Olly’s child.’
Edoardo and a couple of the waitresses are clearing up the tables, the restaurant quiet after the busy rush of lunch. Annie had to leave, but we promised to keep in touch. I flick through a wine brochure, glance at a photograph of Joe on the introductory page. ‘He’s left, Becca,’ Olly had said, after he’d visited me in Florence for three weeks before returning to Bristol for his finals. I had left university to study art in Italy for a year. ‘I knew he was unhappy, that he was dreading studying next year after we’d all buggered off, but I didn’t think he’dleave the country without telling me!’ I could hear the hurt in his voice. ‘I don’t have his parents’ number, do you? I don’t think his mother’s been well, but he’s not answering any of my messages. Has he called you?’
‘No,’ I said, unsettled. ‘I haven’t spoken to him for months.’
I look at the photograph again and can see how Joe has filled out in the last ten years. His cheekbones aren’t as pronounced, and he has flecks of grey that stand out in his dark hair, but it’s those slate-grey eyes that I recognize. I read, ‘After an Introductory Wine Tasting course at Maison Joe, I guarantee you will be able to dazzle your friends with all your knowledge of the major grape varieties …’
I look towards the stairs, and just as I am thinking that Joe’s class have been down in that cellar drinking for bloody hours, one by one students start to emerge, some walking in straighter lines than others.
My mouth feels dry. I drink some water.
‘Can I get you another peppermint tea?’ Edoardo asks, clearing the table next to mine.
What I really want is a neat gin.
Joe heads for the bar. He seems agitated, in a hurry.
Maybe he didn’t see me earlier.
‘I’m off,’ he says.
Edoardo nods. ‘How is your father today?’
‘Not great. Mavis called, said he was trying to play golf in the sitting room.’
‘Go over, Becca,’ that voice says, ‘Find out why he lost touch …’
‘She was terrified he’d break a window,’ Joe continues, heading towards the door. Get up, Becca. Move. This feels like some terrible auction, when I should be making a bid, but instead I’m sitting with my bidding paddle, paralysed …
He’s at the door. He’s not going to turn round … ‘Back soon …’
‘Becca, say something!’
‘Joe?’ I call out, just before the hammer is about to fall.
My heart is racing as I walk towards him, still not sure he recognizes me. Self-consciously I touch my hair. He probably thinks I’m fatter too. ‘It’s Rebecca. Becca.’
His eyes remain on mine. Is he in shock or does he still have no idea who I am?
‘How are you?’ There’s no warmth in his voice, little recognition in his eyes.
‘I’m fine.’ I smile, trying to appear self-assured.
He glances at his watch.
Unnerved, I ask, ‘Do you need to go?’
‘Two minutes,’ he offers, his tone sharp. Both of us walk back to the bar. I can tell Edoardo senses the atmosphere, but he does well to hide it, humming as he dries up some glasses.
Two minutes …
‘I was having lunch with Annie … I think you know her? I saw you in the distance, but you were busy, I don’t think you saw me.’
It’s coming out all wrong, and I only have a minute now.
‘Wow! This place! It’s amazing,’ I continue, wanting the ground to swallow me up. I grab hold of the wine list, pretend to read it, saying how impressive it looks and …
‘You’re holding it upside down.’
I redden, turn the list the right way up, laugh at myself.
Oh dear God.
I point out how lovely the decor is.
‘Decor? Who ever says the word “decor”?’ the voice objects. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
Joe isn’t saying a word; he’s just staring at me.
‘Excuse me if I appear shocked, but I didn’t imagine I’d see you again,’ he says finally.
When I dare to look at him I see Joe all those years ago, leaning against the door that very
Edoardo and a couple of the waitresses are clearing up the tables, the restaurant quiet after the busy rush of lunch. Annie had to leave, but we promised to keep in touch. I flick through a wine brochure, glance at a photograph of Joe on the introductory page. ‘He’s left, Becca,’ Olly had said, after he’d visited me in Florence for three weeks before returning to Bristol for his finals. I had left university to study art in Italy for a year. ‘I knew he was unhappy, that he was dreading studying next year after we’d all buggered off, but I didn’t think he’dleave the country without telling me!’ I could hear the hurt in his voice. ‘I don’t have his parents’ number, do you? I don’t think his mother’s been well, but he’s not answering any of my messages. Has he called you?’
‘No,’ I said, unsettled. ‘I haven’t spoken to him for months.’
I look at the photograph again and can see how Joe has filled out in the last ten years. His cheekbones aren’t as pronounced, and he has flecks of grey that stand out in his dark hair, but it’s those slate-grey eyes that I recognize. I read, ‘After an Introductory Wine Tasting course at Maison Joe, I guarantee you will be able to dazzle your friends with all your knowledge of the major grape varieties …’
I look towards the stairs, and just as I am thinking that Joe’s class have been down in that cellar drinking for bloody hours, one by one students start to emerge, some walking in straighter lines than others.
My mouth feels dry. I drink some water.
‘Can I get you another peppermint tea?’ Edoardo asks, clearing the table next to mine.
What I really want is a neat gin.
Joe heads for the bar. He seems agitated, in a hurry.
Maybe he didn’t see me earlier.
‘I’m off,’ he says.
Edoardo nods. ‘How is your father today?’
‘Not great. Mavis called, said he was trying to play golf in the sitting room.’
‘Go over, Becca,’ that voice says, ‘Find out why he lost touch …’
‘She was terrified he’d break a window,’ Joe continues, heading towards the door. Get up, Becca. Move. This feels like some terrible auction, when I should be making a bid, but instead I’m sitting with my bidding paddle, paralysed …
He’s at the door. He’s not going to turn round … ‘Back soon …’
‘Becca, say something!’
‘Joe?’ I call out, just before the hammer is about to fall.
My heart is racing as I walk towards him, still not sure he recognizes me. Self-consciously I touch my hair. He probably thinks I’m fatter too. ‘It’s Rebecca. Becca.’
His eyes remain on mine. Is he in shock or does he still have no idea who I am?
‘How are you?’ There’s no warmth in his voice, little recognition in his eyes.
‘I’m fine.’ I smile, trying to appear self-assured.
He glances at his watch.
Unnerved, I ask, ‘Do you need to go?’
‘Two minutes,’ he offers, his tone sharp. Both of us walk back to the bar. I can tell Edoardo senses the atmosphere, but he does well to hide it, humming as he dries up some glasses.
Two minutes …
‘I was having lunch with Annie … I think you know her? I saw you in the distance, but you were busy, I don’t think you saw me.’
It’s coming out all wrong, and I only have a minute now.
‘Wow! This place! It’s amazing,’ I continue, wanting the ground to swallow me up. I grab hold of the wine list, pretend to read it, saying how impressive it looks and …
‘You’re holding it upside down.’
I redden, turn the list the right way up, laugh at myself.
Oh dear God.
I point out how lovely the decor is.
‘Decor? Who ever says the word “decor”?’ the voice objects. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
Joe isn’t saying a word; he’s just staring at me.
‘Excuse me if I appear shocked, but I didn’t imagine I’d see you again,’ he says finally.
When I dare to look at him I see Joe all those years ago, leaning against the door that very
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