Thirty-Four
When we’re around the corner from the restaurant, we split, Adam and I lingering behind for five minutes so that we can surreptitiously arrive separately from Sir John. When we decide enough time has elapsed, we head in. Adam, in full surveillance mode, immediately puts the ma?tre d’s guard up by asking to sit two tables away from Sir John, who I can see is seated at a lovely window table opposite an elegantly dressed woman in her late forties who could only be Ophelia.
“Sir,” he starts, “we don’t usually accommodate such requests.”
“It’s fine!” I say too hastily, only making us seem more stalkerish. “Sir John asked me to.”
“I’ll just go and let him know you’re here then?” he offers, clearly not believing me for a moment.
“No!” I say several octaves higher than usual. “You can’t!”
Adam launches into the story about Ophelia and Sir John’s reunion until, thankfully, he changes tack and trails off to “Look, mate. Any table is fine. We’re just here for discreet moral support.”
The ma?tre d’ looks unconvinced but dutifully ushers us towards a table in hearing range of Sir John. I glance at Adam gratefully and then realise that he still has his sunglasses on. “Adam,” I hiss. “What the hell are you doing? You’ve still got your sunglasses on.”
“Um. Yes. We’re on an undercover mission. Duh…”
“And who exactly are you undercover from?”
“Ophelia… obviously.”
“The same Ophelia who has never met you and has zero idea what you look like? That Ophelia?”
“Yes,” he says defensively, crossing his arms grumpily.
“The Ophelia who wouldn’t have paid any attention to a guy she doesn’t know but who probably would clock a man wearing shades indoors on a cloudy day?”
“OK, Alex, that’s great. I respect your opinion. However, Sir John and I are mates now, so it’s very likely that I will meet her officially months from now, and I don’t want her to recognise me and then have to explain the whole situation. We aren’t all as comfortable with deception as you are.”
“Wow,” I say, taking my seat. “Just wow.” I pull the menu in front of my face so he can’t see how much that last line stung. Adam pulls down the menu.
“Sorry. That was harsh.”
“It was.”
“I’m sorry. Genuinely sorry. Look, it will be OK. Ryan loves you. He doesn’t love your name. He loves you. What’s that Shakespeare quote you love so much?”
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” I supply automatically.
“Exactly! See, it will all work out in the end.”
“Adam. That line is from Romeo and Juliet .”
“And?”
God, he is so dumb sometimes. “They both die in the end? Not exactly what I’d call ‘working out’.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Minor matter. You two aren’t dumb teenagers.”
I roll my eyes at him and study my menu. It’s ￡12.50 for a bowl of porridge. Adam beckons the waiter over. “Prosecco, please!” Glancing over at me, he says, “I assume this is on Sir John, as we’re his wingmen?” I look at Adam in abject horror, so he adds, “Better make that two” to the waiter.
I glance over at Sir John and cringe slightly. The conversation seems friendly but stilted. Sir John fidgets constantly with his cufflinks. On the other side of the table, I can see Ophelia twisting and twirling a little silver bracelet. I listen hard and can hear snippets about the weather, train delays and how Hampstead has changed. After they order – slightly more freely than the two of us over in economy class – Ophelia gets up to use the bathroom. I take the opportunity to go over to Sir John for a bit of a pep talk.
He grips my wrist when I get there. “Alex! This is terrible. I’ve gone to ground. I have more in common with Mrs Jenkins than my own daughter!”
“It’s not that, Sir John,” I say patiently, ignoring the slight to poor Mrs Jenkins. “It’s just a really weird situation. It’s bound to be stilted. It’s difficult to make small talk. I really think a couple of drinks and a bit of time will really help. It will help you both relax.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but I catch sight of Ophelia returning out of the corner of my eye and scuttle back to the table.
“Stealthy,” Adam mutters, clearly still aggrieved about the sunglasses. “Definitely didn’t look suspicious at all.”
To my delighted horror, Sir John summons the waiter (admittedly with a totally inappropriate click of his fingers) and asks for a wine list.
“See,” Adam beams, “he’s doing alright. Back to you, now we’ve got that sorted.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s completely sorted. They’re talking about Italian wines – not opening up about feelings. But if you are feeling like you’re on a roll… what am I actually going to do about Ryan?”
“Honestly, I don’t have an easy answer. It’s a new one even for me. Look. In the worst case, you can learn and walk away from it. And you’ll still be fine. I promise.”
“I don’t think I will, though. I know I said this about Chris, but I really love Ryan.”
“You did say that about Chris. And also, that junior doctor when you dislocated your shoulder…”
“I was on a high from the laughing gas that time. It hardly counts. What’s your point?”
