Chapter 20
20
GRETA
I arrive at The Port House a little early, as the booking is in my name – and it’s just good manners – but Ewan is already waiting by the door.
‘Hello, you,’ I say, taking in his freshly pressed dress shirt and jeans. He looks smart and not at all like he spent the day behind the counter at The Daily Grind.
He leans down and kisses my cheek. ‘You look lovely,’ he says, his eyes scanning my fitted wrap dress in periwinkle jersey. I grew up being told to shy away from pinks and purples – they clash with red hair, apparently – but that’s just bollocks.
‘You too. I mean, handso— nice. You look nice.’
He grins at me. ‘Shall we?’ he asks. Without waiting for a reply, he opens the door for me.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
We’re greeted and seated and in less than a minute, have menus in our hands. ‘I haven’t been here before,’ says Ewan, looking about. ‘It feels quite authentic,’ he says. ‘Like they snatched it right out of Porto or even Barcelona.’
‘You’ve ticked off so many destinations I still haven’t been to,’ I reply wistfully.
‘Still plenty of time for exploring,’ he says, his eyes twinkling at me, then lowering to the menu.
It’s a nice sentiment, but where do travel and adventure fit in with continuing to advance my career and finding love and having a baby? Though a school friend of mine and Tiggy’s – Rana – said something that has stuck with me ever since. She’d just had her first child and joined me and Tiggy for drinks after work, newborn in tow. When Tiggy and I made a big to-do about her being able to come out with us as a new mum, she’d replied matter-of-factly, ‘Babies are portable.’ And she and her husband travel avidly – with their three children – so maybe it is doable to meld travel and a young family.
‘So,’ I say, abandoning my rambling thoughts and shifting my attention to the menu. ‘How about we choose one dish from each section?’
‘Sounds like a good approach – and we may even have room for dessert,’ he replies, with a double raise of his eyebrows. I love that Ewan’s ‘all-in’ on ordering. ‘And what about wine?’ he asks, picking up the menu and scanning it.
‘Can I defer to you?’ I ask. ‘You’ve actually been to Spain and Portugal, so definitely you’ve got a leg up on me.’
‘If I do have an advantage, it will be a small one. Sally always—’ He stops and sighs. ‘And I’ve done it again. I don’t know why I keep bringing her up to you.’
There’s something in his tone that gives me pause. Why wouldn’t he be able to talk about his ex with me? Perhaps if we were dating , but we’re simply two foodie friends on a night out.
And then I remember Tiggy’s list and the reference to Ewan as my ‘hot friend’. He does look especially handsome tonight, but it’s moot – I don’t think of him that way. Besides, I’m just days away from my date with Harrison.
‘It’s fine – really,’ I assure him. ‘How long were you together?’
‘Ten years.’
Ten years is a long time. If anything, this information makes me even more curious about her.
‘And what does Sally do? For a living?’
‘She was – rather, still is – a wine merchant – head buyer for a major chain here in the UK.’
My mouth falls open. ‘Seriously?’
He laughs at my amazement. ‘Mm-hmm. I’d say that 99 per cent of what I know about wine I learnt from her – or from someone she’s connected with. Portugal… Spain… those were work trips for her and I would tag along. And to Italy, France, Germany… even Kakheti in Georgia. It’s actually the birthplace of wine. At one winery, a monastery, we tasted their 1000th vintage.’
‘Oh, wow – that’s…’ I say, leaving the thought unsaid. My wide eyes and shaking head say it all, really.
‘I know.’
‘And how was it, the wine?’
‘Uh…’
I laugh. ‘Not your favourite?’
‘No, but a good experience.’
‘And why did you two break up?’ I ask, clearly catching him unawares.
‘Oh, you don’t want me to bore you with all that,’ he says with an uneasy laugh. He returns to the wine menu, staring at it intently.
Right, so the subject of Sally is off the table, but I really don’t understand why.
‘Oh, I meant to tell you,’ he says. ‘I read Nouveau Life – well, a lot of it,’ he says.
‘Oh?’
He laughs. ‘Not the demographic of your typical reader?’
‘It’s not that. We are hoping to appeal to a broader readership than Nouveau print… It’s just… Well, thank you. I appreciate you showing an interest in my work.’
‘Of course – you’ve shown an incredible interest in mine, especially the cronuts.’
‘They are so good. Why are they so good?’
‘Hmm, pastry, sugar, crème pat… who would have thought that’d be a winning combination?’ he asks cheekily.
‘You’re teasing me.’
‘Just a little bit,’ he says, his lips curling up at the corners.
As his gaze drops again, I cast mine over Ewan. He really does look especially handsome tonight. I like him in blue – it brings out his eyes.
I focus back on the menu, suggesting several dishes. Ewan does the same and together, we assemble a delectable array. When our waiter comes back with sparkling water, Ewan orders, including a Grenache – or Garnacha as it appears on the menu – from Madrid. He promises it will be aromatic with a hint of pepper and spice.
