Guilty Feet (10 page)

Sarah:
I
left
him
because
of
what
he’d
said
.

Dan:
What
did
he
say? If
you
don’t
mind
me
asking
,
that
is
.

Sarah:
It’s
personal
.

Dan:
Fair
enough
,
but
you
still
should
have
told
him
.

Sarah:
I
didn’t
get
the
chance
because
the
faithless
bastard
started
seeing
someone
else
almost
straight
away!

Fuming by now, I’d just clicked the
send
symbol when I heard my doorbell ring. I hesitated. This was getting close to the nitty-gritty and I was very damn keen to see what Dan had to say for himself. But then the bell sounded again, persistently now, and I felt obliged to see who it was.

I left the computer on in my bedroom and went to the intercom at my front door.

‘Who is it?’ I snapped after I pressed the
speak
button.

‘It’s Cass,’ Cass said. ‘Let me in.’

Tempting as it was, I couldn’t just send her away. So I buzzed the main door open, put the flat door on its latch, and ran back to the laptop while Cass made her way up in the lift.

There was still no reply waiting from Dan, and because Cass would be here any moment now, I wrote a brief message explaining that a visitor had just arrived and that I was very sorry but I would have to close down.

***

‘Bugger!’ Dan said aloud when he read the message. He’d been in the middle of composing a long note to Sarah explaining that although their situations seemed uncannily similar it was different for him in that he hadn’t really looked at another woman since his girlfriend left. He’d been anxious to keep up the exchange. He was beginning to think it just possible that he too might have made a careless remark that had caused Jo to leave. He couldn’t think what it might have been, but he thought if he discussed it further with Sarah she might suggest something. Something he’d never even have thought about.

He read through his ramblings again and then deleted the half-written message. What was the point? If it was too late for Sarah now that her boyfriend was with someone else, then it was just as too late for him and Jo now that she was with someone as well.

Besides, he had enough stuff in the present to deal with, without dredging up his past mistakes. And, as if to remind him of this, the phone rang the moment he disconnected his modem.

He snatched at the receiver and took a deep breath. ‘How are you getting on?’ Libby asked brightly before he could speak.

‘OK,’ he said as his heart took a dive. ‘Steve popped up to say goodbye half an hour ago and I haven’t really got back in the flow yet.’

‘I saw them leave,’ she said, referring to the fact that Aisling had gone with Steve to the station.

Strange how things work out, Dan thought. He’d never have believed that Steve was Aisling’s type any more than he was, but they seemed to have hit it off very well. Aisling had certainly wasted no time in luring Steve back to her flat when they got home from the club, which had unfortunately left Dan and Libby alone.

The trouble was that it hadn’t felt all that unfortunate at the time. He’d continued drinking at the club, and by the time they got back to the flat he was as drunk as a skunk. To say that Libby took advantage of him would be an exaggeration. He was as keen as she was at the time, and regret only kicked in when he woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs being cooked in his kitchen. She’d popped her head round the bedroom door and, with a very wide smile, insisted he stay where he was because she would be serving him breakfast in bed. He wasn’t used to this sort of treatment, certainly not from Jo. She’d even been out and bought a newspaper and he had a horrible fantasy that she’d turned into a Stepford wife overnight.

And the last thing he’d felt like after a skinful of lager was bacon and eggs.

He’d had to tell her, and to make matters worse she had pretended not to mind. Instead she’d sat on the bed beside him—fully dressed, thank God—and watched him sip tea and flick, bleary-eyed, through a copy of the
Sunday
Times
. She’d hoped that they would be spending the day together and he was never so glad that he had the excuse of his book.

‘Your line’s been engaged for ages,’ she said now, with a hint of suspicious accusation in her voice.

‘Been doing some research on the Internet,’ he lied, and then wondered why he was bothering.

‘Well,’ she said, sounding slightly appeased by this explanation, ‘I’ve been thinking of cooking a meal for us tonight and wondered if you fancied anything special.’

This was what he’d been dreading all day, ever since he’d managed to persuade her to leave around midday. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was almost five.

‘I’m sorry, Lib, but I got off to a slow start today so I’ll need to work through. I’ll just have to make do with a slice of toast.’

‘Does that mean you’d rather not see me tonight?’

