Remy #2
“Remy.” The corner of her mouth twitches.
“We have to stop meeting like this.” Her smile drops at the sight of my T-shirt.
“You didn’t throw it out?” she asks. “I’d suggest baking soda and white vinegar before a cold wash cycle, but it looks too late for that.
You have to let me replace it. Where’s it from? ”
“It’s okay. Really. You can’t anyway. It’s from Barcelona.”
“In Spain?”
I look down at the shirt. “I, I mean we , we bought it. I was on a trip to Barcelona with my friends; it was years ago. We got drenched in the rain and then a car drove into a muddy puddle and splattered us, and we were an hour away from our hotel, so we went into the nearest clothes shop and Nova suggested we buy ones that matched, as a memento, even though she usually collects shot glasses. I collect fridge magnets, Mel postcards, and Lin doesn’t bother. ”
Simone tilts her head and her brown eyes lock on to mine.
“Anyway, this was the only one we could agree on; we have very different styles. But now, seeing as it was likely our last holiday together, I didn’t want to… never mind.” I realize I’ve been rambling. “Sorry for bumping into you again.”
“That’s fine. Odd, however, as I was just discussing you with Clyde.”
“Who?”
Simone throws a thumb over her shoulder. “He owns New Beacon Books down the road,” she says. “He thinks I should have accepted your dinner invitation.”
The sun is in my eyes, but I don’t want to move and risk diverting her attention. As self-assured as she looks, there’s something very feline, very skittish, about Simone. “ Is there a reason you didn’t?”
She pulls her paper bag close to her chest. “Not one I can explain,” she says.
I search her face. “The invitation is still open,” I tell her. “This area is overflowing with restaurants.” I turn my head to look at the café I just passed. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a meal out.”
Simone looks ready to turn me down again but then says, “You don’t dine alone?”
“What? In a restaurant? No, I could never do that.”
“How interesting.” Simone considers me. “How sad,” she decides. “Okay, well, Mantl will be open. We… we can go there.”
Mantl is a Turkish restaurant with interiors that are rustic but on a big budget.
Tables are dark oak with cream linen spread across them; there are framed paintings on the walls, and judging by the other diners, the dress code is definitely smart casual.
Despite being dressed in athleisure wear, Simone looks right at home.
We’re both led to the corner and seated at one of only six tables.
“Clearly, you’ve been here before,” I say. “What do you recommend?”
“I’ve tried most of the menu by now, the pescatarian-friendly dishes, anyway.
The fish is particularly good, it’s baked in parchment with onions, garlic, chili, and I think tarragon?
Their paneer and chickpea stew is much more impressive than it sounds, and it comes with salad and a lime dressing; it is tart but very delicious.
I usually order the perde pilav, which I’d recommend if you don’t mind currants in your rice.
If you do have a sweet tooth, they have baklava of course, but their saffron, pistachio, and rose syrup cake is…
” Simone pauses to gather herself and lets out a gentle cough.
“Anything you pick will be good,” she assures me, muting her previously animated tone.
“I’m not a vegetarian,” I tell her, “but you’ve really sold the alternatives. I’m a foodie, though, so I’ll try anything at least once.”
Simone smiles. “I’d consider myself a foodie too, so long as the qualification required is simply to find great pleasure in food.”
After ordering, we sit in silence, which Simone seems very comfortable with, until I work up my courage. “So, it’s been a while,” I say. “In general, I mean. Besides seeing each other yesterday.”
Simone glances at the wine-stained T-shirt I’ve put on the table, so I won’t forget it again. “Did you attend the event alone?” she asks.
“Yes. My friend Nova, well, it’s not really her thing.”
“During your wayward speech outside you mentioned her and two other names,” Simone says, sliding a napkin over her lap. “What about them?”
“Both now live outside of London,” I answer. “One… extremely outside of London.”
“There’s no one else?” I pull at my waistband, which seems to be getting tighter each time I wear it, as she adds, “No significant other?”
“No, it’s just me right now.”
Simone leans on the table, watching me. “The way you say it…” she says, pausing. “Is that lonely for you?”
“Sometimes.” I play with the shiny cutlery on the table. “Pretty much all the time, actually.”
It’s quite romantic inside Mantl, with the candelabras and linen-draped tables, but something about the sunlight streaming in through the windows tones it down.
I picture Simone at one of the tables in the other corner, alone and unbothered.
“What about you?” I ask her. “What are your friends like?”
“I don’t have any.”
I look at her, and the blasé way she’s delivered this sentence confuses me. “None? But why…?”
