Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Antonia
People eat dinner every day. There’s nothing dangerous about a meal. Well, unless you’re a politician and eating with your enemy. For me, tonight should be safe enough. So why do I feel like stepping off the edge?
My bedroom mirror doesn’t recognize me. The black tailored trousers are the same. The pressed soft green shirt. But the red waves hitting my shoulders haven’t seen light in years. I applied my lipstick once. A strong red. My normal color in the office.
I reached for the wipe, thinking I should change to something more understated. A pale pink perhaps? But I stop my fingers before they rise. No, this is my color.
My coat hangs ready by the door. My bag beside it. A glance at my watch tells me it’s 7:51 p.m. Less than ten minutes until we are due to meet. It’s only a three-second walk to Rico’s. I can see it from my window.
The window, divided by black lead, glows warm. There are already patrons inside sipping wine. A waiter moves to a table, placing two plates down simultaneously, and both diners pick up their forks and dive in.
My table by the window sits empty, ready for us to join it. I reserved it so I can see. I’ll wait here until I’m certain he’s inside. I don’t wait in restaurants. And I don’t wait for men.
It’s dinner. That’s all.
I haven’t dated in years. Possibly ten.
I’m not starting today.
After Luke left, I tried occasionally. Boardroom types with polished shoes and louder credit cards. It never lasted beyond a handful of dinners. They left knowing very little about me. I preferred it that way.
The familiar black car glides into the space at the entrance. He couldn’t have made it look smoother if he tried. As the driver’s door opens, a shoe as well-shined as the car appears first, then Ben.
He glances into the restaurant. Hesitates. Then closes the car door. He pulls his winter jacket a little tighter before walking inside.
I stay at the window—watching.
Rico shows him to the table, takes his coat, then disappears to the rear of the restaurant. Ben takes his seat, every so often glancing outside. His fingers lock together, and he rests his elbows on the table, hunched forward.
He looks lost waiting for me.
A minute passes. I just stand there watching him wait. Knowing I need to leave, but my feet feel heavier than I can lift.
He pulls his phone from his shirt pocket. He’s dressed well, but not corporate… more casual. I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. Business dress with curls, the same but different.
My phone beeps.
I’m here.
Simple. To the point. But comforting nonetheless.
Three minutes away.
I type back. Not wanting to leave him on read.
Always so accurate :-)
He adds a smiley face to the end of the message, and I smile along with it.
I don’t give myself time to think, just grab my coat and bag, then head outside.
My pulse quickens the closer the door gets. I keep my eyes forward, not sure if he’s seen me, but I don’t want to be caught looking.
Hidden from him in the entrance, I count to five. Inhaling and exhaling, steadying the ridiculous knot in my chest. Rico spots me in the doorway. He nods, but doesn’t make the usual fuss of welcoming me in. I appreciate it.
The moment passes, and I walk in.
Ben stands as I reach the table. His hands settle briefly on my shoulders before his lips brush my cheek.
“Good evening,” he says, voice low.
“Hello,” I murmur back, caught slightly off-guard as my skin tingles where his lips touched.
Warmth creeps over my cheeks. He takes my coat, passing it to a nearby waiter, then pulls out my chair. I sit down, and he takes his own seat.
Neither of us speak, both looking then quickly glancing away like teenagers.
This feels like a date.
Thankfully, a waiter appears with a bottle of wine. Barolo. He tilts the bottle toward me so I can see the label. I nod.
“How did you know?” I ask Ben.
His cheeks redden ever so slightly. I imagine matching my own. It makes him less composed, more unsure-looking.
“I asked Clara.”
He wanted to know enough about me to ask. That required effort.
“You’re thorough,” I say, half-whispering, barely able to look at him. His gaze never leaves my face. For a moment, it drops to my lips before finding my eyes again. I forget what I was about to say next, but I hold his gaze as if I didn’t.
“You don’t strike me as a woman who leaves things to chance.”