Oh, God, he thought, cursing the booze that had got him into this. The stupid thing was that he couldn’t even remember ending up in bed with her, but he assumed that something must have happened as she’d still been there in the morning. He wished that he had the guts to say something now, to tell her it had been an awful mistake, but he really didn’t want to hurt her feelings. He knew how women could be after sex. He’d just seen
Vanilla
Sky
on video, and he didn’t want to treat her like Tom Cruise had treated Cameron Diaz. He certainly didn’t want to end up like the Cruise character did, and there was something about Libby that made him suspect—wildly, perhaps—that he just might. But then he was still suffering from a very severe hangover, and it was easy to get carried away in that condition. Best to leave it, therefore, till he was feeling better.

‘It isn’t a case of not wanting to see you,’ he fudged. ‘I just think it’s best if we leave it till tomorrow.’

‘Suit yourself,’ she said, and put the phone down heavily.

***

‘You seemed a bit sorry for yourself the other day,’ Cass said, and she flopped into the chair where Sid had been sitting the night before.

‘Did I?’ I said, still distracted by the exchange that had taken place with Dan. ‘How was the party?’ I asked, because I presumed that was what Cass had come round to talk about.

‘Fine, apart from the fact that Phillip Brown was invited and no one told me.’

‘Not Flatulence Phil!’ He was an old boyfriend of Cass’s, the son of her mother’s neighbour, and his greatest claim to fame was farting in tune to ‘God Save the Queen’. It was a childish talent, but it had been a big hit while we were still at school. ‘He didn’t do “Happy Birthday”, I hope—’

‘Thankfully not,’ Cass said primly. ‘I hope his farting-in-tune days are—if you’ll pardon the
pun
—
behind
him now, and he certainly didn’t impress me on any other front.’

‘So why was he invited?’

True, Cass hadn’t been out with anyone for ages now, but her mother had never seemed the desperate, interfering type, who would try fitting her up with anyone that happened to be available.

‘It was my gran. What with me being the eldest, she’s pinning all her hopes on me to produce a great-grandchild.’

‘Oh, dear,’ I said. ‘How did you handle it?’

‘I lied and told her that I already had a boyfriend.’

Which wasn’t like Cass at all—lying, I mean.

‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘if it got you off the hook—’

‘It didn’t really, because now of course she wants to meet him.’

‘Ah’ I said. ‘Tricky.’

‘I’m hoping she’ll just forget all about it. Anyway—’ she shrugged ‘—are you going to offer me a cup of tea or something?’

I’d taken my detox into a second day and was beginning to feel a bit ill. I had a dull headache, and a cup of tea and a slice of Marmite on toast at that moment seemed the best feast in the world. I got up and went into the kitchen and Cass followed me in. She hitched herself up onto the counter and I worked around her.

‘So how’s your weekend been?’ she asked as I filled the kettle.

I told her a bit about Sid’s plans for Pisus, and she wanted to know what he was like.

‘He looks like a boy,’ I said, ‘but he has the mind of a middle-aged man. He seems scarily wise beyond his years.’

I put white sliced bread in the toaster and asked Cass if she’d like some.

She nodded. ‘Anything else?’ she said probingly, as if she knew I had something else on my mind. I flipped the switch on the toaster and looked at her sheepishly.

‘I’ve been e-mailing someone,’ I said cautiously.

‘What does that mean?’

‘A man,’ I said.

‘What, through some kind of Internet dating thing?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said, turning to get the margarine out of the fridge.

‘You’re going to have to explain,’ she said.

It was now or never, and maybe because I was weak with hunger and not thinking straight I went for the ‘now’ option.

‘I’ve been e-mailing Dan,’ I said with my back still to her. ‘Only I’ve been pretending to be someone else.’

‘What?’

I turned around slowly and put the tub of margarine down next to her.

‘It was just one of those daft ideas that’s got a bit out of hand now. He thinks I’m called Sarah Daly and that I’m a very tall, short-sighted artist.’

I’d hoped she might find the last bit funny, but she just stared at me as if I was mad. I’d started now, though, so I told her the rest. Or most of it anyway.

‘But what did you hope to achieve by this little deception?’ she eventually said—disapprovingly.

By now we’d moved back into the living room and were sipping tea and munching toast.

‘I’m not really sure,’ I said honestly. ‘Not when I started anyway.’

‘And now?’

‘And now I’m just bloody confused,’ I said.

