You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (23 page)

I
turned left, round a familiar square. If only I could remember the name of the
road the restaurant was on, but I couldn’t. I took out my phone and launched
Google Maps, watching the little blue dot that was me moving slowly along. I
zoomed in, and then I saw it, helpfully marked on the map, just a block away.
Babushka’s. Of course – how could I was forgotten? Felix always used to sing
the Kate Bush song by way of suggesting that we go there. I smiled at the
memory and hurried on, then stopped, combed my hair and put on some lipstick. I
didn’t have a mirror so I had to do it by feel – hopefully I wouldn’t end up
with scarlet teeth.

And
there it was, the familiar purple door, the familiar plants in their brass urns
on either side of it, the familiar collection of rather creepy dolls lined up
in the window.

I
pushed the door open and paused. It was the same, but somehow different, wrong.
It was the smell, I realised. Back in the day, everyone – but everyone – in
Babushka’s smoked. The air used to be thick with it. When we went there the
first time I thought that the ceiling had been painted a deep ochre colour,
then I realised it was just stained by the tar of thousands of unfiltered
Russian fags. It had been cleaned now, of course, or painted over, and the room
was lighter as a consequence, although the heavy lace curtains were doing their
best to keep out the bright July sun, giving the interior a ghostly glow like a
misty morning just before the sun breaks through.

I
barely had a chance to take it in, though, because seconds later I was
enveloped in a huge hug and given bristly kisses on both cheeks and then on the
lips by a bearded bear of a man.

“Little
Laura! Where have you been all these years? You look just the same,
kotyonok
.”

His
smell was so familiar – clearly although he’d complied with the smoking ban in
his restaurant, he hadn’t imposed it on himself – that, to my relief, his name
sprang back into my memory.

“Dmitri!
It’s great to see you. You look just the same, too, and the place. It’s good to
be back. How are you? How’s business?” I could feel tears pricking my eyes, and
gushed platitudes to keep them away.

“Oh,
it’s bad. So very bad.” Dmitri had always been an incorrigible pessimist – to
have stayed trading in this area for all these years, he must be coining it.
“But we don’t talk about that! Happy times, yes? And your birthday, and your
young man waiting for you just like before. Come this way.”

He
led me through the warren of rooms to the banquette at the back, which had
always been ‘our’ table. The gilt chairs were the same, upholstered in the same
turquoise velvet, albeit a little more worn. The starched, snowy tablecloth was
just the same, as was the elaborate, slightly tarnished ice bucket in which a
bottle of vodka was reposing.

And
Felix was just the same, too, especially in this dim, otherworldly light. The
boy who’d never grow old, slouching in his seat, his brilliant eyes watching me
as intensely as they ever had.

Then
his face broke into a delighted grin, and I saw again the lines around his eyes
and mouth that never used to be there, the new hollows beneath his cheekbones.
But still, when he smiled, it was like the sun coming out or the first chords
of a favourite song playing on the radio.

“Here
she is!” Dmitri said. “I knew she would come. Didn’t I say she would?” He broke
into Russian as he pulled out my chair, and Felix replied, fluent as ever, as
far as I could tell, as if he spoke the language every day.

With
a flourish, Dmitri opened the vodka and poured three shots, and we toasted one
another and drank. The icy, raw spirit hit my stomach and seemed to teleport
immediately to my brain. Simultaneously, I felt a giddy elation and a sense of
deep misgiving – what was I doing here? How was I going to pick the kids up from
school and nursery reeking of booze? I’d just have the one, I promised myself,
and when Dmitri immediately refilled our glasses and said again, “
Vashe
zrodovye!
” I joined in the toast but only wet my lips with my drink.

“But
what am I thinking?” Dmitri said. “You two need to catch up, to celebrate
together.”

He
indicated the menu in front of Felix and there was another rapid-fire exchange,
of which I understood not a word. Then Dmitri nodded approvingly and
disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

Felix
and I looked at each other for a long moment, then I saw his face relax into a
delighted smile, and realised mine had, too.