Our waiter moves to pour a taste into Ben’s glass, but he signals to mine.
“It’s good,” I say. “I’ve had it before.”
He nods, but doesn’t ask where. I’m relieved I don’t need to answer that this place is my safe haven every Friday. He doesn’t need to know that. Not yet, if at all.
Tonight, the familiar red is spicier on the back of my tongue. The bite of cherry first before it spreads to leather. A drink that’s meant to be savored, not gulped like a cheap supermarket counterpart.
Ben sips along with me. Our glasses meet the table at the same time.
“Is it like you remembered?” he asks.
I hesitate, unsure if he’s talking about the wine or being at dinner. I assume the wine.
“Stronger. A little sharp, but it mellows over time.”
The sides of his mouth twitch, and he takes another sip of his own. His throat muscles move as he swallows. I find myself staring.
A menu appears in my hands, breaking my focus.
Ben doesn’t seem to notice. Thankfully.
“A bit like people…” he muses.
“What is?”
He looks up from his menu. Eyebrows drawn together, obviously confused that I’m not following.
“Sharp, then mellow with time.”
I don’t answer, just return to reading the list of options I’ve read a hundred times before. Heat curls in my belly more each time he speaks.
The waiter approaches. We each order a starter and a main course. He trots off after topping off our drinks.
“How is Anna Collins?” I ask, keen to get the conversation back onto safe topics, somewhere I can divert attention away from throat muscles and blue eyes.
“Improving. Lunavax seems to be doing what they say it will.” He pauses. Twisting his knife between his forefinger and thumb. “But we know these things don’t always last. It’s still a trial.”
“True.”
Our conversation moves on from specific cases to the retreat. Progress reports, staffing issues, and the current media noise. It feels more like a board meeting than a private dinner, though business is why I invited him, to thank him for the funding. That’s what I told myself.
Perhaps it’s just become what it should be.
His napkin drops from his lap as he finishes his meal. He leans down to pick it up.
When he reappears, he smirks, just a little.
“Antonia,” he says. “Are we allowed to talk about something that isn’t Opengate?”
I straighten my own napkin on my lap.
“There isn’t much else.”
His fingers pinch the stem of his glass, and he swirls the remainder before taking a final drink, so that all that’s left are pale red streaks.
“That can’t be true,” he says.
“I work. Sleep. And eat out on Fridays.” I wince because it’s too revealing, but he leans forward, seemingly interested.
“Every Friday?”
“More or less.”
“Here?” he asks.
That makes me stumble. I don’t want to admit how predictable I am outside the business yet. “In this area.”
“So you’re local?”
“You could say that.” He doesn’t press any further. “So, tell me about you.”
The bottle is almost empty. Ben pours the leftovers into our glasses. Warmth is growing in my chest. A soft feeling between my ears. Not drunk, but relaxed.
“Well, I have four kids.”
My eyes bug a little. He snorts.
“Yes, four. You don’t need to say anything. I know it’s a lot. Two grown daughters. Two sons. You saw Liam at Christmas.” I nod. The graveyard. I remember. “We were visiting his mum.”
“Bex?”
“Yes. She was the other kid’s step-mum, but important to all of them.”
Silence. I’m not sure what to say. My grief is neatly packaged away; he has traditions and reminders. I’m not sure what’s worse.
“Savannah is in medical school in Edinburgh. Rose travels the world from job to job, living her best life. Ollie and Liam are both soccer mad.” He shrugs. “We make it work.”
“Sounds like it,” I murmur, not sure what else to say.
“Liam insisted I wear this.” He pulls on the pocket of his shirt. It’s only then I notice the tiny pale blue palm trees covering it. “He said it makes me less dad-like.”
I laugh then. Properly. For the first time in a long time. And I enjoy it—the last of my nerves floating away.
“He has good taste.”
Rico approaches the table this time. “The usual dessert, Ms. Antonia?” he says smoothly.