Our food arrives and the aromatic steam wafting from our plates hits the back of my throat and saliva gathers on the walls of my mouth. I think I’m going to be sick.
“I’m just gonna use the toilet really quick.”
In a cubicle I dry heave but nothing comes out.
I leave the bathroom, thinking about the chicken I reheated and ate last night, but before returning to the table, I spot Simone at the front, accepting a takeaway bag of food from the host. I pause, horrified that she’s trying to run away from our meal, before I realize it’s not her.
Back at our table, I say, “Don’t look now, but I’ve just seen your doppelg?nger.”
Simone lowers her fork. “You believe in that?”
“I do now.” I lean forward. “That woman looks a lot like you. She’s about to walk past us. Okay, now, look.”
Simone subtly looks to her left and suddenly freezes. Then with the voice of a child she says, “Jenni?”
The doppelg?nger turns and her mouth drops, the takeaway bag in her hand slipping so that she only has hold of one handle. Closer up, I spot more differences between the two women, but right now their features are mirror images of one another.
“Sim—Simi?” she mouths.
They stare at each other for a beat longer before Jenni swallows and then hastily exits the restaurant.
Something wild takes over Simone; she pushes her plate away, the trident of her fork clattering onto the porcelain.
In an effort to get out from behind the table she bumps into it, upending her glass and leaving her napkin trailing on the floor after her.
She trips over herself and stumbles, as if the room were clouded in smoke, and runs out of the door, after Jenni.
I turn and thank God for glass windows but then curse the owner for making them soundproof.
I watch Simone take Jenni’s right arm, which she lets her hold for a second before pulling it away.
They exchange a few more words before Jenni jumps into an awaiting car, a young man looking stunned behind the wheel.
They drive off. Simone simply stares after them, her shoulders slumped.
“They must be sisters,” I say absentmindedly.
“Do you think?” a man at the next table leans over and asks. “We thought ex-lovers, but you’re right, they do look alike.”
I’m staring at the nosy couple with incredulity until I notice the entire restaurant has been watching alongside me. I consider going out there to comfort Simone, but I don’t know what I’d say; I have no idea what just happened.
Suddenly Simone straightens her back, dabs at her eyes, and shakes her head.
She reenters the restaurant, ignoring the gazes following her, not that she’d be able to make eye contact with her head held so high.
She reaches our table, bending down to pick up her strewn napkin.
She picks up her glass, then places her fork back onto her plate.
Finally, she looks at me. “Sorry about that.” If her eyes weren’t still damp, I’d believe the act she’s selling. “Something has come up and I have to go.” She writes her number on a napkin. “So that I can pay my half,” she explains. “Goodbye, Remy.”
I watch wordlessly as she walks away from me for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
When I get home, I head straight to my desk, pull up my fictionalized diary, and breathe further life into S.
Now, she’s harboring a secret and living a double life: one filled with loss and sadness, the other overflowing with abundance and solitary joy; the two are never allowed to overlap.
A life before and a life after, built on the remnants of her past and made into something shiny, calculated, and intangible.
My stomach begins to churn before I can write any more, and my throat tastes acidic. I run to the bathroom to vomit into the toilet.
I think again of last night’s reheated chicken.
I really hope I don’t have food poisoning.
I’m running down the street.
It’s raining again. It’s always raining these days. It doesn’t matter because I can’t go back for an umbrella. I need to get to the shops before they close. Sunday hours: the worst thing to ever happen to consumerism.
I bump into someone and shout sorry into the air, but whether the word makes it through the whistling wind and dodges the curtain of rain to get to them, I’ll never know.
Automatic doors are getting slower, I’m sure of it.
The security guard looks at his watch, 16:59, then back at me, standing in the rain wearing a T-shirt dress, long cardigan, and sandals on my feet because they were the closest pair of shoes to hand when I realized my symptoms were adding up to one thing.
He lets me in and I’m dripping onto the linoleum floor when I tell him, “I only need to grab something quickly. I’ll be in and out. ” He shakes his head.
“I need feminine hygiene products!” I shout.
He blinks bewildered, then nods, avoiding my eyes. “One minute,” he says, and I race past him. I only need seconds because I grab the first box I see. I scan, praying these things don’t require ID. They don’t, so after paying, I run home, kick off my sandals, and leave my cardigan on the floor.
I pee and wait.
The word is faint at first, then bold and indisputable. PREGNANT .
Then I wake up.
I look around my dark room, turning my phone over to see that it’s only three in the morning. I shiver despite the sweat on my back, turn the damp side of my pillow over, and go back to sleep.