The chef
The man in the window table of the tiny restaurant tells all of this to the little girl sitting on a chair bolstered by cushions and the man’s rolled-up jacket, though she is far too young to understand any of what he’s saying.
They’re the only people in the whole place, and their conversation is not hard to hear.
‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ the mother says.
‘You didn’t have to do that, back there,’ she says. ‘But thank you. You saved my life.’ An awkward pause. ‘I didn’t know. That you didn’t know.’
‘I don’t need protecting,’ the man says, curtly. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, even though he still hasn’t eaten anything. ‘Her dad?’
‘Dead,’ the woman says, quickly. She looks at her daughter. ‘To me,’ she adds. ‘It’s just us. It’s always just been us.’
The man looks from mother to daughter. ‘That can’t have been easy,’ he says.
The woman looks like she might burst into tears. Instead, she slips into the empty seat on the other side of the booth, depositing her daughter next to her. The girl chews busily on her piece of pizza, content now her mother is here.
‘I didn’t realise you were in London,’ the woman says, after a while.
‘I wasn’t.’
‘And yet, here you are.’
‘Here I am,’ the man replies.
The woman’s eyes search his weathered face. ‘Why did you come tonight, Seb?’
He returns her gaze. ‘I wanted to see if you still leave me a ticket.’
The woman looks down into her lap. ‘I always leave you a ticket.’
The man looks anywhere but at her, his eyes finally settling on the child.
The girl has finished her pizza slice, is staring forlornly across the table at her vacated plate, far out of reach.
Slowly, the man takes one of his own slices, brings it to his mouth.
She watches him. He breathes deeply, then mimes gobbling down the pizza like some ravenous creature.
The girl doesn’t even crack a smile. The man sits back in his chair, undeterred.
He pats his belly, pretends to burp. Now the child smiles.
She seems to forget herself, letting out a cackle, kicking her legs beneath the table.
The man hands her the pizza slice as the mother watches them both, an unreadable look on her face.
‘Something for you?’ The chef has crossed to the table, is holding a laminated menu.
‘Huh?’ It takes her a moment to collect herself. ‘No, thank you,’ she says. ‘Actually.’ She glances at the half-finished beer in front of the man, the pizza with the missing slice. ‘A sparkling water.’
The chef heads back behind the counter, pops open a bottle and fetches a glass. He returns to the table with the mother’s drink, along with some crayons and colouring paper for the child. The woman’s eyes are still on the man’s plate. The man pushes it towards her.
‘Thanks,’ the woman says, with something like shame. ‘I’m so hungry.’
She wolfs down a slice. Then another. When she realises the man is watching her, she looks embarrassed. She adjusts her knotty blond hair. The man takes a swig of his beer. The little girl looks slowly from one of them to the other. She sets about her colouring-in.
‘Why did you really come?’ the woman says.
‘I wanted to see the film.’
‘Why?’
‘So many questions,’ he says. He stops, steadies his tone. ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘I’m back in town. I saw it was happening. I knew it would be half decent.’ A slight edge of sarcasm. ‘You always wanted to make great things.’
‘But you missed it,’ she says. ‘The film.’
‘Yes,’ he replies.
‘I thought you’d at least stay in the green room.’
‘You said she hadn’t eaten,’ the man says. ‘I knew there was good pizza here.’ He can’t maintain eye contact any longer. ‘I couldn’t be there,’ he says, quietly. ‘I thought I wanted to be, but I didn’t.’
The woman’s hands tap-tap-tap their rings against the tabletop. The man lets out a long, unsteady breath. He’s avoiding her gaze, like he doesn’t trust himself to look right into her eyes.
‘You wanted to talk,’ the woman says. ‘You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t.’ Does she look hopeful? ‘I think we should. Talk.’
‘No,’ says the man, decisively. ‘Let’s just forget it.’
Scratch, scratch, scratch of crayon on crumpling placemat. The girl is too engrossed to notice the shift in tone, the fact that her mother has tensed up, has lowered her voice.
‘Because of her?’ the mother says.
The man doesn’t respond.
‘Don’t do that,’ she says.
‘Do what?’
‘Say nothing.’
‘Don’t say nothing?’
‘We used to talk until you decided a conversation was over,’ she says. ‘If it took a turn you didn’t like, you’d just shut down. Take the easy route out.’
