13 Dates, page 15
She reaches for the front door, wincing a little as she tries to turn her key in the lock, so I lean across and open it for her. ‘Does it hurt?’ I ask, steadying her as she makes her way inside, but Mary waves my hand away.
‘Don’t worry about me. How did you get on?’
‘Well . . .’ I follow her through to the kitchen. ‘I’m not sure, really. I mean, she apologised and everything . . .’
‘She said sorry to you?’
I nod, in a can’t-quite-believe-it-myself kind of way. ‘And we’re going out for dinner tonight, but . . .’
‘But?’
I pick the kettle up to gauge how full it is, then click it on. ‘She’s got this . . . thing . . .’
‘Thing?’
‘. . . wrong with her. With her heart, to be more specific.’
‘So it’s not made of ice, then?’
‘Okay, okay. There’s a possibility I overreacted a bit there.’ I smile at her. ‘No. Some medical problem she was born with.’
‘Hence the reason she’s always at the hospital.’
‘I guess.’
‘Is it serious? And curable?’
I find a couple of mugs in the cupboard and set them down on the kitchen table. ‘Serious, yes, in that she might drop dead at any minute. Curable – not so much.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Noah. But I suppose you should look on the bright side.’
‘There’s a bright side?’
‘That she cares enough about you to tell you something like that. I’m sure it’s not something she goes around broadcasting to everybody. Imagine how hard it must be to tell anyone, especially someone you care about, knowing that it might scare them off.’
‘I know, I know.’ I give her a look. ‘You’re not as decrepit as you think you are, you know.’
‘Thank goodness!’ Mary chuckles. ‘And what will you do if she tells you she wants to give things another try?’
I think for a moment, grateful that having to locate the end of the little plastic pull-strip in order to open a new packet of PG Tips affords me a bit more time. ‘Under normal circumstances, I’d bite her hand off.’
‘Not literally, I hope?’ Mary chuckles again. ‘But it seems to me these aren’t normal circumstances.’
‘Ever since I first met Angel, there’s been nothing normal about my circumstances at all.’
Mary absent-mindedly fingers her wedding ring. ‘It wouldn’t worry you that your girlfriend might – how did you put it – drop dead at any minute?’
‘Of course it worries me!’ I say, not really wanting to get into the complexities, let alone the likelihood, of Angel being my girlfriend. ‘Everything about it worries me. But walking away worries me even more.’ I deposit a couple of teabags in the mugs, wait until the kettle clicks off, then drown them in boiling water. ‘But I guess there’s two things to consider. I’ve only known her for a little more than a month, so it’s probably worth getting to know each other better to see what’s what. And if we do decide we want to be together, there’s a chance she’ll be okay. That nothing will happen. She might live for ages.’
‘She told you that, did she?’
I take my phone out of my pocket and tap the screen. ‘I checked with Doctor Google while you were in having your cast removed.’
‘Oh, I do like those Indian doctors.’
‘No, I mean . . . Never mind.’
‘But there’s a chance she won’t?’
‘I suppose. But better to have loved and lost, and all that? And let’s face it – who really knows what’s around the corner?’
‘But, Noah, you’re someone who always likes to think you do.’
‘Yes, well, maybe this is different. Maybe I should be different.’ I give our drinks a stir, fish the teabags out and splash some milk in each one. ‘In any case, we’re just dating. No strings. Nothing serious, and all that.’
Mary regards me suspiciously. ‘So what you’re saying is, the only time this is ever going to be a problem is if you decide you really like her.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, as I carefully hand Mary her tea. Though I don’t want to tell her that ship’s already sailed.
14.
I’m waiting for Angel outside a restaurant called ‘Lentil/Burger’ on George Street. It’s the latest ‘hot’ chain to eat at, apparently – hence the queue snaking around the corner – catering for both meat-lovers and vegetarians (though not at the same table, I’d imagine), and new enough to count as one of Angel’s ‘new experiences’. I hope.