We make small talk about how many restaurants there are in London – aren’t we spoilt for choice? – until the waiter returns and we bear witness to the almost theatrical business of opening and pouring the wine.
When the waiter leaves us, Ewan lifts his tulip-shaped glass, the distinct garnet hue of the wine enticing, and holds it aloft. ‘To new adventures,’ he says.
I’m not sure exactly what he’s referring to, but I appreciate the sentiment. Besides, isn’t that what I’ve been embarking on recently? New adventures, both professionally and personally.
‘To new adventures,’ I echo. We clink glasses and drink, our eyes locked. ‘It’s delicious,’ I say after I’ve swallowed.
‘Mmm,’ he agrees.
‘I wish I had better vocabulary when it comes to wine.’
‘Just say whatever popped into your head as you took that first sip.’
‘It’ll sound silly,’ I say.
‘Try it.’
‘You’re not going to let me off the hook, are you?’
‘Absolutely not. I want to hear what that writer’s brain of yours has to say.’
I laugh. ‘Oh, so no pressure then. This is like that scene in French Kiss where Luc makes Kate describe the wine and she calls it “bold, yet lacking in pretention”, then admits she’s talking about herself.’
‘I haven’t seen it.’
‘I’ve seen it enough for both of us, don’t worry. My best friend, Tiggy, is obsessed with romcoms – movies, mostly.’
‘Well, if French Kiss is about wine, I’d probably like it,’ he says with a wink.
‘Wine is featured – and there’s this incredible scene set in the family’s vineyard in France – that’s the scene where he makes her describe the wine – but it’s mostly about finding love in unexpected places.’
Unexpected places like the coffee shop near the office, Greta? I instantly dismiss the thought as ridiculous.
‘Is that right?’ asks Ewan, his mouth curving into a knowing smile. ‘Then I’m definitely putting it on the list.’
Uncertain how to take that, I clear my throat and look away, then grab my wine glass and take another sip.
‘Before you swallow, let it sit on your palate for a moment,’ Ewan says softly. Mesmerised by his gentle command, I do. ‘Now close your eyes.’
I do that too, remembering that Luc tells Kate the same thing in the movie.
‘At the front of the palate,’ he continues, ‘you’ll get the sweetness of the forest fruit. The acidity will hit the middle palate, on the sides. And it should feel quite smooth in your mouth.’
As he speaks, I take in his words, and they transform into descriptions as if by magic. I swallow and open my eyes to find him watching me.
‘Now describe the wine,’ he says. ‘I promise I won’t laugh.’
‘That’s not a good promise. What if I’m trying to be funny?’
‘Describe the wine,’ he prompts gently, ‘while it’s fresh in your mind.’
I inhale, the residual aroma of the wine flooding my senses. ‘Okay, the first taste was strawberries, warmed by the sun on a summer’s day, but then that transformed into cherries – like a cherry compote, even a hint of Kirsch. And there was also a tartness, like sour cherry, I guess…’
‘And the texture?’
‘Smooth,’ I say with a nod, ‘just like you said.’
‘Any better words for the texture?’ he encourages, and I scour my mental thesaurus.
‘ Unctuous .’
‘Now there’s a word,’ he says with a mischievous smile.
Heat suddenly floods my cheeks, and I look away, sucking in a deep breath as the realisation lands with a thud. This isn’t just witty banter between two foodie friends. Ewan is flirting – and well .
Oh god, I cannot unpack this right now. Not in the middle of dinner and not when I’m mere days away from meeting someone who could very well be my perfect match.
‘See?’ asks Ewan, evidently undaunted by my sudden silence. ‘You described that wine brilliantly. An excellent use of your writerly skills, I’d say.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, barely able to get the word out.
But I can’t just sit here struck dumb – time to change the subject!
‘So,’ I say brightly, ‘how was day three working behind the counter?’
‘Hopefully the last,’ he says. ‘We’ve got two new team members starting tomorrow and I’ve got an architect coming in on Friday to discuss my idea.’
‘You’re renovating already?’
‘Born of necessity, I’m afraid – already a victim of my own success,’ he says.
‘Ah, yes, the duality of the blessing and the curse.’
‘Precisely.’
‘So, what are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking of adding a walk-up window where people can order takeaway coffee. That would free up space inside for customers who want to stay a while and enjoy the ambience. I’m assuming that’s why you come every day?’ he asks, flashing me a grin.
‘Oh, absolutely. It’s an oasis inside The Daily Grind – very green . I’m assuming you have a close mate who owns a garden centre and owed you a favour?’
He laughs, a warm, throaty sound that sends a shockwave rocketing through me. Get a grip, Greta , I chastise. Harrison, Harrison, Harrison.
‘I was told there were too many plants.’
‘By whom?’
His expression suddenly clouds, and I understand immediately – Sally.
‘Oh, right.’
Sally certainly has a presence – like a spectre hovering over us. Their break-up must be reasonably fresh.