His eyes burn now. ‘None of it was easy.’
‘Then don’t pretend we have nothing to say to each other,’ she says. ‘Let’s have it out.’
‘I was never pretending,’ he says. ‘It was all real to me.’
‘Your version of events.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ His voice is rough. ‘We both know what you did. The proof is sitting right here.’
The scratching stops. They stop with it. They seem to have remembered where they are, who they’re with. The mother’s cheeks are burning red. Her partner shakes his head. The girl resumes her colouring as if nothing has happened.
‘I’m not here to reprimand you,’ the man says. ‘I don’t care any more.’
‘If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be here.’
‘I wanted to see you,’ the man says, matter-of-factly. ‘Just once.’
And yet, it’s like he still can’t look directly at her.
The woman swallows, breathes carefully. It doesn’t seem easy for them to be sitting on either side of this table.
The chef is cleaning down the surfaces, wondering how long this will go on.
He can’t work out if this couple would rather get this over with, or if there’s nowhere else they’d rather be.
‘Just once?’ the woman says. Her voice is timid. She pitches it like a question she doesn’t really want an answer to.
The man rubs one heavy hand across the back of his shaven head. ‘I have a—’ The words don’t come. A kind of growl replaces them. ‘I’m not staying.’
‘You only just got here.’
‘Not really,’ he says. ‘And I was never going to be back for long.’ He chews over his phrasing. ‘I’m moving away. For good, this time.’
The woman looks like she’s hurt, and she’s trying not to show it. Like she doesn’t want to believe him. Her eyes seem to say: it was for good last time, too.
‘Where?’ she asks.
‘New York.’
Surprise, now. ‘You never struck me as a New Yorker.’
The man doesn’t respond to this. His face seems to suggest: you don’t know anything about me. At least, not any more.
The chef wrings out his cloth, shakes his head.
He can tell that this isn’t going anywhere.
The couple seem to feel the same way. The air turns frosty, now, their expressions hardening.
The tenderness of a few moments before has been replaced by something else, a sudden recollection of who they are to one another, of why they haven’t seen each other in so long.
Best to let bygones be bygones. Whatever’s broken won’t be fixed at this table, not when the man already has one eye on the door.
‘Anyway,’ the man says.
He sniffs, straightens up, then takes his coat from the empty seat next to him. As he dons the flannel jacket and stuffs his hands into his pockets, he tries to avoid the gaze of the little girl, who is watching him with something like disappointment.
‘We should get you home,’ the woman says suddenly to her daughter, as if desperate to get out ahead of him. ‘It’s so far past your bedtime that it’s not even funny.’
She’s embarrassed, to be acting like a mother in front of him.
The chef can tell by her expression, by the redness that spreads once more across her cheeks, beneath her freckles.
He hears it in the tremor of her voice. The man can’t help but look sorry for her, sorry for all of it. But he can’t let himself lose face.
‘I’ll go,’ he says, meaning, I’ll go before you. He stands, pulls out his wallet, lays down a few banknotes.
‘I’ll get this,’ the woman says, reaching into her bag.
‘I’ve got it.’
‘Let me give you some money.’
‘I don’t need your money.’
His tone makes her flinch. She bows her head, busies herself bundling her daughter into a puffer jacket and a hat that has to be fastened beneath her rosy little chin to keep it in place.
The man watches on, until he can’t. He screws his eyes shut tight, angles his head downwards, breathes out a single, unsteady breath.
The mother doesn’t see him do this, but the child stares at him all the while.
‘So, is that it?’ the mother says, once she’s finished. ‘Nice to see you. Never see you again?’
‘Something like that,’ the man says. His face is firm again. ‘What else do you expect? Tonight didn’t mean—’ He glances at the daughter, lowers his voice. ‘Just because I helped you out, it doesn’t change anything.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ She seems to know. She just wants him to say it.
‘I don’t forgive you.’
She returns his glare. ‘I don’t forgive you, either.’
They stay like this for a moment. Then she looks at the girl, and he looks away, and his voice is flat when he speaks again.
‘Goodbye, Nora,’ he says.
‘Goodbye, Seb,’ she says.
The chef can tell that the man hadn’t expected a response. The words seem to die in his throat. All he can do is leave, stepping out into the cold night and disappearing into the darkness beyond the streetlamps, leaving behind a woman and a child and a silence that settles like snow.