I made sure I got here early enough to nab a place that should get me to the door in time for her arrival: Angel’s literal interpretation of her ‘life’s too short to wait in line’ philosophy is still fresh in my mind, and the last thing I want is for her to try to push in front of all these people (even though, after this afternoon’s revelation, I can see why she might want to. And that she’d probably have grounds).
By the time she arrives – at seven, as arranged – I’ve timed it almost perfectly, as I’ve reached the ‘two minutes’ wait’ section, and surely even Angel can’t complain about two minutes. She’s dressed in a pair of dungarees, a fake-fur jacket and yet another pair of Converse, a combination that on anyone else might look like they were wearing it for a dare, but on Angel it just works – though I suspect she could turn up wearing a Lidl shopping bag with holes cut for her legs and I’d probably feel the same. As I wave her over, she casts her eye over the hundred or so people lined up behind me.
‘Have you been waiting long?’
I know she means in the queue, rather than for her, given how she’s precisely on time, so I just shrug as casually as I can, though that’s partly to disguise the fact that I don’t know whether to give her a kiss on the cheek, or a hug, or say something like ‘you’re worth waiting for’, or just stand there like an idiot – but in the end, standing there like an idiot seems like the easiest option.
‘“Lentil/Burger”?’ she says, switching her quizzical look from the restaurant’s sign to me.
‘That’s right. Though, strictly speaking, I suppose it should be called “Lentil or Burger”, as apparently those are the only two items on the menu.’ I take a step forwards as the couple in front of the couple in front of me is shown inside, and Angel obediently slots in beside me. ‘Although apparently the lentil part of the name refers to a lentil burger, so maybe “Burger/Burger” would be more appropriate. Though it’s perhaps more of a patty, so . . .’ I’m conscious that I’m rambling a bit, but that’s because I’m nervous, so I stop talking and grin at her, then a thought occurs to me. ‘I take it you like, you know . . . ?’
‘Burgers and lentils? Have I not mentioned I only eat fish?’
I laugh, then stop abruptly when it occurs to me that Angel might not be joking, and I’m playing a film of all our previous encounters in fast-forward in my head, trying to find evidence of her eating something and whether it was drownable, when she breaks into a grin. ‘I’m kidding, Noah.’
‘I knew that,’ I tell her, unconvincingly.
The couple in front of us are being escorted in, which puts us at the front of the queue, where a black-clad woman clutching an iPad as if she thinks we’re about to try to steal it is giving us the once-over.
‘How many?’ she asks, once she’s evidently decided we’re fit to spend our money in her restaurant.
‘Two please,’ I say, backing up the statement by holding two fingers up, just in case she doesn’t understand me, even though it’s probably obvious to her that we’re not part of the Spanish family having an animated discussion behind us.
The woman peers at her iPad, then at us again, then says, ‘Fine,’ as if she’s just lost an argument and she’s not happy about it. ‘Jemima will take you to Prudence, who’ll take you to your server.’
As Angel says ‘Thank you so much’ so cheerfully it’s verging on the sarcastic, the woman nods at a similarly dressed girl (I’m guessing the aforementioned Jemima) standing just behind her, who smiles humourlessly, then silently escorts us inside, where we’re met by another member of staff (Prudence, I think, and I wonder if we’ll be meeting the two of them again and whether remembering their names would be a good idea), who – like we’re a couple of batons in a strange relay race, takes us over to where a waiter (sorry, server) is, well, waiting in the main room.
As Angel rolls her eyes at me, he leads us through the cavernous, industrial-themed dining room, past groups of people eating, perhaps not surprisingly, burgers. And while it’s too dark to tell whether they’re meat or lentil burgers, not being able to see much turns out not to be a bad thing, particularly given the prices on the – admittedly very short – menu waiting for us on our table.
I peer closely at it, wondering if I should switch on the torch app on my phone so we can read it, then notice the waiter’s still, well, waiting.
‘Can we help you?’ says Angel.
The waiter glances down at the iPad mini he’s just produced, magician-like, from his apron. ‘Your order?’
