Chapter 18
18
ELENA
Despite the frost that had already stuck to the pavement and the nip of chilly air, Elena had travelled into Manchester early, unable to resist the Christmas markets that always set up at the end of November. Mingling amongst the hubbub of bustling shoppers, she relished the aroma of mulled wine, of hot chocolate and German sausage. One stall sold nothing but pickles and she couldn’t help taking a photo to show Rory later, even though she was still cross with him. For the first time this winter, festive excitement fizzed in her stomach, a buzz that used to be so much stronger when she was a child, caused by the prospect of presents and baubles, of turkey sandwiches and figgy pudding, as Gran called it. However, it was not caused by Santa. From ten onwards she no longer believed in Father Christmas, because life had shown her there was no such thing as miracles – things happened for a reason, whatever the incredulous medical staff had said about her mother’s sudden and inexplicable recovery.
She ambled back up Market Street and turned left, heading into the Northern Quarter and Stevenson Square, passing the line of cosy, welcoming bars and coffee shops that the area was renowned for. She stopped outside a glass-fronted restaurant, R how he’d once shared a flat with a trainee chef from Avignon and had learnt so much about the importance of fresh, seasonal ingredients. Carl put down his glass and rolled up his sleeves. ‘Enough about my passion. What’s your dream, Elena?’
This date was off to a pretty perfect start. Ambitious, funny and talented, Carl seemed almost too good to be true.
‘Just to see it past my thirtieth birthday,’ she said in a jokey tone.
‘Good one, because your thirties are great. A few years in and a lot of the bullshit from my twenties has dropped away. I don’t give a toss about people’s opinion of me now’ – he made a hand heart – ‘as long as my heart and my conscience are happy. I speak my mind. I stand by my beliefs. I call people out if they’re idiots. I’ve finally realised it’s hard work that will get me where I want to be, not some fantasy about winning the lottery or a reality show.’ He stood up. ‘Right. Fougasse, with virgin olive oil on the side for dipping. It’s flatbread containing cheese, olives and anchovies. I’ve got some in the freezer that I made last week.’ He explained how Provencal food was heavily influenced by Italy.
Her mouth was watering, Elena got up and headed over to a small breakfast bar with two stools. ‘I’ve never had a home-cooked meal on a first date before.’
Carl pulled the bread out of the freezer and put it in the oven. ‘Any excuse. I’d cook for the postman if he could stay long enough.’ He glanced over. ‘Of course, it’s much more fun cooking for a beautiful woman who has an impressive career. Tell me, what do you like so much about marketing?’
Inside, she glowed and the flattery made him look even more appealing.
‘It’s a job that’s continually changing, alongside society and world events – and those global shifts, on so many levels, are what we’re drawing from, to push our products. I love watching the news. Culture, politics and economics, those things have always fascinated me. I’ve been lucky enough to work with companies I respect, and that’s part of it too, the satisfaction of persuading people to buy products I’m passionate about. Bingley Biscuits is ethical and transparent. The products are high quality. Nowadays, more than ever, people deserve an affordable treat.’ She carried on talking, as he served the fougasse and they ate. After the last dip in oil, she gave a sheepish look. ‘Sorry. Warning – I find it difficult to stop talking about my job.’
That was one good thing about her friendship with Rory – they were both equally passionate about marketing and never ran out of anything to say. In fact, it seemed now that there was so much more to their relationship, such as the lift each morning at the prospect of seeing him over a cuppa instead of sitting alone in her house; him waiting for her in the kitchen with a barbed, but affectionate, comment; his rendition of ‘Ocean Eyes’ providing a finale to each day. He used to sing it on the way to his car, after work, before he moved in. She glugged back a mouthful of wine. Why was she thinking of another man on her date with Carl, especially one with a penchant for silly dances and orphaned insects?
The ratatouille was outstanding, with its juicy, soft vegetables and deep, flavoursome herb and garlicky sauce.
‘I bet you’ve travelled far and wide abroad?’ she asked as Carl opened another bottle of wine and topped up their glasses with panache. ‘You must find a lot of inspiration eating foreign street food.’
The delicious meal over, he got up and went over to the sofa. Elena joined him, enjoying the proximity. This date was going better than she could have ever expected. She stretched out her legs, picturing romantic scenes such as the two of them holding hands under a starry sky, bobble hats on, about to kiss under the moonlight, like in those cosy Hallmark movies her mum enjoyed watching.
‘Not by plane,’ he said. ‘I was a child when I flew to France and had no say in the matter. I’ve seen parts of Europe thanks to the ferry or train, but you won’t catch me up in the air knowing what I know now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘About NASA pushing its conspiracy that the earth is a globe. Anyone with half a brain knows it’s actually a round, flat disc under a dome. I wouldn’t want to risk crashing into the side of that.’
Elena grinned. ‘Yeah, right. What’s the real reason? Not much of a jetsetter myself. I love a good English holiday. Cornwall’s so quaint, with its olde worlde fishing villages and fifty different flavours of ice cream.’
He sat up and put his glass to one side, on the laminate floor. ‘Come on, Elena, you’re an intelligent woman who thinks for herself, right? You can’t believe that we’re sitting here, right this moment, on a giant sphere, without slipping off its sides.’
She waited for him to laugh. It didn’t happen.
Uh oh.
‘You’re serious? About the earth being flat?’
‘Take the sea.’ He shrugged. ‘You ever seen water hugging a curve?’
‘But gravity?—’
Carl held up the palm of his hand. ‘Elena, Elena… you need to question everything you were taught at school. No one can prove gravity exists.’
What an arrogant tone.
‘But when you throw a ball into the air, it comes back down,’ she said and smiled sweetly.
‘Of course. It’s denser than its surroundings. Science isn’t always right, you know. Take Einstein’s theory of Static Universe that was later proved to be incorrect and?—’
Elena fixed a glazed smile on her face. His good looks, his fantastic cooking, his attentive manner… It all slid away.
‘How about the horizon?’ she said. ‘If a mountain comes into view, you’ll only see the top of it first.’
He snorted and went into a long explanation of why that proved nothing. She glanced at his clock. Half past ten. This could carry on for hours.
‘That’s why the US government killed JFK,’ he said in a confident tone. ‘Kennedy knew man could never penetrate the dome over us, in order to fly to the moon. The powers-that-be realised he’d never lie to the public and support the fake moon landings. Therefore the Illuminati?—’
Elena stood up and brushed down her jeans. ‘This is fascinating, Carl, thanks for sharing. But I’ve got the most godawful headache. I’m prone to them and shouldn’t have had all that wine. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave.’ She grabbed her coat from the back of the sofa and picked up her handbag.
Carl got to his feet. ‘What? But… you can’t go, I haven’t even told you yet the reason why the truth isn’t being told to us. It’s because knowledge is power and NASA and the UN?—’
Elena pulled open the flat’s door. Thank God it wasn’t locked. Her heart pumping, she raced down the stairs, almost tripping. She yanked open the door at the bottom and hurried outside, finding herself back in the dark, cold alleyway. Elena tightened her scarf and, walking at a speedy pace, turned right towards the lights of bars.
‘That’s not the best of it!’ yelled a voice behind her. ‘Covid proves, again, how we’re being manipulated by those in power. No one followed the science when inflicting those lockdowns. The pandemic was just another example of?—’
A group of stag night revellers passed her, singing, thankfully drowning out Carl’s conspiracy theories. By the time she’d reached the train station and her heart had stopped racing, bubbles of laughter had replaced the adrenaline in her veins.