6. Sophia
SOPHIA
“ I ’m going out tonight, Mum,” I call as my mother bangs around the kitchen.
The banging stops. “You are? Where?”
“Into the city. I have a date.”
“A date? With who?”
“Well, you’re never going to believe it, but with Richard Walters from when we were growing up.”
My mother, Diane, frowns. “The boy with the alcoholic father?”
“Yes, Mum. My first love. The boy I grew up with.”
“I know who he is, Sophia,” my mum snipes. “I’m just surprised to hear you use his name. I figured the two of you had fallen out since you never made any mention of him after we’d moved.”
“After you tore me away from him, you mean?” How had my mother ended up with such a warped view of what had happened? “I cried for weeks after that move.”
“You weren’t well.”
“I know that, but I was also heartbroken. He meant everything to me, and you made me leave him.”
“He wasn’t the right sort of boy for you anyway, Sophia. He came from a rough background.”
My mouth drops. I had no idea my mother had felt that way about him. We’d always been hanging around together, and I’d assumed she’d liked him.
“Wow, judgemental much?”
My mum tuts and rolls her eyes. “It wasn’t like that, and you know it wasn’t. It was fine when the two of you were small children, but then when you were teens he wasn’t exactly a good influence. The pair of you were always staying out too late, and there was the sex and the drinking…”
“We were teenagers. We were in love. That’s what teenagers do.”
“How do you know if all that bad behaviour wasn’t the cause of your illness? Perhaps if you hadn’t been drinking so much, then your kidneys wouldn’t have started to fail.”
“Oh, my God, Mum. It was ten years ago, and my kidneys are defective, whether I drank back then or not. And even if I did, it was the odd cider at the weekend in the park. It’s not like I was drinking a bottle of vodka a day.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Unlike that boy’s dad. What’s Richard doing now then, anyway?”
I almost don’t want to tell her, already knowing what the response will be. “He’s a tattoo artist.”
“Oh, Sophia. Really?” She exhales a breath of disappointment. “I assume he was the one who put that monstrosity on your ankle? It really does make you look cheap.”
“I don’t care. It’s my body, and there isn’t exactly much I have control over these days, so if I want to get a tattoo, then I will.”
“Don’t come crying to me if the donor board bumps you down the list because you’re not taking care of yourself like you should. You know they can do that if they want to.”
“Mum, there’s no chance I’m getting a donor any time soon. I only just started dialysis. I’ve got years to wait, and there’s no way in hell I’m not going to live my life while I’m waiting. I’ve already put my life on hold for so long.”
I know my mother cares and is protective of me—and I would probably be exactly the same way if I had a sick daughter—but that doesn’t stop the anger rising inside me.
“I’m twenty-seven years old, Mum. I don’t need your permission to do anything. Now, I’m going out, and I’ll give Richard—or Rocco as he’s now called—your love, shall I?”
With that, feeling exactly like a teenager again, I slam out of the house.
I’ve gone for a casual look, in a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans, even though the weather’s warm.
I know there’s a chance I’ll end up having to tell Rocco about my kidney failure at some point this evening, but I don’t want to.
I like him seeing me as that seventeen-year-old girl he’d once known.
Now everyone sees me as the sick girl, the one they feel sorry for and talk to my mother about, saying things like ‘such a shame’ and ‘she’s so young’, as though I’m already dead.
I catch the train into the city and then the nearest Tube to the address Rocco had texted me. It doesn’t mention the name of a restaurant, so I wonder if it’s actually his address and he’s going to cook for me. He’d never shown any interest in cooking before, but things change.
I leave the Tube station and walk down the road, following the map on Google.
I see him, standing out in the street, holding a bunch of flowers.
He wears a shirt and a smart pair of jeans, though the tattoos are still visible on his wrists and neck.
It’s an alarmingly attractive combination, and I find my stomach flipping and my pulse rate taking off.
Oh, no. I can’t allow myself to react to him that way.
He’s an old friend, and we’re catching up, that’s all.
Something occurs to me. If this is his address, why is he standing outside?
He spots me, and a wide smile spreads across his face, and he lifts his hand in a half wave.
“Hi,” he says.
His arm slips around my waist as he leans in to kiss my cheek.
My heart catches at the proximity of him, and the scent of his cologne sends my pulse racing afresh.