‘We’ve only just sat down,’ she says. ‘We haven’t had a chance to look at the menu.’
The waiter points towards the window, where the restaurant’s name is stencilled in huge gold letters on the outside. ‘You do know what we’re called?’
Angel narrows her eyes at the glass. ‘Regrub Litnel?’
‘What?’ The waiter frowns at her, then realises she’s reading it from the back. ‘Yes, very good.’
‘Lentil/Burger?’ I suggest quickly, which gets a whispered ‘teacher’s pet’ from Angel.
The waiter nods. ‘Well, they’re your choices. A meat burger, or a lentil one. And most people tend to make their mind up while they’re waiting out there’ – he points towards the window again – ‘rather than in here.’ Wasting my time, he’s obviously implying.
‘Right.’ Angel consults her menu again, and makes a play of studying it closely. ‘What to have, what to have . . .’
‘Perhaps sir would like to order first?’ says the waiter through nearly gritted teeth, when Angel still doesn’t make a choice.
‘Oh, I’ll have what she’s having.’
The waiter sighs, loudly enough for the people on the next-door table to look up from their meals. ‘Would you like me to come back later?’
‘That’s what we wanted in the first place!’ says Angel, though just as he turns to go, Angel slaps her menu down on the table. ‘Burger,’ she announces. Then, when he’s tapped it into his screen: ‘No, lentils.’
The waiter raises one eyebrow. ‘You mean you want to change your burger for the lentils, or did you mean you wanted a burger without any lentils?’
‘Do the burgers come with lentils?’
‘No.’
‘Then yes,’ says Angel.
‘Which?’
‘The second one.’
‘Right. And you, sir?’ he says, although this time the ‘sir’ doesn’t sound like a term of respect.
‘Like I said.’ I shut my menu, and hand it to him. ‘I’ll have what she’s having.’
‘Right.’ The waiter jabs angrily at his screen, then, keeping his eyes fixed on it: ‘Anything on the side?’
Angel raises one eyebrow. ‘Oh, you mean like chips and stuff?’
‘Yes,’ he says flatly. ‘Like chips. And stuff.’
‘What would you recommend?’
‘Chips.’
‘Then that’s what we’ll have.’
The waiter looks at us both, as if he fears he’s going to regret asking his next question. ‘And to drink?’
‘Drink?’ Angel picks her menu up again, and consults the list on the back as if it’s a GCSE paper and she hasn’t revised. ‘Um . . .’ She turns to face me. ‘Well, keeping with the theme of the restaurant, it seems to be beer or water.’
‘I’ll have a beer,’ I say quickly, already convinced the waiter’s going to be doing something to our burgers that might possibly poison us.
‘Me too,’ says Angel sweetly.
‘Two beers,’ says the waiter, tapping so hard on his iPad that I fear the screen might shatter, and as he walks – or rather, stomps – away, I sit back in my chair.
‘That was cruel.’
‘He started it.’ She laughs. ‘These places are just so . . .’
‘They are a bit pretentious, I suppose.’
‘I was going to say “up themselves”, but your description is better.’ She peers around the room. ‘They make you queue for ages, expect you to feel grateful that they’ve let you in, and then they try to get you fed and out again as quickly as possible . . . I mean, we’re the customers, right? We’re paying for this.’
‘The food’s supposed to be good.’
‘It’s a burger, either made of meat or lentils, and chips. Two of the simplest things to prepare. If they can’t get them right, as opposed to another restaurant that has to make twenty different things each night . . .’
‘Hey,’ I say, a little annoyed at her attitude, especially since I’ve queued for forty-five minutes outside, simply so she won’t have to. ‘How about we just try to enjoy ourselves, rather than pick apart—’
‘Sorry. I’m just a bit . . .’
‘Me too. So . . .’
‘So?’
‘So . . . We need to talk?’
Angel raises both eyebrows. ‘Are you asking me, or telling me?’
‘Both.’
‘You look like you want to go first.’
