Chapter 22
It’s my parents’ anniversary dinner tonight, which gives me the perfect excuse to wear my new shoes.
They’re soft suede in pillar-box red with an ankle strap and four-inch heels; Rich would have hated them but that only makes me love them more.
They might be too Victoria Beckham for a local Chinese restaurant so I dress them down with my favourite jeans and a white shirt.
We’ve been coming to Mr Lee’s for twenty years.
I don’t understand how my parents don’t get bored.
The menu never changes but even if it did, old Mr Lee would rustle up their favourites, anyway.
A trip here includes Dad announcing, at least twice, that they serve The Best Ribs in London.
Despite him saying it every time we come, it’s always delivered with the gusto of someone having a road-to-Damascus epiphany.
Yan’s already at the table with Granny Maria, and as soon as we sit down, Mr Lee junior, the manager, comes over with a bottle of champagne.
‘Why’d you order that?’ I whisper to Yan. ‘It makes the rest of us look bad.’
‘It wasn’t me, Nell.’
‘The champagne is for you, Mr Vasili and Mrs Sophia,’ says young Mr Lee. ‘Compliments of Rich Benson.’
It takes a couple of moments for this to register. And when it does, I’m not sure how I feel about it.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ says Dad.
Mum turns to him in horror. ‘How can you say that after the way he’s treated your daughter?’
‘What? Am I not allowed to say it’s nice to have champagne?’ He reaches for the bottle and is about to pop it open when she stops him.
‘If you want to make it to our next anniversary, you won’t touch a drop. I’m going to take it home and use it to clean out Zorba’s litter tray. That’s all it’s good for.’
‘Ouch,’ whispers Yan.
‘Don’t be silly, Sophia,’ says Dad. ‘It probably cost fifty pounds.’
‘And your daughter’s broken heart is worth less? He left her on the rafi.’
‘He didn’t leave me on the shelf, Mum,’ I huff. ‘I left him.’ I steady my voice. ‘It’s your anniversary – just drink the champagne.’
‘We could poison it and send it back to him,’ suggests Pen darkly.
‘Please don’t give Mum ideas,’ I beg.
Mum hands the bottle to me. ‘Go and put it in the car, Nella mou.’
I’m closing the boot of the car when Tig and Theo pull into the parking space behind me. I hang back to greet them before I realise who else is with them: Anthi Marino.
It’s sweet that she and Mum are still friends, but I haven’t seen her for years, so I’m shocked at how slow and laboured her movements are. She struggles to get out of the car and leans heavily on both her walking stick and Theo. When she sees me, her face lights up.
‘Nella! Oh, it’s been too long!’
I kiss her cheek. ‘It has, Anthi. I’m sorry.’
She links a bony arm through mine. ‘You look wonderful, my golden girl.’
I force a smile at the old nickname, even though it makes me uncomfortable.
I was her golden girl, and Leo was her golden boy.
The fact that she still thinks of me and Leo as this perfect tragic couple makes me feel like that anxious sixteen-year-old who felt trapped but didn’t know how to escape.
The image she has in her mind bears little resemblance to reality.
Still, I could never break her heart and tell her.
‘You look amazing, Anthi.’ It’s not a lie.
She might struggle to walk, but her famed beauty still shines, even through the layers of years.
It’s no surprise she produced such handsome offspring.
She’s got blonde hair and warm, hazel eyes.
Her eyebrows are perfect arches, her cheekbones are high, and her skin rosy.
Mum used to tell me how all the boys in the village went mad for Orianthi Georgiou, as she was back then.
I’ve seen pictures, and I can see why. In her wedding photo, she looks like a 1950s bombshell: hourglass figure, a swan’s neck, and platinum hair swept up like Brigitte Bardot.
I help her into the restaurant, and Mum makes a big fuss when she sees her and asks her all her news. It’s a relief because I’m not in a chatty mood, and I’ve already talked longer to Anthi in the space of five minutes than I have in over a decade.
Dad wants to order and demands if everyone knows what they want yet. With a lot of mumbled apologies we all start furiously scanning the menu.
I nudge Pen next to me. ‘What are you having?’
‘I’m not that hungry. I’ll just share some of Mum’s special fried rice.’
Dad raises his eyebrows. ‘You can’t just eat that, Penelope. You have to try the ribs.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I have tried the ribs. We’ve been coming here for a hundred years, Dad.’