“Hi,” I reply. He pushes the small bunch of flowers into my arms. I glance down at them. “Daisies! You remembered.”
He shrugs, embarrassed. “I’m not going to forget your favourite flower. Assuming they’re still your favourite, of course.”
“Yes, they are. Thanks, Rocco.”
“It’s weird hearing you call me that.”
I laugh. “It’s weird calling you that.”
“You can keep calling me Richard, if you want.”
“Nah, I think Rocco suits you better now.” I take in our location. “So, where have you brought me?”
“It’s a pop-up restaurant. The couple who live here open up their front room once a month and serve guests. The husband does all the cooking, and she is front of house. It’s got great reviews, and I know someone who knows them, and they were able to get us a table.”
“I’ve never been to anything like this before,” I say.
“No, me neither, but I thought it would be more chilled than going to a regular restaurant.”
“You know, when I saw the address on your text, I thought you might have invited me to your place for dinner.”
It’s his turn to laugh. “No, I can’t cook for shit. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. I can be the one to do the cooking.” I realise what I said. It implies we’ll be spending the sort of time together that means one of us would need to be cooking.
Automatically, I want to glance away, but he’s looking at me so intently, the ghost of a smile on his lips, that I can’t help but stare back.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over how strange it feels to see him again, like he’s a time travel portal and I can use him to transport me back to a time before my illness had taken over everything.
I itch to touch his cheek, to place my palm against his skin and just stare at him for hours, drinking in all the changes that have happened in his face over the years.
“We’d better go in,” he says, breaking the moment. “We don’t want to miss the first course.”
I smile, and we turn together, walking side by side towards the house where the pop-up restaurant is taking place.
I’m so conscious of where his body is in relation to mine, and, as our arms brush, I have to physically hold myself back from reaching out and clinging tight to his biceps and telling him how much I’ve missed him and how sorry I am.
He holds the door open for me, and I step inside.
Music is playing in the background, something soft, and the living room has been set out with a number of chairs and tables, each with a crisp white tablecloth, polished glasses, and heavy silver wear.
Several other people are already in the room—another couple and a table of four.
Everyone looks up as we walk in, and I smile around, suddenly shy and tempted to hide behind Rocco.
A woman in her thirties rushes up to us from the back of the house. “Hi, and welcome! You must be… Hmm… Let me guess.” She pauses and taps her finger to her lips. “Sophia and Rocco.”
I smile, immediately warming to the woman. “That’s right.”
“I have a talent for matching faces to names.”
“Oh, right,” I say.
“I’m only joking. You’re our last table in tonight.”
She surprises a laugh from me. “Of course. We’re not too late, are we? That’s my fault.”
“No, no. Not at all. Come through, make yourselves at home. That’s literally what we want you to do tonight. Imagine you’re as comfortable here as you would be in your own house, only we do all of the cooking, and you don’t even have to do the dishes.”
“Sounds great.” Rocco lips tweak upward and he exchanges a glance with me.
“I’m Margarite,” the woman introduces herself. She ushers us over to the table. “Now what can I get you to start? Wine?”
I wave a hand. “Oh, I might have a glass later, but I’ll start with a sparkling water, if that’s okay.” I’m allowed to drink alcohol on dialysis, but not much, and I always have to make sure the amount of liquid I drink during the day isn’t more than I’m allowed.
“I’ll have the same,” Rocco says, smiling his warm smile at Margarite.
He looks tough on the outside, but his smile and the friendliness of his chocolate brown eyes tell a whole other story.
I lean across the table and lower my voice. “I don’t mind if you want to have a real drink.”
He grins at me. “Nah. I drink too much beer anyway. Not good for the gut.” He pats his rock-hard stomach, and I suddenly wonder what my Richard from childhood now looks like with his shirt off.
“I’m still in shock that you came into my studio today,” he tells me. “You know I wasn’t even supposed to be working today.”
“I know. The woman who works there told me the artist I’d booked in with was sick and that I’d be getting you instead.
She called you Rocco, and obviously that meant nothing to me.
If she’d said ‘Richard’, the thought would have at least occurred to me that it might be you, though I would never have thought it would be really.
It’s not as though there aren’t plenty of Richards in London.
” I shrug. “Maybe it was fate. The other artist got sick because the world conspired to throw us together.”
He studies my face. “You believe in all of that?”