Ben’s eyes narrow. “The usual?” I hesitate. “You eat here a lot?” Ben continues.
“Every Friday.”
He nods, but chooses not to point out my earlier deflection. “So what do you suggest for dessert then?”
“Tiramisu,” Rico and I say together, and everyone smiles, the awkward moment passing.
***
We’ve finished our coffee when his stories naturally come to an end. I’ve loved listening to tales of stray dogs and errant children. How his daughter, Rose, barely tells him where she is, but keeps a close eye on his wardrobe. Or how the boys enjoyed a summer in Chicago.
His life is so full in comparison to mine. It spills out in all directions—family, chaos, people on all sides. Mine is controlled. My grief is neatly boxed away and labeled. Hidden away in my wardrobe for only me to see. Only when I’m prepared.
We both survived loss, just differently.
The check arrives. Rico places it in the center. We both reach for it, our fingers snapping closed at the same time.
“I’ll get this,” I say firmly. “I invited you.”
He lets go. No argument. No macho speech. Just a nod and a smile.
We rise together. Ben takes my coat from Rico, who is already by our side, holding it wide so I can slide each arm in easily. Then he bends and passes me my handbag, forgotten beneath the table.
As we reach the door, Ben pushes it open. I step through, his hand soft on the base of my back, steady and secure. Outside, the winter air bites my cheeks, and icy breath floats in the sky.
“So, how local is local?” he asks. “Can I walk you home? Or did you drive?”
I look over the street to my apartment block. The lights are still on in my home, two floors up. He follows my gaze and chuckles.
“Shall I walk you home then, ma’am?”
He offers me his arm, and I find myself taking it. We walk the fifty meters to my front door in silence. The air charged, neither of us debating whether this is a date anymore. It was a date. The energy between us confirmed it.
“Thank you for seeing me home, sir,” I say.
He steps in front, so we’re face-to-face, my back to the door.
“I have to say I’m disappointed,” he says. I blink, confused. “You didn’t wear your wellies.”
I shake my head. The heat of the evening is taking hold. The wine. The charm. All the joy I’ve not experienced in forever rushes to the surface. Tonight was fun.
I consider inviting him upstairs for a drink. I could. The apartment is tidy. It always is. And I made sure earlier. But it’s late. And is coffee an invitation for more? So I don’t, and he doesn’t suggest more either.
If he sees my space, he sees me. I can’t pretend that this is nothing.
“It’s late,” he whispers. “I should go.”
“Yeah…”
Strong hands settle at my waist. I step toward him, and his lips touch my cheek. For a longer time than when he first greeted me, but just as gentle.
I tilt my head slightly, our noses brushing briefly. He closes his eyes. I rise a little, pressing my lips gently on his. It feels like something I’ve been holding back from for far too long. Like something I’ve needed but refused to let myself have.
“Can we do this again?” he says so quietly, I can barely hear him.
All I can hear is us. The traffic, the city buzz dies to nothing.
“I’d like that.”
And I mean it. I want more of this. But not in our work roles as us.
Before I can think too hard about it, I step back, and he releases my waist.
“Go inside,” he says. “And wave to me from the window. What floor?”
“Second, but you don’t need to check on me.”
He chuckles under his breath. “I know I don’t, but I’d feel better knowing you’re behind a locked door.”
“Good night,” I say, looking a moment longer than I should before turning away.
As I slide my key into the lock and turn it.
I don’t look back, just walk inside and close the door, leaning my forehead against it for a second.
My heart thumps louder than it has in years, smiling wider than I ever remember.
Alive in a way I forgot it could be. And for once, I don’t try to quieten it. I let it beat.
I retreat to my apartment and make my way to the window. His car lights are on, but he’s still parked. Waiting. Engine idling. Hands resting on the steering wheel.
He looks up, spots me in the window, and waves once. I lift my hand.
He drives off.
I watch the empty street long after he’s turned the corner out of sight.
It was only dinner.
And yet, something shifted.