Chapter 31
31
By the time I wake from a restless night, just after five the next morning, I know what I have to do. I did call Jock several more times yesterday evening but, unsurprisingly, I always got diverted to voicemail. I messaged him too, telling him I was sorry, but I can see the messages are still unread this morning. If he won’t speak to me on the phone, I’ll have to go and see him face to face. I can’t leave things like this.
By seven o’clock, I’m on my way to the airport and I reckon it’s safe to call Abby without waking her. I can’t tell her I’m bunking off to try to fix my relationship with Jock, but if I make it about him professionally, she won’t have an issue. That’s my plan, anyway.
‘Hi. How are you getting on?’ she asks. I can tell from the background noise that she’s not at home either.
‘I’m going to Scotland,’ I tell her. ‘The chef is playing hard to get. Are you OK with that? I shouldn’t be away for more than a day or two and John’s got everything under control.’
‘Yeah, no worries.’ She sounds deflated.
‘Where are you?’ I ask.
‘On the train to London. I can’t get anyone at Emilio’s company to answer the phone, so I’m going to show up in person and refuse to leave until they talk to me. I’ll keep you posted, yeah?’
‘OK. Good luck.’ My mind is cast back to the night I was arrested, where I took the phone off the hook to stop the journalists from getting through. I wonder if Emilio’s team are doing the same. Thinking of that night takes me down a rabbit hole. I’m reminded of Jock letting me share his bed when I was scared, how safe I felt with him, and how he just seemed to be able to read me like a book. I let the mental images play in my mind as I pull out my phone and look at a few of the photos from our week together. I may have given Abby the impression that this trip was purely business, but the reality is I’m not even thinking about The Mermaid at the moment. This is all about Jock and me, and putting things right. I have no idea how long it’s going to take, so I’ve packed a small overnight case. Hopefully, I’ll be able to find a hotel or B there are two eggs, two sausages, two rashers of bacon, two hash browns, two grilled tomatoes, two slices of black pudding, a small lake of baked beans and a pile of button mushrooms all crammed onto an enormous plate. I’d struggle to eat half of this in normal circumstances; with my anxiety about what to say to Jock affecting my appetite, I doubt I’ll manage a quarter. Things go from bad to worse when the server brings another plate with four slices of thickly buttered brown toast. Just looking at all this food is making me feel queasy.
Remembering Jock’s words about using the carbs to soak up the egg, I cut a corner off one of the hash browns and pierce one of the yolks with it. It’s comfort food of the first order, and I follow it up with a bit of sausage. This proves to be a mistake; the sausage is well cooked, but obviously cheap as the filling is fatty and flavourless. I add a little brown sauce, mixing it with some beans and a bit of bacon. That’s much better. The bacon is cooked just right; the fat is rendered without the meat being charred to a crisp. In the end, I manage nearly a third of the breakfast before pushing the plate away in defeat.
‘Was the breakfast not to your taste?’ the man from behind the counter asks as he clears away my plate.
‘It was lovely,’ I tell him. ‘There was just rather a lot of it.’
‘You didn’t touch your toast.’ He sounds mildly affronted, as if I’ve insulted him personally in some way.
‘I did tell you I didn’t want it,’ I explain.
‘No alterations to the menu items,’ he states firmly. ‘Company policy.’
‘I see. Tell me, who sets the policy?’
‘I do. I’m Gregory, the owner.’
‘Right. Don’t you think a little flexibility might have served you well here, Gregory? I mean, I told you I didn’t want the toast but, because of your inflexible policy, you’re now going to have to throw it away when you could have saved yourself some money by simply not serving it in the first place.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘No. If I start allowing people to change things or swap things around, it all gets in a mess. So, you don’t want the toast. I say, “Fine, don’t have the toast,” but then you’ll say, “I’m not paying ￡10.99 because I didn’t have the toast.” Or you tell me you want to swap an egg for an extra sausage. Sausages are way more expensive than eggs. It all becomes a nightmare. The Olympic breakfast is what it is. Same with every other dish on the menu. No variation, no argument. Everyone has an easy life. Have you finished your tea?’
‘Yes, thank you. I’ll just sit and wait for Jock now.’
‘Umm, no.’
‘What?’
‘If you’re occupying a table, you have to order something.’
‘I did.’
‘Yes, but you’ve finished. So now you either have to leave or order something else.’
‘Are you for real?’
‘It’s company policy.’
‘For fuck’s sake. OK, I’ll have another cup of tea, please.’
‘We don’t sell tea on its own. It only comes with a meal.’
‘But I don’t want a meal! I’ve just had a bloody meal.’
‘And I need to make a living. How long does it take to drink a cup of tea? Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? Half an hour at a push. You’re occupying a table for four for half an hour; I need more return than the price of a single cup of tea.’
‘Let me guess. Company policy?’
‘Yup.’
‘Fine. What’s the smallest meal that comes with a cup of tea?’
‘That would be our regular breakfast. Seven ninety-nine.’
‘Right. I’ll have one of those then.’
‘I need to take payment up front.’
‘Why? I’m literally sitting here, Gregory. I’m not leaving the building.’
‘Yes, but I believe you to be a hostile customer, and company policy states that we take payment up front from hostile customers.’
‘You are unbelievable,’ I tell him as I follow him to the counter and hand over my card.
‘Just trying to make a living,’ he replies. ‘Take a seat and I’ll bring your order out as soon as it’s ready.’
By the time my second breakfast arrives, the café is almost empty. The tea is still welcome, but I leave the food to congeal on the plate. There’s no way I could eat another thing, but I’ve decided to play Gregory at his own game. After twenty minutes or so, he comes back, but this time I’m ready for him.
‘Shall I take your plate?’ he asks.
‘No. I haven’t finished.’
‘But it’ll be cold by now.’
‘Is there anything in your company policy that states what temperature the food needs to be when I eat it?’
‘No, but…’ He peters out and I decide to press home my victory.
‘Your policy is that I have to order something if I’m to occupy a table. I’m occupying a table and I’ve ordered something, so I’m within policy. I’ll let you know when I’ve finished.’
After another fifteen minutes, he’s practically twitching with frustration. I’m pretending to look at my phone, but keeping an eye on him at the same time, so I spot him crossing the floor towards me.
‘I still haven’t finished,’ I tell him without looking up.
‘Ah, come on,’ he whines. ‘You’re obviously not going to eat it.’
‘Company policy doesn’t say I have to eat it. It just says I have to order it. As long as it’s there, I can occupy this table, isn’t that right?’
‘Technically, yes,’ he says with a sigh. ‘But surely you can see this isn’t in the spirit of what’s meant.’
‘I’m just playing by the rules, Gregory, same as you. Does company policy dictate how long I have to finish my breakfast?’
‘No, but…’
‘Right then. I’m still eating, and I’ll let you know when I’m done.’
‘We close at three.’
‘I’ll make sure I’m done by then.’