“I just mean you’ve said yourself, you’ve been through this, and you’ve come out of it again. It will happen again. The falling in love, I mean.”
“The only reason I’m not a total wreck right now is that I’m still holding out hope.”
“Well, that’s cool. Just not too much. You’ve kind of got to be open to moving on, too. Just in case… you know… things don’t completely work out. You can see Ryan’s point of view. Your whole relationship is built on a lie. He’s kind of humiliated.”
“You’ve changed your tune. You were literally just saying that it would work out, and he loved me, not my name.”
“Alex. I don’t know what you want me to say. It’s a very odd situation. Would I care if a girl lied about her name? No. But I’m only looking for casual stuff. Ryan’s clearly looking for something a hell of a lot more serious. And maybe when you’re in that mindset, things like honesty matter more.”
He says this last part dismissively as if he can’t ever imagine honesty mattering all that much.
I can feel the tears prickling behind my eyes again, so I take a large sip of my prosecco. The waiter comes over again at that point, so I order more prosecco and the afternoon tea for two. The prosecco will help me stomach the bill.
I tune into Sir John’s table again. It sounds like it’s going a lot better. I’ve heard at least two chuckles on his part, a few giggles and one bigger laugh from her. They seem to be talking about their old dog – a temperamental old lurcher I’ve seen in photos. “And then!” he chuckles, “Remember when he would pull the bedsheets from next door and drag them into our garden.”
“And we always just thought they were ours, and they’d blown off the line,” Ophelia adds.
“We added quite a few items of linen to our collection thanks to old Toby,” Sir John chuckles, sounding almost tipsy at this point. He clearly enjoys having a fresh audience and moves on to one of his favourite parliamentary anecdotes. Ophelia patiently sits through a particularly rambling one and even has the grace to chuckle through the denouement. “It’s very difficult to storm off when one’s trousers have fallen down! We all had to wait until he’d gone in search of new braces before we could start laughing!”
They both laugh, and I feel like my heart might explode with pleasure. But immediately after the chuckles, awkward silences resume while they struggle for more recollections.
He does need to get onto the serious issues, though, at some point. Sir John gets up to go to the toilet, and I send Adam to follow him in and encourage him to get onto the deep and meaningful stuff. Adam resists, at first, something about men not being able to make eye contact in toilets but grudgingly goes when I tell him it’s his chance to do some undercover work.
He takes it very seriously – too seriously – tipping his shades lower on his nose and making exaggerated glances to the left and right over the lenses. He also seems to be staying as close to the wall as possible and going around the long way to avoid Ophelia’s table. Definitely a result of watching too much Spooks rather than any actual spying aptitude. I notice the waiter eyeing him suspiciously before coming over to me.
“Your boyfriend… does he need help finding the washrooms?”
“Oh! Not my boyfriend, he’s my cousin. Actually, I am seeing someone at the moment. Sort of. I mean, we’ve had a fight, and I don’t really know what to do, but I am definitely in love with him, and I need to fix it,” I explain.
“Right. Your cousin… is he OK?” the waiter says patiently.
“Oh. Yeah, he’s fine.”
“It’s just that he was crawling along the walls and doing odd little peeking around the pillars movements?”
“He’s an actor,” I say pompously. “On the West End!” I embellish.
The waiter looks suitably impressed, so I continue. “It’s a new murder mystery. He’s a detective.”
“Is it a comedy?” the waiter asks, laughing at his own joke, and I downgrade ‘impressed’ to ‘caustic’. “I must admit I don’t recognise him.”
“Oh,” I airily explain, “he’s the understudy, to be honest. But he’ll be appearing in Casualty soon.”
The waiter politely tries to arrange his face to look as impressed as possible and wanders off as Adam arrives back. “Let’s not leave him a tip,” I say, motioning towards the departing waiter’s back.
Adam just shrugs, used to my eccentricities at this point.
“So?”
“Well, I told him that he should get onto the personal stuff before too long.”
“And?”
“He nodded.”
“And?”
“Genuinely no idea what you want me to say.”
“Did the two of you exchange any thoughts on how it’s going?”
“No. It was a public toilet, not a radio phone-in.”
Exasperated, I sigh pointedly and glance over at Sir John’s table again. Sir John is building to something. His face is red, and his eyes are shiny. Ophelia is looking down, playing with her bracelet.
Adam is still wittering on about the awkwardness of conversations – but by straining, I can hear snippets of their conversation. “Genuinely thought it for the best…love you very much… your mother’s happiness… paramount … broke my heart…”
I watch as Ophelia’s lip starts to quiver, and I know that tears are on their way. Sir John, typically, seems totally taken by surprise and almost doesn’t seem to notice she’s quietly crying until tears are rolling freely down her cheeks. To my absolute joy, he gently reaches over and takes one of her hands in both of his. I look away, embarrassed at intruding on such a tender moment.