‘And you’re not the only one,’ she said. She chewed her lip for a moment and then frowned at me. ‘I hope you’re not trying to say that you think you made a mistake about leaving Dan!’

I looked up at her, over my toast. She was wearing her baby-pink fleece and a smart pair of trousers, and there wasn’t a single crumb in sight. I brushed my own toast crumbs off my sweater and wondered what to say. I wasn’t sure if I did think I’d made a mistake, but even if I did I couldn’t admit it after what had happened. She’d hated being dragged into a situation she didn’t approve of.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t think that.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Then how come you gave me permission to tell him where you were if he rang?’

‘I wanted him to apologise.’ Which was certainly true.

‘For what?’ she said curiously. ‘I thought you’d just had enough of him being up his own bottom about his music and always complaining about your new friends. That’s what you said anyway.’

‘That as well,’ I said cautiously, ‘but mostly for saying—’ I took in a deep breath ‘—for saying I was like my mother...’

There, it was out, and for a moment she didn’t say anything. I was expecting an explosion of minor outrage, or laughter, at least, at the absurdity of such a suggestion.

‘And
that’s
why you left?’ she finally said in exasperation.

I nodded.

‘Do me a favour, will you?’ she said with a sigh.

I looked at her quizzically, hoping for words of wisdom.

‘Just don’t tell me any more about you and Dan and Sarah Daly, OK?’

‘OK,’ I said.

Chapter Nine

After Cass left, I binged on crisps and some ancient sultanas I found in the back of the cupboard—and checked a couple of times to see if there was another message from Dan. There wasn’t, and because I needed some time to think I didn’t write to him either. I was a bit worried about what Cass had said, how she’d made me feel stupid, and I started to wonder whether it might be best to knock the whole thing on the head before it got even more out of hand.

Indeed, by Monday morning I was really looking forward to starting work at the Italian to get away from it all. I was so keen, in fact, that I decided to go in at nine o’clock, even though I knew the place didn’t actually open till ten. It was only when I was almost there that I remembered that the last time I’d seen Marco he still hadn’t told Giovanna about me starting work.

Oh, well, it wasn’t as if she disliked me, I reasoned, so even if she did overrule her son and explain that there wasn’t a job for me after all, she was bound to do it nicely.

There wasn’t a bell, so I knocked on the blue wooden surround of the glass door and just hoped that someone was in there. It was beginning to rain, and with no umbrella it would not be too long before my carefully tended titian locks turned into springy orange wire wool.

Thankfully Giovanna was quick off the mark, and the door was opened in seconds.

‘Has he told you?’ I quickly asked before she could express any surprise.

‘Of course ‘e ‘as, Joanna!’ She gave me a welcoming hug. ‘And I am-a thrilled to ‘ave-a you work-a with me while-a Marco goes off on-a ees-a leetle ‘oliday.’

Despite my relief, I couldn’t help being aware of the way that Giovanna was talking. I’d noticed that the strength of her accent varied from mild, all the way through to something resembling
stage
Italian. I had no idea what triggered these variations, but there was something distinctly theatrical about today’s performance.

And what was all this about a
holiday
? If that was all it was why hadn’t Marco told me? He’d made it sound a lot more intriguing than that. I looked around me as if I expected to find him crouching behind one of the tables, then it struck me.

‘He hasn’t gone already, surely?’

‘First theeng this morning a taxi cemma to take ‘eem to the airport.’

Now that
was
odd—not to mention thoughtless—dumping me in the deep end like that.

‘On his own?’ I said, when that seemed a bit odd as well.

‘Of-a course,’ she said confidently. ‘E as nobody in-a ees life at the moment but ees Mamma.’ She laughed a bit wildly at this, but sobered quickly. ‘But-a all that could-a change...’ she added and gave me one of those looks that meant I would do nicely as far as she was concerned. ‘E left a leetle note for you, as a matter of fact.’ She went round the counter and produced an envelope. She looked expectantly on as she passed it to me, but after what had transpired between Marco and me last time we’d met caution told me I should open it later. I tucked it into my jacket pocket and told her a fib.

‘Some information I asked about, um, travel agents,’ I said feebly.

‘You do realise I haven’t really done this sort of work before,’ I told Giovanna quickly, in order to change the subject. ‘Only one summer at school, when I worked as a waitress in a tea room.’

