Chapter 21
? A man and a woman wearing red and green
The pre-paid taxi dropped me off on Small Street, a narrow road in
the heart of Bristol that had felt progressively familiar as the car
nudged its way through the cobbled backstreets.
I’d never appreciated the architecture in this corner of the city before, its grandeur – inextricably entwined with Bristol’s complex history – having been unquestionably accepted as normal while I was growing up.
But twenty years’ absence was more than enough time to see this place with fresh eyes.
Despite the tightness of the road, the buildings on each side of it were impressive, with their Gothic honey-stoned facades and imposing wooden doors.
And nestled in between them was an unassuming doorway, which bore a subtle Tapas Den logo.
Tom was waiting for me outside, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark grey tweed jacket, his collar upturned in the continued absence of a scarf.
Maybe I should cut mine in half and share it with him flirtatiously like a stick of chewing gum.
He was doing his distinctive little bouncing thing, which could’ve signalled either coldness or nervousness – or both.
As I clambered out of the taxi with as much grace as I could manage, which was very little, I noticed that his face was freshly shaven.
There was the tiniest dot of nicked skin on his jaw between his chin and his right ear.
We hugged awkwardly, and I silently chided myself for imagining the hint of tenderness that seemed to be transmitting from his hand to the gap between my shoulder blades.
He smelt bloody lush, the aroma of his distinctive aftershave lingering as we parted and headed towards the restaurant’s entrance.
It was then I realised I’d stepped into the bowels of this nondescript venue before.
‘Hang on a sec. Didn’t this used to be Spaghetti Tree?’
‘Yes! I was wondering if you’d recognise it. I don’t remember ever seeing you here back in the day?’
Spaghetti Tree had been another saliva-chain venue I’d only ventured into once.
‘Ha, funny story actually. Though I’ll need a drink or two inside me before I tell it.’
A thought as clear as daylight flashed inside my mind: I feel like I could tell you anything.
‘I’m sure we can manage that. Just wait ’til you see what Mateo’s done with the place.’
He opened the door for me, a gust of aromatic warmth beckoning us inside. We made our way down into the infamous cellar that had been the location for countless teenage drinking exploits in the nineties and early noughties.
But the basement room that welcomed us at the foot of the staircase was unrecognisable.
Instead of cigarette-stained magnolia walls and oppressively low ceilings painted black, the cellar had been stripped back to its original bare bricks, with miniature festoon lights strung across the arched ceiling to and from every possible corner.
The floor, once tacky with layer upon layer of spilt Bacardi Breezers and goodness knows what else, was now entirely coated in a stunning mosaic of obsolete peseta coins.
Huddled in every possible nook that was too small for a table were pyramids of brightly coloured Spanish tins, aglow with fairy lights as if they were miniature Christmas trees.
Each table – all of them snugly occupied with the exception of one at the far end of the room – was immaculately set with alternating scarlet and ochre tablecloths, long, elegant candles in old Rioja wine bottles and Christmas crackers adorned with the restaurant’s logo.
The place was like the world’s classiest Santa’s grotto.
And, I couldn’t help but observe, it looked incredibly romantic.
‘Umm, wow.’
‘Yeah, amazing, isn’t it? It’s well-known for having some of the most authentic tapas in the region. These days, Mateo’s got six restaurants dotted all over the area – all of them way bigger than this place, but this is by far my favourite.’
‘I can see why. It’s beautiful in here.’
Tom kept looking ahead but brushed his dangling fingers against mine for the briefest of moments. Whether or not it was deliberate was unclear, but I swear a significant proportion of my internal organs melted.
‘Yeah, it is. Ah, here’s the man himself.’
A chap around our age approached us dressed stylishly in black chinos and a black shirt, a white cloth slung over his shoulder. A warm smile lit up his face as he recognised Tom.
‘Tom! So good to see you, fella. And so glad you were able to find someone to join you in the end.’
They briefly embraced and smacked each other’s backs in that weird way that blokes do.
‘Mateo, this is Mally. Mally – Mateo.’
He squeezed the top of my arm. ‘Mally, welcome, welcome. First time here, I think?’
‘Mateo has a bit of a reputation for remembering faces,’ Tom explained, sensing my confusion.
‘Oh, I see. Yeah, I was just saying to Tom about how much this place has changed since I was last here.’
‘Ah, another Spaghetti Tree fan, eh?’
‘Ha – not sure that’s the word I’d choose.’