‘They’re the best ribs in—’
He’s cut short by the arrival of a waiter eager to take our order.
It takes ten minutes for Dad to list everything and once he’s done he asks Anthi if there’s any chance Mark might have changed shifts so he could come. He invited Mark? What on earth for? He’s not the one marrying his daughter. Anthi shakes her head and tells him he’s stuck at the hospital.
‘Well, maybe we should order a couple of extra dishes,’ says Dad, waving the waiter back. ‘Just in case he manages to get away. I’m not going to let anyone go home hungry.’
‘That’s very kind and generous of you,’ says Theo. Tig beams at her fiancé and Pen mumbles ‘kiss-arse’ under her breath.
‘Whatever we don’t eat, we can take home for Zorba,’ says Mum. ‘He loves char siu pork.’
If the waiter hears, he’s too discreet to react.
After we’ve ordered, Yan proposes a toast: ‘To Mum and Dad. Happy thirty-ninth anniversary!’
‘How can it be thirty-nine years?’ asks Mum, with a frown. ‘If we’ve been married that long that would make me …’ She stops to do the sums and looks mock distraught. ‘I can’t be that old!’
‘If you are, that means I am, too,’ says Dad.
She laughs and puts her head in her hands, while Dad wraps his arm around her and grins.
It’s not the thirty-nine years that’s the achievement. Anyone can stay together for appearances’ sake. It’s that they still love each other, they still laugh together, and they still know they can depend on each other.
They’ve had their ups and downs – who wouldn’t, raising four kids? But I’ve taken their mutual love and respect for granted. And now it’s like I’m noticing it for the first time.
I’ve spent years studying infidelity, witnessing other people’s broken relationships up close, but I never believed it would happen to me. It’s like when you see people interviewed on the news after they’ve found out their neighbour is a serial killer.
You don’t expect it on your own doorstep. He never seemed the type.
And a lot of that belief came from the example that my parents set.
But Rich didn’t have such positive role models. Sure, his parents are still married, but they barely tolerate each other, only putting on a show of affection in front of other people.
An hour later, the wine bottles are empty, and we’ve made a big dent in the food. It was too much, so Zorbs is getting a treat tonight, as well as getting a super deluxe wash of his litter tray. Now we’re having the usual discussion about who wants what kind of coffee.
I’ve got my back to the door, but I notice a change in atmosphere as everyone’s eyes move in the same direction.
Dad smiles and exclaims, ‘It’s Mark Antony!’
He’s the only one who pronounces his full name the Greek way.
When I see him, it’s obvious why people are staring: Mark’s in scrubs. It’s one thing knowing grown-up Mark is a surgeon, but to see him dressed in hospital blues doesn’t quite compute.
Mark acknowledges the stares. ‘There’s no emergency, folks, I’m off-duty. Unless anyone’s aortic valve needs repairing.’
There are a few reassured laughs, and a lady behind me mutters, ‘He can repair my valve any day.’
‘We saved you some food,’ says Dad proudly.
‘Thank you, but you shouldn’t have.’
‘Nonsense.’ Dad waves at the waiter to bring another plate. ‘You’re always welcome at our table.’
Mum frowns briefly, then quickly rearranges her face back into a smile.
My parents have always had different opinions about Mark. Mum saw him as someone who might turn out just like his vicious father – their physical likeness was unmistakable – but Dad believed that, where it counted, Mark was nothing like Giovanni.
They had a terrifying row about it one night, around the time Giovanni ran off with one of his many mistresses.
I was about ten, and it was the night before Dad went to visit his brother in Cyprus who was having his gall bladder removed.
He was away a week and Mum refused to ring him the whole time.
Mark sits in the seat opposite me, and I angle myself towards Pen so he’s not in my eye line, but not before I notice his hair’s wet. Is it raining?
‘Nice threads, Marky,’ Yan sniggers from the other end of the table.
‘Yeah, sorry about that but I didn’t have a choice.’
‘Are you dressed like that in case you get called back suddenly?’ asks Dad.
Mark shakes his head. ‘As I was leaving, a colleague asked for help with a patient with a dislocated shoulder. This guy was so drunk he couldn’t sit up straight. We got the joint back in place and, in a unique show of gratitude, he threw up all over me.’
