we wanted.’

  ‘And then you realised that it wasn’t. I wasn’t what you wanted.’

  ‘You were,’ he insists. ‘My feelings towards you didn’t change. It was marriage, Emmy. That was what scared me.’

  ‘So why didn’t you just tell me that? Why did you have to disappear?’

  He sighs, shakes his head, rakes a hand through his hair. ‘I couldn’t have that conversation, not on what was supposed to be your wedding day. I bottled it. I couldn’t face the reaction from everyone. I was a coward, and I took the coward’s way out.’

  ‘And in four years you never once made contact, never tried to explain.’

  ‘I – I wanted to, but the longer it went on, the harder it became. And I thought – well, I assumed you’d want nothing more to do with me, and I couldn’t blame you.’ He looks at her imploringly. ‘Believe me, I’ve beaten myself up over it so many times. I’ve been a fool, Emmy. A stupid, prize fool.’

  She thinks of Therese Ruane. I hear you’re getting married. Congratulations. She recalls the rumour that went out about him following Therese to Canada. She wants to ask if it was true, but she can’t find the words. Her pride doesn’t allow her to find them.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ll be sorry for the rest of my life. Do you think you can possibly forgive me?’ He searches her face. ‘Do you think you can, Emmy?’

  So this is what he’s come for, after all: to be told he’s forgiven, for his slate to be wiped clean. Can she do it? Can she grant him absolution? Does she want to?

  She’s over it, over him. She’s made a different life for herself, and it’s fine. Her heart has mended: the fracture he caused has knitted back together. This encounter is unsettling, certainly – but once it’s over she’ll forget it. She’ll forget him. If he hadn’t written to her, she’d probably never have given him another thought.

  Well, maybe she might have, once in a blue moon. Once a year at least, on every twentieth of every June.

  ‘I forgive you,’ she says, because he made her happy once. Let him have his absolution – and maybe it will help her too. Let there be no lingering resentment between them, no bitter aftertaste.

  He reaches for her hand: she draws it back swiftly. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘sorry, I just—’ He gives his head a little sha
ke. ‘Thank you, Emmy. You’re a far better person than I’ll ever be.’

  ‘I’m older now,’ she says, ‘and a bit wiser, I think. That’s all.’ She gets to her feet, the threat of tears long past, thankfully. ‘I need to go. I have to prepare for the evening.’

  ‘Sure.’

  They walk together, retracing their steps, in sync like before. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he says. ‘You needn’t answer if you don’t want.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you met someone else?’

  She could lie. She could tell him she’s in love, and happier than ever – but where would that leave her? How would that help?

  ‘No.’ She wants to ask it back, but again her courage lets her down. They walk in silence to the gate. ‘Well,’ she says, and stops. What is there to say? It was nice talking to you? It was good to see you again? ‘Good luck with the move to Dublin,’ she says instead. ‘Tell your mother I said hello.’

  It might be a little easier in future when she and Sarah come face to face, now that Emily has met her son again and the sky hasn’t fallen in.

  ‘Maybe we could – I mean, I’ll be back at weekends to see Mum,’ he says. ‘Could we meet up again, do you think? Just as friends.’

  Just as friends. She wonders how that would go. She wonders if she wants them to be friends.

  ‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ring,’ he says, and immediately flushes, and she realises the significance of what he’s said. The ring he gave her on a rainy Sunday evening in March, the day before her twenty-fourth birthday, still lives in its little blue velvet box at the bottom of her sock drawer. Can’t wear it, can’t let it go.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she says, and turns away from him, and she feels his eyes on her as she walks off.

  Could they really be just friends? Could they meet with no strings, no anxiety, no pressure to be anything more? It’s hard to envisage – but she won’t rule it out. He used to make her laugh: she remembers missing that. Surely nobody could object if they saw that she was in control of her feelings, that there was no chance of her being devastated by him again?