My own eyes fill with tears. “Adam,” I whisper, “look at them. Reconciliation is possible, even after so much hurt and so many years! There’s still hope.”
Adam has very self-consciously pushed his sunglasses further up his nose.
“I know it’s not like this. Not like them. But I’m going to speak to Ryan tonight. I’m going to go to his flat and just talk to him. I’ll just wait outside until he comes home.”
“Alex. Wait outside his home? Isn’t that a tiny bit bunny-boiler territory? What would Agony Alex say about this?”
“Don’t mention Agony bloody Alex to me,” I groan.
“But still, what would he say?” Adam persists.
“Probably some guff about how I need to give him some time and space and then respectfully ask him if he wants to talk. How, after everything I’ve done, I do not get to impose my will on him.”
“Seems wise…” Adam suggests tentatively.
I’m about to respond, but we’re interrupted by the arrival of the waiter. “More prosecco, madam? Sir?”
I consider more Dutch courage but opt instead for being sensible, “I think we’ve had enough, thank you. Just the bill, please.”
“Ah yes, you wouldn’t want a hangover for your week of rehearsals,” he smiles at Adam.
Adam looks baffled.
I kick Adam sharply. “Yes! I mentioned your new play to the waiter.”
His face darkens. “My new what?”
“Oh, Adam. I know you’re just the understudy, but the West End is West End. You’re going to have to get used to celebrity!” I say, looking at him imploringly.
“Right. Yes. That’s it. Can we get the bill, please?” He looks very tetchy.
Adam seems to be sulking over his undercover alias but grumpily asks how we invoice Sir John.
“We’re not invoicing Sir John,” I hiss.
“But he wanted us to come here,” Adam whines.
“Yes, but we could have had soup and tonic water… Nobody made us reach for prosecco.”
Adam gives a dramatic sigh that a West End understudy would have been proud of and pulls out his credit card. I reach for mine in the hope Sir John might cover the food at least. Or that the credit card company is so incredulous as to my spending habits they decide just to write me off.
Adam is still sulking when we get outside.
“Understudy? Understudy! You could have at least made me the star. Or even better – not made up the whole story in the first place.”
“What’s wrong?” I say innocently.
“I just mean, you have just spent hours – no, days – telling me about how lying has ruined your life, and you will only tell the truth from now on, and now you’ve made me into this actor – not even the main star – in a detective play in the bloody West End. How the hell do you get all of this garbage out so quickly? Don’t you worry that you won’t know what the truth is anymore?”
“You’re the one who went undercover,” I protest. “Ducking and diving around the restaurant like James Bond or a dying crab.”
“Alright. Fair point. Maybe the waiter did rumble me. Though I reckon I was fairly subtle.”
“You were not subtle,” I snap back, heading in the direction of Sir John’s house.
“OK, OK, that one’s on me. But I just think it may be time for Truth Week. Or even Truth Decade. No fibs. No matter how weird stuff is. Only honesty.”
I stop mid-stride. It’s not said meanly, but Adam’s words hit home. In a big way. How much lying comes as second nature to me.
After such a moment of profundity, Adam looks almost awkward. “Anyway, I’m going to head off. Apparently, I have lines to learn for my big new career. What I said… it was just my two-pennyworth. I just think Truth Week would play better, though… in terms of getting things back on track…”
I nod and give him a wave as he wanders back to the Tube.
Suddenly, I feel tired and sad. I perch on the restaurant’s garden wall and, for a moment, can see a horrible montage of every silly and unnecessary fib I’ve ever told spool through my brain. I allow myself the smallest of sobs.
Suddenly, I hear a loud cough and look up. It’s the waiter. I’m not his biggest fan, but I’m pleased that another human has come to check that I’m OK. I look up at him, trying to smile weakly, with the panda eyes that are becoming my stock style.
He looks at me for a moment, “Madam. This wall isn’t for patrons. Would you mind?” He hands me a napkin and then turns abruptly on his heel and heads back into the restaurant. I’m so taken aback that it prompts another sob into my newly acquired napkin.
An older man wanders past with a little dog at this point and gently asks if I’m OK. This small grain of humanity makes it all the worse. All I can do is nod numbly and reach out a hand towards the puppy, investigating my handbag on the floor. He comes up inquisitively and gently licks my hand. I smile and already feel calmed as I stroke him. All is better with the world. The puppy looks at me with his cheerful brown eyes and simultaneously cocks his leg and pees on my favourite handbag, a twenty-fifth birthday present from my parents. My smile fades along with the world’s rightness, and the poor old man apologises profusely before hurrying away.