“You
followed the clues,” he said. “I wasn’t sure if you would. If you hadn’t come,
I was going to drink to your birthday on my own. Which would almost certainly
have got messy.”

“I
did follow the clues,” I said. “Felix, I… thanks. Really, that was such a sweet
thing to do. And the presents.”

I
gestured at the scarf over the back of my chair, the pendant on its chain
around my throat, and the roses, which I’d have to ask Dmitri to put in water
before they wilted in the heat. Or not, because then I’d have to tell Jonathan…

“It
was fun,” Felix said, “wasn’t it? At least, I hope you had as much fun being
the hunter as I did being the quarry. You caught up quicker than I expected – I
saw you coming when I left the clue in Kensington Gardens. I had to hide behind
a tree, then leg it. People were giving me some seriously strange looks.”

I
laughed. “I had a head start. I was in town already when I got your text, so I
must’ve gained at least half an hour on you before I even saw the first clue.”

“Cheating!
I demand a rematch,” Felix said.

“No
way! I didn’t know, I just happened to be there. You can’t set traps for people
assuming they’ll be sprung to your schedule.”

Felix
looked suddenly serious. “This isn’t a trap, you know, Laura.”

“Then
what is it, exactly?”

“It’s
a birthday present. No strings, no conditions. Just something I thought might
make you smile. Because, you know, I remember you smiling all the time. But now
you don’t. Not so much, anyway.”

“I
smile a lot,” I said, not smiling. “I do, Felix. My life is great. It’s not
what I expected it to be when I was twenty-two, but who the hell’s life is,
fifteen years later?”

“Mine
is,” he said.

We
were interrupted by Dmitri bringing food, and I realised as I watched him place
dish after dish on the table that I’d not only finished the glass of vodka he’d
given me a few minutes ago, but another one as well.

Soon
our table was piled with silver dishes of blinis, dumplings, smoked salmon,
salads, and a small pewter bowl piled with pearls of caviar that were the same
colour, and had the same gentle gloss, as the metal that held them.

“Felix…”
I began to protest.

Dmitri
waved a hand at the caviar. “Is my treat. On the house. Here, we love our old
friends.”

We
thanked him effusively – there was nothing else to do – nothing except make
sure every morsel of food was eaten so as not to hurt his feelings. My diet was
going to have to be forgotten today, even though I didn’t feel like eating at
all.

I
spooned sour cream on to a lacy pancake, added a morsel of caviar and bit into
it. The pearls popped in my mouth like bubbles, releasing a taste of the sea,
then a blast of richness and sourness. And all at once, I was hungry – for
food, for fun, for sex, for more vodka, for Felix.

We
tore into the meal as if we hadn’t eaten in weeks, downing shot after shot of
vodka, exchanging tastes of things that were particularly good.

“Have
you tried this?” Felix said, passing me a fork laden with something that looked
like shreds of ruby-red glass.

“It’s
beetroot, isn’t it? I hate beetroot.” I looked anxiously around in case Dmitri
might hear and be hurt, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Bollocks
you do. You used to love this stuff.”

“Did
I?” In spite of myself, I parted my lips and ate, and the taste came flooding
back. It wasn’t like the beetroot I’d convinced myself in the intervening years
I disliked, a muddy, depressing vegetable that looked a bit like menstrual
blood and was about as appetising.

“Fuck,”
I said. “More. And tell me how you do it – how you’re still living the dream.”

Felix
forked up the last of the beetroot and passed it to me, then he tenderly
spooned the final few morsels of caviar on to a blini and fed me that too. Then
he poured as another shot of vodka – the bottle was more than half gone.

“Do
you want to see?” he said. “Do you want to know how I do it?”

