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Authors: Garrett Leigh
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thicker beard against his fingers. He scratched the wiry scruff now and squeezed Jodi’s hand. “Sweet dreams, boyo. Be safe. I love you.”
April 26, 2010
Jodi hopped off the bus in Harringay and took in the shabby buildings and monumental traffic congestion. Rupert was right. There really was nothing here but greengrocers with cabbages the size of small planets, Turkish/Cypriot cafés, and row upon row of scruffy bedsits.
“Welcome to bedshitland.” Recalling Rupert’s gentle sarcasm made Jodi smile, and the address he’d scribbled on a scrap of paper was burning a hole in his back pocket, but he had work to do and another address to find before he paid Rupert a long overdue visit.
He found the run-down meze bar a few streets from the bus stop. The owner, a wizened man who couldn’t have been less than seventy, greeted him with a mug of coffee you could stand a spoon in. Jodi liked him—Spiros—straightaway. And the job was relatively simple too. Somehow, the old man had discovered the growing market for online takeaway ordering and wanted a functional website to help him offer the service. Jodi glanced around the tatty restaurant and considered his pricing. The old man likely couldn’t afford his going rate—and Jodi had to wonder how he’d found him in the first place—but despite the peeling paint and cracked tiles, the place was spotlessly clean, and it smelled amazing .
On cue, Spiros placed a plate of grilled halloumi, tomatoes, and herby fried eggs in front of him, complete with fresh sesame bread and a glass of what looked like grappa. The food was rustic, honest peasant fare, and oddly beautiful. Jodi’s stomach growled its approval. He took another glance around. The restaurant was clearly struggling, like any business that wasn’t a fucking Wetherspoons. Did he really want to feel responsible for another shit-hot family business going bust? Hell no. Jodi downed the grappa and quoted Spiros a price that should’ve made him weep.
A little while later, he emerged into the grey world of Harringay under a haze of garlic and grappa. Spiros had invited him back for dinner, but Jodi had places to be—and people to see—and he was already half-pissed.
And late. Oops. He pulled out the scrap of paper he’d scrawled Rupert’s address on. The bedsit was a five-minute walk from Spiros’s place, so Jodi turned east and set off, passing the time by planning the restaurant’s website. To fit in with its authenticity, the site couldn’t be too flashy, but it had to work, and work well, which demanded a certain amount of slickness. Trick was to balance the functionality with ambiance and personality, something that would probably have to involve photographing Spiros. Unless I could fudge a graphic of him.
Hmm. Jodi couldn’t draw for shit, but the idea had weight. He filed it away for later. Right now, he had eyes only for Rupert, who was standing on the pavement ahead, his phone tucked under his chin, and clutching the hand of a seraphic little girl Jodi knew from photographs to be his daughter, Indie.
Jodi trailed to a stop. Rupert hadn’t said he’d have Indie with him today. Not that it mattered, to Jodi at least, but the lingering tickle of grappa in his belly gave him pause. Though his buzz had faded, it felt a little wrong to gatecrash a father-daughter day when he’d been drinking since breakfast time.
He considered slinking away, texting Rupert from the Tube to say his client meeting had run over and he had to get back to Tottenham, but as he warred between doing the right thing and indulging the craving need to see Rupert in any capacity he could, Rupert turned and saw him, and his window of escape was gone.
By Indie’s curious smile, she saw him too. Jodi swallowed a shot of nerves and dug around in his pocket for chewing gum. He didn’t have much experience with kids, especially girls, though he knew Indie was more into football than Barbies.
They met halfway, and it took Jodi a
April 26, 2010
Jodi hopped off the bus in Harringay and took in the shabby buildings and monumental traffic congestion. Rupert was right. There really was nothing here but greengrocers with cabbages the size of small planets, Turkish/Cypriot cafés, and row upon row of scruffy bedsits.
“Welcome to bedshitland.” Recalling Rupert’s gentle sarcasm made Jodi smile, and the address he’d scribbled on a scrap of paper was burning a hole in his back pocket, but he had work to do and another address to find before he paid Rupert a long overdue visit.
He found the run-down meze bar a few streets from the bus stop. The owner, a wizened man who couldn’t have been less than seventy, greeted him with a mug of coffee you could stand a spoon in. Jodi liked him—Spiros—straightaway. And the job was relatively simple too. Somehow, the old man had discovered the growing market for online takeaway ordering and wanted a functional website to help him offer the service. Jodi glanced around the tatty restaurant and considered his pricing. The old man likely couldn’t afford his going rate—and Jodi had to wonder how he’d found him in the first place—but despite the peeling paint and cracked tiles, the place was spotlessly clean, and it smelled amazing .
On cue, Spiros placed a plate of grilled halloumi, tomatoes, and herby fried eggs in front of him, complete with fresh sesame bread and a glass of what looked like grappa. The food was rustic, honest peasant fare, and oddly beautiful. Jodi’s stomach growled its approval. He took another glance around. The restaurant was clearly struggling, like any business that wasn’t a fucking Wetherspoons. Did he really want to feel responsible for another shit-hot family business going bust? Hell no. Jodi downed the grappa and quoted Spiros a price that should’ve made him weep.
A little while later, he emerged into the grey world of Harringay under a haze of garlic and grappa. Spiros had invited him back for dinner, but Jodi had places to be—and people to see—and he was already half-pissed.
And late. Oops. He pulled out the scrap of paper he’d scrawled Rupert’s address on. The bedsit was a five-minute walk from Spiros’s place, so Jodi turned east and set off, passing the time by planning the restaurant’s website. To fit in with its authenticity, the site couldn’t be too flashy, but it had to work, and work well, which demanded a certain amount of slickness. Trick was to balance the functionality with ambiance and personality, something that would probably have to involve photographing Spiros. Unless I could fudge a graphic of him.
Hmm. Jodi couldn’t draw for shit, but the idea had weight. He filed it away for later. Right now, he had eyes only for Rupert, who was standing on the pavement ahead, his phone tucked under his chin, and clutching the hand of a seraphic little girl Jodi knew from photographs to be his daughter, Indie.
Jodi trailed to a stop. Rupert hadn’t said he’d have Indie with him today. Not that it mattered, to Jodi at least, but the lingering tickle of grappa in his belly gave him pause. Though his buzz had faded, it felt a little wrong to gatecrash a father-daughter day when he’d been drinking since breakfast time.
He considered slinking away, texting Rupert from the Tube to say his client meeting had run over and he had to get back to Tottenham, but as he warred between doing the right thing and indulging the craving need to see Rupert in any capacity he could, Rupert turned and saw him, and his window of escape was gone.
By Indie’s curious smile, she saw him too. Jodi swallowed a shot of nerves and dug around in his pocket for chewing gum. He didn’t have much experience with kids, especially girls, though he knew Indie was more into football than Barbies.
They met halfway, and it took Jodi a
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