‘Okay. So . . .’ I clear my throat, and look around for the waiter, suddenly desperate for my beer. ‘How are you?’
She tuts loudly. ‘Don’t start.’
‘Start what?’
She folds her arms, resting her elbows on the table as if she’s about to interrogate me. ‘Don’t start treating me like I’m about to die. Because I’m not. I might. But then, we all might. Even you. You could fall under a bus.’ She nods out through the window, where the number 65 is rumbling past. ‘Tonight, if you’re not careful.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Depends if you let me share your pudding or not. But I’m serious, Noah. The moment you start thinking of me like an invalid, it’s over. It’s one of the reasons I work where I work – when everyone’s got problems, like they’ve lost a limb or are suffering from PTSD – things that make yours look pretty ordinary – you don’t feel so . . .’ Angel frowns. ‘Whatever the opposite of special is.’
‘Fine, fine.’ I hold both hands up. ‘But you can’t think that every time I say “how are you?”, or ask how you’re feeling, I’m referring to, you know . . .’ I point at her left breast, which is unfortunate, because the waiter’s chosen that exact moment to deliver our beer, so I quickly change the movement into a finger-waving, as if I’m making an important point. Which, actually, I am. ‘Especially if we are going to be . . .’
‘Be?’
I hesitate, running through quite a long list of words in my mind before I think I’ve found the right one. ‘Together.’
‘Is that what you want?’
‘If by “that” you mean “us as girlfriend and boyfriend”, then yes.’
‘Noah, I’m really not sure I’m girlfriend material.’
‘I am. Sure, I mean. Not, you know . . .’
Angel picks up her glass, takes a sip of beer, then regards me from behind it for almost as long as she spent choosing from the menu. ‘Okay,’ she says eventually, but just as I’m mentally sliding towards the corner flag on my knees in delight, she follows it up with: ‘But if this is going to work, we’d better set out some conditions.’
‘Conditions?’
She nods. ‘One. If we are going to be together, then you can’t tell anyone.’
‘Anyone?’
‘Nope.’
‘That seems a little weird.’
‘Them’s the rules!’
‘What’s wrong with people knowing you’re my girlfriend?’
‘No, dummy. I meant that you can’t tell anyone that I’ve got something wrong with me.’
‘Ah.’
Angel narrows her eyes at me. ‘What does “ah” mean?’
‘I may have . . .’ I take a quick gulp of beer. ‘Mentioned something. In passing. To Mary. The other day. I’d tell her to forget it, but she’s worried she’s got Alzheimer’s, so she probably already has.’
Angel thinks for a moment, and for a second, I fear that I’ve already blown it, though it turns out she’s deciding whether to laugh at my joke or not. ‘Okay. But no one else. Or else.’
‘Got it.’
‘Two. No talk of transplants, and in fact, no mentioning my condition in relation to anything we do. Ever. Which includes you not trying to stop me if ever you feel we’re going to be doing something’ – she makes air quotes with her fingers – ‘dangerous.’
‘Okay.’
‘Three. Don’t expect any big declarations of love, anything slushy or sentimental. That’s just not my style.’
‘How will I know how you . . . ?’
‘Feel about you?’ Angel grins. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll know. Remember, “action is character”.’
‘Right.’
‘Four.’
‘There’s more?’
‘Four,’ repeats Angel. ‘Whatever my parents say to you, you ignore. Especially if it’s about the t-word.’
I nod, partly because I don’t want to be tricked into breaking condition two so soon. Besides, from what I can tell, Angel hardly sees her mum and dad anyway, so that shouldn’t be too hard.
‘Five. If I ever catch you staring at me when I’m asleep just to check I’m still alive, I will kill you. Slowly, and painfully.’
I laugh.
‘Don’t doubt that I could. And would.’
‘Okay, okay.’
‘Six.’
‘Don’t tell me we’re not allowed to do it?’
‘Six, Noah. Not “sex”.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Six,’ she repeats. ‘Never, ever tell me I can’t do something.’
‘What? Why?’