We’re quiet, sipping our wine and looking about, and I’m relieved when the waiter reappears bearing several plates. He announces each dish as he places them on the table: ensalada verde , gambas pil pil , and patatas bravas con aioli .
The plates nearly fill the table and this is only half of what we’ve ordered. We move things around, playing a horizontal game of Tetris, only to have our efforts thwarted when he returns with three more plates: Catalan canelones de espinacas , confitado de pato , and two pieces of tosta de salmon .
We make more adjustments and now some of the plates are overlapping, sitting at angles so precarious that I’m struck by how ridiculous it was to order so much. I start to laugh.
‘I think we could feed the entire population of Lichtenstein,’ I say through my laughter.
‘I’d say Luxembourg,’ he retorts, making me laugh harder. ‘Wait, what if we…’ He takes our empty plates, the ones we’re supposed to eat from, stacks them, then calls the waiter back and hands them to him. Turning back to me, he says, ‘We can just eat straight from these,’ indicating the plates and bowls brimming with food.
‘Glad one of us has hospitality experience,’ I say.
‘Oh yes, my three days serving coffee have definitely saved the day – or, rather, the night ,’ he says with faux gravitas.
‘See, you really are Mr Coffee Man,’ I say, leaning into the silly thing I blurted out to him on Monday.
‘By day, he provides a vital service to workers on the Strand,’ Ewan says, playing along.
‘By night, he rearranges the crockery, saving over-orderers from having to drag across a second table.’
‘We’re a bit daft,’ he says affectionately.
‘We are,’ I agree, ‘but also hilarious.’
‘Well, that goes without saying.’
He tops up my wine, then we start eating, bites interspersed with exclamations of ‘wow’ and ‘you’ve got to try this’. When we’ve made a decent effort on the array, but I can’t possibly eat another thing, I sit back and dab my napkin at the corners of my mouth, then lay it in my lap.
‘That was…’ I shake my head and sigh contentedly, ignoring the niggling questions buzzing at the back of my mind. As I told myself earlier, now is not the time to delve into an analysis of my friendship with Ewan.
‘It absolutely was,’ he agrees. ‘There’s still a splash of wine left.’
‘Oh, go on, then.’ He pours the remainder of the bottle evenly between our two glasses. ‘You mentioned Porto and Barcelona earlier… I’ve never been to either – did I say?’
‘You alluded to it.’
‘Right, so which should I visit first?’
‘Which is my favourite?’ he asks, touching his hand to his chest. He sucks his breath in through his teeth.
‘Too difficult to choose?’
‘It is a bit of a conundrum. I mean, Porto is… breathtaking . The Douro… it’s as if the city was there first and the river carved its way right through the middle… And the buildings… There’s this kaleidoscope of colour and textures and they’re all piled up haphazardly, as if a child built the city out of Lego without any planning or forethought… And the terracotta roofs! They form this bright-orange blanket across the entire city. And if you ride the Gaia Gondola, which is on the southern bank of the river, or if you walk across the top of Luis I Bridge, you get to see all of it from on high. It truly is incredible.’
‘So, Porto then?’
‘Actually, I’d have to say Barcelona.’
‘What?’ I ask, laughing. ‘After gushing like that about Porto?’
‘I told you it was a conundrum. There’s a wild kind of beauty to Porto, but you see, I can’t go past the carefully planned order of Barcelona. You’ve probably seen an aerial photograph of how the city blocks are laid out?’ he asks, and I nod. ‘Well, that. Plus, I love the architecture, especially in the Gothic Quarter. And the food. Oh god, the food.’
‘What about the food in Portugal?’
He makes a face.
‘Also not your favourite?’
‘It’s… Let’s just say I prefer the food in Spain.’
‘Ahh. And, tell me, if what you like about Barcelona is the order and how everything’s laid out just so, how do you reconcile Gaudi’s work? I mean, isn’t that the opposite of order? I’ve only seen photos, of course, but Sagrada Familia looks like a set of ancient candelabras all bunched together – and the candles have burnt down over and over again through the decades, but no one’s ever cleaned up the melted wax.’
‘That’s… I’ve never heard it described that way before,’ he says appreciatively. ‘There’s the writer coming out again.’
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ I tease.
‘Your quest— Oh, right. I suppose it’s the juxtaposition,’ he says, holding out both hands to illustrate. ‘The order and the chaos together – the contrast…’
‘A bit like people,’ I say. ‘I find that the ones I gravitate towards or am closest to are a mass of contradictions. Like my best friend, Tiggy – she’s this chaotic person who lives whimsically and with verve, yet she’s a graphic designer and her work has to be so precise – she’s also very tech savvy and a total neat freak. So, like you said, the order and the chaos together – but in a person.’
‘She sounds incredible.’
‘She is,’ I say, smiling fondly at the mention of my bestie.
‘Only fitting really.’
‘What is?’
‘That a woman like you would have someone like Tiggy as a best friend,’ he says.
Our eyes meet and his bore into mine and, once again, the mood between us shifts.
I have some serious unpacking to do after this.