‘Well, there-a you are then, Joanna.’ Giovanna laughed. ‘You are fully qualified. I show you around now, OK? And don’t-a worry. It’sa easy, I promise.’

As far as food was concerned, she explained crisply—her accent softening now, thank goodness—everything sweet came ready-made from a specialist supplier: it was just a case of keeping the display cabinet nicely topped up throughout the day. So that
was
easy. And as for the sauces—one of the main reasons for the popularity of the Italian—these she made herself fresh every morning in the back kitchen to a genuinely secret recipe. She kept the pasta going as well. My bit was simply to serve it up and take the money, and that didn’t sound too bad either.

‘You see, Joanna—’ Giovanna grinned when I began to relax ‘—the secret of the Italian’s success is
simpleecity
’

‘Apart from the coffee machine,’ I said, looking worriedly at the gigantic monster with its seemingly endless gadgets for making cappuccinos, espressos, lattes and a whole lot else besides.

‘Geev it a day or two, and you weel be serving cappuccino like a native Italian. Inna the meantime just don’t let it sense your fear, OK?’ she said, and then laughed like an Italian drain.

I’d worn my only black skirt and a plain white T-shirt, and when she’d finished showing me around Giovanna issued me with a white apron just like the one she wore herself. She nodded approvingly when I put it on, but then her eyes scanned my heeled shoes and came to rest on my head.

‘I think-a flat shoes might be better in future, and we’re gonna have to do something with that beautiful hair.’

I was pleased that she thought it beautiful, but nervous about what she might have in mind. I pictured myself in one of those peaked white caps with a net and an elastic bit that goes round the back of the neck: the sort people wear in food factories. I wouldn’t have minded if it had been a food factory, where no one would see me but people wearing similar peaked caps, but this was a very public place. Celebrities had even been known to patronise the Italian.

She went into the back kitchen and reappeared with an elastic band.

‘You will ave to make a-do with that today, but maybe tomorrow you can-a put it up properly.’ She touched the back of her own beautifully put-up hair as if to demonstrate what ‘properly’ meant, but there was no way on earth I could achieve the same effect.

I dragged my hair up and slipped on the band and she smiled at me.

‘You know-a Joanna, you and my Marco would make very beautiful
bambinos
.
’

I giggled stupidly at this, turned the colour of her famous spaghetti sauce and pretended to try and get to grips with the coffee machine.

The formula itself might have been simple, but the volume of custom made working in the Italian darned hard work. Thankfully we were joined between twelve and two by sixty-eight-year-old Dulcie, who’d been working these hours ever since Giovanna took over the place.

She might have been getting on, but she was lot fitter than I was and she was wearing far more sensible shoes. She was very skinny, but somehow sturdy, and she hardly spoke a word while she whirlwinded her way around the place, clearing tables, washing up and tidying around Giovanna and me. She even found time to help me out with the coffee machine when I dropped my guard briefly in the rush and allowed it to sense my fear.

Giovanna was in good voice throughout, but after several repeats of ‘Volaré’, I began to wish that she would vary her repertoire now and then. Afterwards, when things quietened down and we all stopped work for a coffee, I asked Dulcie what her secret was.

‘Two bananas a day,’ she said, straight-faced, ‘and regular sex with a man under thirty.’

She and Giovanna waited for my response, but when my mouth seized up they both collapsed in laughter. Which made it sound like a joke—but there was something about the look in Dulcie’s twinkling eyes that left me wondering. As did her surprisingly youthful and husky voice, which would have made her a fortune on one of those naughty one-pound-a-minute sex lines.

They both told me what a great job I’d done and I felt ridiculously pleased with myself. I might have been sweaty and very dishevelled, but I felt that I’d actually achieved something for a change.

‘Where did Marco go, by the way?’ I asked Giovanna as she topped up my cup with decaf. I’d drunk about five cups already so far, and if it had been the real thing I would have been wired by now.

Giovanna threw up her hands. ‘Spain!’ She practically spat out the word. ‘Crazy boy, ay? I mean-a why the Costa Del Sol when he could ‘ave-a gone to beautiful Italian Riviera?’

I considered asking Giovanna about her family then—I guessed that there must be a good reason why she hadn’t returned to Milan when she got pregnant with Marco—but I decided I didn’t know her quite well enough yet.

