Chapter 32 #2
‘Uh, Camberwell. My family have a shop, and we live in the flat above it,’ he says quickly.
‘The pear.’ I smile at the memory of it.
‘Exactly. Sorry, I forgot I’d already told you that.’
‘No, it’s interesting! I like imagining people in their places, with their people. I’m nosy, I suppose, but I find you interesting.’
‘Well, it’s nice of you to say that, but I always had this sense that people found me, you know, too . . . different from everyone else, maybe too boring . . . until I started writing for the newspaper, and then I felt like I’d, you know, found people I got on with.’
‘That’s good,’ I say, feeling a tug of sympathy for the old Laurie, all adrift at university. ‘I think finding your people is the hardest part. Maybe harder than the classes . . .’
Laurie looks at me with surprise. ‘I can’t imagine you finding it hard to make friends.’
‘It’s not about making friends. It’s about making the right friends.’ I tell him. ‘I know it’s easy for me – someone who can and indeed will chat to anyone – to say, but that doesn’t mean everyone is someone that I like or trust or want to have a deeper relationship with.’
He nods. ‘That makes sense.’ Our waitress sets down our pasta in front of us. ‘So, yeah, it took me a while to find my feet at QAC, but that’s . . . well, that’s nothing new,’ he says a little ruefully.
‘Why’s that?’ I ask, spearing a tube of rigatoni. ‘The nothing-new part, I mean.’
‘Well,’ he says, setting his fork down, ‘I went to my secondary school on a scholarship.’ I don’t tell him that I already know that, from Felix of all people.
‘And it was a real thing there, you know? It’s quite an expensive, old-fashioned school, lots of money around, so obviously anyone who’s there on a scholarship is looked at as a bit of an interloper.
You have to really . . . want to fit in, and I just didn’t want to play the game.
There was some other stuff towards the end, but that was really just the icing on the cake.
And then I thought maybe university would be different. ’
‘And it wasn’t?’ I venture.
‘I mean . . .’ He sighs. ‘It was definitely better . . . there are more different people here. And it was a fresh start, so that was something. But in lots of ways it’s no different. It’s easiest for the people who have always found everything easy. Or had things made easy for them.’
I think of Felix’s house, just sitting there waiting for him. His certainty that he’d get in to Queen Anne’s, his dismissal of any suggestion that he’d be rejected from the university. ‘I . . . I can see what you mean.’
‘This is delicious, by the way,’ Laurie says, clearly at his limit of talking about himself.
‘I absolutely love mushrooms but often find people don’t know what to do with them and they end up rubbery and tasteless.
But not these.’ He twirls some linguine around his fork with great enthusiasm, and I can’t help but smile.
‘I’m glad I chose an appropriate venue, and that you’re enjoying your thank-you meal.’
‘I . . . I really am.’ He sets his fork down on the edge of his plate. ‘So –’ he raises his eyebrows and smiles – ‘do you come here often?’
‘Ha!’ I say, blushing at the silly turn of phrase, and assuming he used it intentionally.
That’s good, isn’t it? If that’s, you know, the Laurie O’Donnell version of flirting?
I flick my eyes away from his face, not wanting to look at him looking at me blushing and slightly wrong-footed.
Instead of looking at Laurie, I cast my eyes around the restaurant, looking at the bustling room full of busy tables.
‘But, yes, I’ve been here before with . . . my . . .’
And that’s when I see him. Stephen, my silly, bumbling stepdad, on the other side of the restaurant, holding hands with . . . not my mum. Some other woman. But definitely not my mum, not least because she’s wearing a yellow dress, and my mum has never worn yellow in her life. ‘Fuck.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Laurie asks, his brow furrowed.
‘I’m . . .’ I say, getting up as discreetly as I can. ‘I’m really sorry but we have to leave right this second. Or at least, I do. You . . . you should stay. I’ll . . . I’ll pay on the way out . . .’
He laughs, slightly disbelieving. ‘I’m not going to stay without you. What on earth is the matter?’
I feel hot and dizzy, the rush of panic at the sight of what I think is very clearly Stephen cheating on my mother passing through my whole body.
‘I can’t stay. I have to go.’
‘Let me come with you then,’ he says, abruptly getting up from his seat, the sudden scraping sound drawing the attention of diners nearby but fortunately not Stephen, who’s clearly lost in the eyes of this woman in the yellow dress.
‘OK,’ I say, nodding quickly. ‘But we have to be really fast. And discreet.’
‘I’ll . . . try not to knock any tables over?’ he offers, finally understanding that something serious is going on.
As we creep as subtly as we can from one side of the restaurant to the other, I’m torn between not looking towards Stephen in case it makes him look at us and wanting to check if he’s noticed me or if I’m getting away with it. Finally, we make it to the till by the exit.
‘Everything OK?’ our waitress asks, disturbed by our sudden appearance at the cash register, coats on and ready to bounce out of there.
‘Yes, sorry, something came up and we have to leave quite urgently,’ I say apologetically, but feeling even more apologetic towards Laurie, who I can’t help feel I have seriously short-changed.
But I can’t stay here. I have no idea what to do.
And if I stayed, I’d spend the whole evening watching them, rather than being present in the conversation with Laurie.
Either way, we lose. So we might as well leave undetected.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she says, pressing buttons on the screen and producing our bill, which I pay quickly.
‘Thanks so much, we’ll be back another time!’ I assure her as we head out of the door, my cheeks burning at how things have gone, my head spinning with anger.
I take one last look back through the window into the bustling dining room.
Stephen and this yellow-dress woman don’t look out of place in the cosy, warm, loving atmosphere that included me and Laurie just a few moments ago.
Of course, I look for just a second too long, and with his hands entwined across the table with this woman’s, Stephen glances in my direction, and for one long moment our eyes meet.
The look on Stephen’s face tells me everything I need to know. It’s like he’s seen a ghost.