Tom helped me out of my coat and handed it to Mateo along with his. Tom was wearing slim-fitting indigo jeans and a dark red shirt buttoned right to the top, which complemented his colouring – and his long, narrow physique – perfectly.
Mateo continued talking as he stowed them away in a small cupboard. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Tom, but one of our servers has called in sick tonight so we’re a bit rushed off our feet. It’s a good job you didn’t come alone as I’m not going to be able to talk as much as I’d like.’
‘No worries, Mally and I always seem to find plenty to chat about.’ Tom’s eyes glinted with sincerity as he glanced at me.
‘Ah, it must’ve been fate, eh?’ Mateo winked at me before leading us to the only empty table in the far corner of the room, adjacent to the largest and most majestic tin-can tree of them all.
‘Here you go, the best table in the house for you, Tom.’ He shook out our napkins and draped them across our laps once we’d taken our seats.
‘So, as you know tonight it’s our winter warmer set tapas menu.
Take a look at the dishes on the blackboard and if there’s anything you don’t fancy just let us know, and we can replace it with something else.
But other than that we’ll just bring the dishes out as and when they’re ready if that’s okay? ’
‘Sounds amazing. Mally, all good?’
My stomach rumbled as I briefly glanced at the menu over Tom’s shoulder.
Half the words were in Spanish, but the dishes I could understand – roast Cornish scallops, crab and lobster croquettes, quail’s eggs and piquillo peppers – sounded divine.
I was ravenous, having only eaten that toast at Jo’s and a bowl of cereal over the course of the day.
‘A conveyor belt of incredible food? I reckon I can handle that, yeah!’
‘ Perfecto . And a jug of the house crangria?’
Crangria? Had I heard that right? ‘Sorry, the house what?’
‘Oh my God, Mally, you’re in for a treat,’ Tom said. ‘One of the things that Tapas Den is renowned for is their house sangria, and the winter cranberry version is incredible. Christmas isn’t Christmas around here without crangria. Fancy trying it?’
‘Hard yes.’
Mateo bowed theatrically to acknowledge the order. ‘Perfect. I’ll get a jug right over to you and will let the kitchen know you’re all set for some appetisers. Enjoy!’
I relaxed back into my chair, smoothing out the ochre napkin to ensure it covered as much of my dress as possible – if I made it through the meal without an oil-based blob ending up on it, it’d be a Christmas miracle.
‘What a lovely bloke,’ I said. ‘How long have you worked with him?’
‘Tapas Den was the first account I was given responsibility for after my apprenticeship ended. So that would’ve been about – shit! – eighteen years ago already. We’ve been with him from the very start. You look great, by the way. The colour of your dress is an exact match for your eyes.’
Mally, breathe , I thought. Accept the compliment normally. Return the compliment normally.
‘Ah, cheers! I used B&Q’s colour-match system. You look very nice too, by the way.’
Oh well.
‘Ha, thanks. I shaved and everything!’ He ran a hand across his smooth, enticing chin.
‘I noticed!’ I tapped a finger on my own jawline to mirror the location of his nano-wound.
‘Yeah, classic, eh? I should’ve known better than to shave when I was nervous.’
I was about to express surprise about his nervousness when Mateo placed a terracotta dish full of the plumpest, Kermit-green olives I’d ever seen on the table and glugged a generous amount of the mysterious crangria into each of our glasses from a matching terracotta jug.
He patted Tom’s shoulder twice as he departed.
‘Cheers, Mally.’
‘Cheers, Tom.’
We tapped our glasses together and I took a sip of the festive cocktail, which was bursting with fresh cranberries and chunks of orange in among what tasted like red wine, Prosecco and some kind of spiced rum.
It was delicious. But I made a mental note to keep an eye on my lips during the course of the night, since red wine had a tendency to stain my mouth so it resembled a deep portal into an unknown world.
‘Oh wow, this is delicious,’ I said, taking another large sip. ‘Remind me to ask Mateo for the recipe.’
‘Ha, he’ll never give it to you! They make a bit of a thing about it on their social media. They run regular competitions for people to try and guess all the ingredients but no one ever has.’
‘Smart.’
I sipped again, trying to think of something to say, though Tom beat me to it.
‘So, how’s your article coming along?’
Earlier in the evening, I’d been tempted to finally get back to Elle and tell her what had happened today to wangle my way out of writing the article at all. But I wasn’t sure I could bear her inevitable sanctimony about the fact that her worries about me coming here had come to fruition.