After Dulcie left it was mostly about serving biscotti and coffee in between helping Giovanna clear up in the back kitchen. I tried wheedling the secret recipe out of her, but when she said I could only have it if I married Marco I let matters drop.

At five-thirty my feet were so sore that I’d taken my shoes off behind the counter. By now I was over my fear of someone I knew coming in and seeing me in such a state—hair dragged back, unkempt and make-up-less—and, as always happens when you let your guard slip... someone came who knew me.

‘Libby!’ I said. ‘How nice to see you.’ The problem with colouring like mine is that there is no hiding embarrassment, and I can never get away with the little lies that blondes and brunettes take for granted. It was OK if I had a script, so to speak, as when I’d adapted the newspaper article into a cautionary tale for three eager young women. My real problem though, is with off-the-cuff stuff. The tiniest fib can turn me the colour of an overripe tomato, and I was both deeply embarrassed
and
lying as well as I pretended to be pleased to see her.

She looked remarkably smart and attractive, for Libby. That sounds unkind, but she wasn’t the sort who usually made much of an effort. So to see her like this, in a well-cut black suit and her hair all shiny—and it looked as if she’d coloured it too; I was pretty sure that it used to be mouse, while now it had a distinctly copper hue—was a surprise.

‘You look nice,’ I added truthfully, then I remembered what she’d said about her job. ‘Been for an interview or something?’As I spoke I was trying to shove my swollen feet back into my shrunken shoes.

She looked surprised. ‘No, I’ve just finished work and thought I’d see how you were getting on.’

I thought I detected the hint of a gloat in her expression. But that could just be envy, I supposed. Because she looked so smart and well groomed while I looked as if I’d spent the day fixing a boiler.

‘Well, as you can see,’ I said, feigning a devil-may-care demeanour, ‘I’ve come to no real harm from a bit of honest graft.’

She looked at me the way someone looks at people who’ve got a nasty illness and are trying to make light of it—pityingly.

‘Actually, I was wondering if you fancied having a drink when you knock off.’

It was tempting. She looked excited, as if she had some news she wanted to tell me, and although I was still of a mind to drop the whole Dan and Sarah thing, I couldn’t help be curious about his claim to be single. Maybe he was now. Maybe Libby had come to tell me that it was all over with Aisling.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘but I don’t finish till six.’ I looked over at the only customers we had at the moment—a family of four. The kids were currently squirting milkshake at one another through their straws.

Libby looked disappointed. She glanced at her wristwatch.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said. ‘I have to get back soon. I was rather hoping you were finishing now. Maybe you could ask if you could leave early.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I replied, a little shocked by her pushiness. ‘This is my first day and Giovanna is clearing up in the back. I really should be helping her.’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’ Libby pressed.

‘Ask-a me what?’ Giovanna said, appearing now in the kitchen doorway.

‘If she could leave early this evening,’ Libby said for me, and I cringed with embarrassment.

I shook my head. ‘I can’t possibly leave with customers still here,’ I said.

‘They look as though they’re about to leave,’ Libby said, turning towards the family of four. And, indeed, just at that moment the father, clearly exhausted by a day’s serious shopping, began gathering up a large collection of plastic carrier bags.

‘Of course it is-a OK, Joanna. We weel be closing soon and I can-a easily finish up on-a my own.’

I still wasn’t happy. I still felt that Libby was being just a bit too pushy. But Giovanna seemed adamant. She even fetched my coat and scarf from the kitchen.

‘It’s-a your first day, Joanna, and-a your feet—’ she looked down at them, crammed into my shoes ‘—they look-a sad and sorry for themselves. You must-a wear only comfortable shoes in-a future.’

***

Jo hobbled alongside Libby to the nearest pub, which was already bustling with after-work drinkers. They both ordered Diet Coke, and because most people seemed to prefer to stand they managed to find a table in a dark corner of the bar.

‘I thought you’d like to hear what happened at the weekend,’ Libby said as they removed their coats and scarves.

‘The weekend?’ Jo frowned as she shuffled up on the banquette seating to make room for Libby.

‘Yes. With Dan and Aisling.’

‘Go on,’ she said expectantly.

‘We all went out together on Saturday night, me and Steve—you know Steve, don’t you?—and Dan and Aisling.’

Joanna nodded, as if she wasn’t surprised. ‘Then the weekend at Dan’s place was cancelled?’

Libby had forgotten about that, but it didn’t matter.