The table laughs, and he cocks an eyebrow. ‘Twenty minutes in the shower and I still smell of Special Brew.’
Everyone laughs again, but the image of Mark showering bleeds into the memory of him topless and looming over me in Yan’s bathroom. I take a sip of iced water to cool myself.
Mark asks his mum how she’s getting on with some new medication and if she’s having any side effects. But she answers in short sentences – she obviously doesn’t want to talk about it at the dinner table.
‘Did the drunk man hit you as well?’ she asks suddenly.
‘No, why do you ask?’
‘Then what happened to your nose, Marko?’
I freeze, and so does he.
I allow myself to look properly at his face. His nose seems exactly the same to me, but I guess mums have super senses.
‘Oh, it’s nothing.’ He glances at me. ‘Someone knocked into me when I was playing football. Someone severely lacking in co-ordination.’
He means it as a dig at me. ‘Maybe you need to work on your spatial awareness,’ I counter.
‘My spatial awareness is just fine.’
‘So, it’s always the other person’s fault?’
Anthi tuts and turns to me. ‘That’s what he used to say when he got into fights at school. I used to worry about him so much.’
‘Yeah, because no one ever raised a hand to me at home,’ he says mildly.
The tone might be flippant, but his words aren’t. And I regret my crass joke about punch-ups being his favourite hobby.
At least against his peers, it was a fair fight.
Anthi acts like she doesn’t hear him. ‘Nella, your mummy says she’s very happy to have you so close again. She said she’s hardly seen you this past year.’
Greek mothers – struggling to cut the apron strings since 500 BC.
‘All my free time has been going into my studies.’
‘I’m so proud that you have such a good career. And you’re a doctor too, like my Marko.’
I wait for Mark to insist that my doctorate is hardly on a par with being a medical doctor, but he doesn’t.
‘I’ve told you, Mum. All surgeons are “mister”. Nella might have become Doctor Praxitelis, but I’ll always be Mister Marino.’
Anthi harrumphs. ‘I don’t see why they can’t call you doctor. It’s what I tell people you are.’
I smile at Anthi and can’t help butting in. ‘Is that true?’ I ask him.
‘It’s a hangover from the Middle Ages when surgeons didn’t need medical degrees, just a knack for hacking and sawing.’
I’m surprised to hear Mark talking his career down. Weren’t surgeons famously self-important? ‘So, basically, you’re a glorified butcher, Mister Marino?’
He looks at me, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or annoyed.
Before I can decode his expression, old Mr Lee comes out of the kitchen to personally greet Mum and Dad and tells them the banana fritters are on the house.
‘Food okay?’ he asks. ‘Or do I need to go back to cooking school?’ He laughs and Dad joins in enthusiastically, even though he’s been trotting out that line since Confucius was in nappies.
‘Mr Lee, your ribs are the best in London,’ he adds, completing tonight’s bingo card.
After the banana fritters arrive, Dad goes to the bar to pay, and Mark follows him.
I’m not sure what they’re talking about, but it sounds serious.
Dad is frowning. He doesn’t look happy with whatever Mark’s saying.
Just when I feel Mark might not be as bad as I remember, he exhibits some typical self-centred behaviour.
You can’t come to dinner late and upset the host.
On the pretext of going to the loo, I slowly walk past them, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation. But when I reach them, they stop talking, so I don’t have any choice but to continue up the stairs towards the loo.
I reapply my lipstick, wait a couple of minutes then head out again.
When I step onto the landing, Mark is coming up the stairs. He stops when he sees me and retreats to give me room to pass.
His eyes follow my red shoes as I descend and when I’m level with him, he nods.
‘Careful in those. The air is much thinner up here.’
‘Yes, I’m a short-arse. You’ve made your point.’
‘Why are you being so touchy? You’re what, a hundred and sixty-five centimetres – five four in old money?’
He’s exactly right. ‘How did you know that?’
‘In my job as a glorified butcher, it’s useful to be able to quickly assess someone’s height and weight.’
I hold up my hand. ‘Don’t you dare guess my—’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
I walk away and under his breath he murmurs: ‘Sixty-one.’
I usually weigh myself in stones and pounds, but I had to update my NHS app the other day which is why I know that nine and a half stone is exactly sixty-one kilos.