When
Darcey was a baby and didn’t sleep – I mean, I know all babies don’t sleep, but
she never, ever did, she was the world champion of mad, screaming insomnia – I
developed a clock in my head. I used to count beats, then bars, and they’d
extend into minutes and hours, marking the time until, finally, she gave in and
passed out. The habit had stuck, and now, when I got into bed at night, I found
myself counting, counting relentlessly away the minutes until I’d be wrenched
from rest again. And even when I was awake, I was conscious always of time
passing in musical notes. It sounds stupid and pretentious, but there it was.
So in spite of the food and the chat and the alcohol, I knew that about two
hours had passed since I arrived at the restaurant, and I didn’t need to check
my watch to know I had three left before I needed to report to the school gate
and the nursery door, punctual and ideally sober.

“Yes,”
I said.

“Come
on then.” Dmitri appeared with the bill, and Felix paid it, after a short and
shouty debate which, even though I couldn’t understand a word, I realised
involved Dmitri not having charged us for lots of what we’d eaten and drunk,
and refusing to do so.

I
deliberately dawdled putting on my coat, letting Felix go ahead, and left three
twenty pound notes on the table, so that although Dmitri’s generosity would be
acknowledged, his staff, who I knew worked brutally long hours, wouldn’t suffer
for their boss’s grand gesture.

When
we emerged into the shining afternoon, I realised just how pissed I was,
reeling a bit and clutching at Felix’s arm.

“Are
you okay, babe?” he said. “Want me to get you a taxi?”

“No,
no,” I protested. “I’m fine. Come on, show me what you’re going to show me.”

“Laura.
Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

Felix
looked at me, his face swimming slightly in and out of focus.

“No,
I don’t want to go home,” I said.

Felix
kept his hand on my arm as we walked to the Tube station. Not like a lover, but
not quite like a guide either – it was a gentle, reassuring contact, and I was
grateful for it, because the dazzling sunlight was making me feel even more
pissed than I had indoors. This is why lunchtime drinking is such a terrible
idea, I thought. One of the reasons, anyway.

There
was a Piccadilly line train arriving just as we stepped off the escalator and,
instinctively, we both hurried forward, squeezing into the carriage seconds
before the doors slammed shut.

“Made
it,” Felix said, grinning.

“We
did,” I grinned back. “But you haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“It’s
a surprise.” His face had gone still and almost grim, the smile vanished.
“Another surprise for your birthday.”

In
the harsh fluorescent light, I could clearly see the lines on his skin, the
faint creases around his eyes and mouth that I’d noticed earlier. As he reached
up to grip the handrail, I was sure I could see the outline of ribs through his
shirt, and I realised how lean he was – the body I’d known so well years ago
had changed, transformed from a powerful, muscular machine into something
rangier, more angular.

You’re
not twenty-two yourself any more, Laura, I reminded myself, conscious of the
extra stone I was carrying and hoping that the harsh light wouldn’t show that
my make-up had gone patchy, my nose was pink from the vodka, and my roots
needed touching up. But I knew he’d seen all those things about me, just as I’d
seen the shadows on his jaw and the sharpness of his cheekbones.

The
train pulled in to Covent Garden station and I moved instinctively towards the
doors, but Felix put his hand back on my elbow and stopped me.

“No?”
I said. “Not here?”

“Not
here.”

We
thundered on through station after station, heading into what felt like the
distant reaches of North London, until after another six or seven stops, Felix
said, “Right, here we are.”

I
followed him up the escalator and through seemingly endless corridors of the
unfamiliar station, until we ascended a flight of stairs back into the
sunlight.

“Welcome
to Finsbury Park,” Felix said, “Home to Arsenal Football Club, the first of the
great nineteenth-century parks and the best bagel shop in London.”

Traffic
roared past us along a street lined with fried chicken shops, bookies and huge
discount stores selling everything you could possibly want, however tiny your
disposable income. There were two rival shops on opposite sides of the street,
one of which advertised all its merchandise at a pound, and the second at
ninety-nine pence. It wasn’t all that different, really, from our high street
at home, but here there was no organic butcher, no chichi mum and baby shops,
no Waitrose. I wondered what it was like to walk into a shop and see something
you needed, then have to walk across the road and see if you could buy the same
thing for a penny less, because it would make a difference to how many things
you were able to buy.