There’s a litre glass bottle of still water on the desk underneath the television. Its weight, which is not significant, highlights I also have pain in my shoulders from the exertion of hammering Pete’s brains in. I crack it open and drink. The thick rim on my lips tastes dusty from days, weeks, of waiting for a guest to drink from it. Thirst sated, I tap my phone screen and am appalled to see it’s past 6:00 pm. Well, there’s my chance to explore Leeds gone.
My stomach growls as I sit on the edge of the bed sipping the room-temperature water. If I go out for dinner, this trip will not entirely be a waste. I search online, and I swear this is what the internet tells me, Ron’s restaurantRobbin’s Nestis ranked in the top five places to eat in the whole city. The reviews back it up – someone claims they refuse to eat macaroni cheese from anywhere else. I book a table. Who am I to refuse visiting an establishment as prestigious as that? It’s not like I can do any harm to Ron. He might not be there for a start, and even if he is, I have no weapon, no time to plan as to how and where he gets punished. Before I leave I tell Leanne:
Meetings are proving to be super productive. Can’t wait to talk you through all the new plans I have for the business now. You know I can’t make any big decisions without you x
Brian’ll be able to lie his way out of the conversation this will prompt, but he’ll be uncomfortable for a bit formulating his bullshit for Leanne and that’s nice to know.
At the restaurant, while I wait at the wooden plinth next to the door for a waiter to appear, I take the place in. All that’s different to my eye from when Malcolm was here is the bench chairs, which were previously an oxblood leather but are now re-upholstered in a tweed fabric. It screams mid-range family restaurant, all wood panelling – what I’d expect from a pub grub-style place. The food people have in front of them backs it up. There are large portions of mostly beige meals, but everything looks like a person has made it and not a machine.
A waiter who looks ready for retiring, a badge on his white shirt telling me his name is Jeffery, approaches. ‘Sorry for the wait, do you have a reservation?’
‘I do. It’s just for me, it’s booked under Jemma Limond.’ There, proof I’m not up to no good. Only an idiot would use their real name then commit a crime.
Jeffery leads me to a corner booth, ignores how my steps are matched with the odd noise of pain, my thighs screaming from the hours of walking I put them through yesterday. When I’m seated, he hands me a menu as thick as the last book I read. The options are endless: pasta, pizza, curry, fajitas, pies, burgers, fish. I find myself overwhelmed with choice, ordering sizzling chicken fajitas and a white wine even though I’m not sure it’s what I want. When Jeffery’s back with my drink, I ask, ‘Bit of a weird question, did an episode ofFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammerget filmed here by any chance? I saw an episode the other day and I swear it’s the same place.’
Jeffery places a hand on his hip, his face breaks into a grin. ‘It did! No one’s mentioned that in ages. Was it a repeat? Ron’ll be delighted it’s doing the rounds again.’
‘Were you here for it? Did you get to meet Malcolm?’
‘It was just my luck, me and my husband were in Benidorm that week so I missed it, but Ron’s got some stories I’m sure he’d love to tell you.’
‘Oh, the owner’s here?’
‘You can’t keep him away from the place.’
‘Being a landlord doesn’t take up much of his time, then?’
‘Er, I guess not.’ Then Jeffery is gone.
Sipping my wine, I resist the urge to have my phone out, to lose my sense of awkwardness at dining alone by blasting my brain with blue light. Instead I admire the decor, wonder how often the carpet is cleaned, spend a lot of time hoping that if I were another person here and observing me I’d believe I was relaxed and at ease in my own company. Of course, this is not the case. I have never been more aware of my aching body, the effects of my altercation with Pete continuing to appear as I sit. The ribs on my left side hurt in a way that makes me think I may have broken one or two, which is crazy when I don’t even remember Pete hitting my body.
Eventually, the sound of sizzling approaching breaks into my thoughts. It is Ron himself who brings the searing metal tray with the chicken and veg for my fajitas. The wraps, guac, sour cream and shredded cheese are on a giant plate he holds in his other hand.
Needlessly, he warns, ‘Careful, it’s hot.’ A little bit of fat spits from the metal tray onto my forearm as he places it down.
Equally as needlessly, I say, ‘You’re so brave. Carrying that looks so dangerous I just know I’d injure myself.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I do.’ Ron’s a short, balding man who I know isn’t more than five years older than me, but you’d mistake him for at least fifteen. The way his face lights up when he talks is weirdly compelling. ‘Jeff mentioned you saw me on the telly?’
This is a gross miscommunication of what I said but I don’t point it out. ‘I did! How’s life as a landlord?’
‘Wouldn’t know. Sold it last year. Got divorced and needed some cash. I never bought any more properties. It was a pain in the arse, truth be told; I didn’t realise there’d be so much actual work to it. Was hoping I could just collect the rent and live my life.’
So far, so to be expected from the sort of man who wants to landlord. ‘Still, must have been exciting to be on the telly?’
‘Was interesting seeing how the sausage was made. Got us quite a few customers coming in wanting to see the place after it.’
‘And Malcolm–’
There was going to be more to my question but Ron interrupts.
‘Total fruit loop. He sat where you’re sat now on a call to his agent, threatening to quit because he’d invited the crew to his birthday party and two of them cancelled the day before with food poisoning. Said it was workplace bullying. He was as nice as pie to me, mind, but clearly a bit of a diva.’
‘I can see how he’d have that in him,’ I say, because I do. I also have the capacity to be an arsehole if I don’t feel appreciated.
‘Anyway, I’ll let you eat in peace.’
Ron leaves and I nourish my rumbling tummy in the same spot Malcolm has filled before. This is the reflection time I’ve needed since Pete died. I was right to come here, to ground myself in my mission even when I’m far from where I’m completing it. I welcome it, thinking of nothing else as I eat every morsel in front of me, having to pause occasionally because a muscle in my arm twinges or I catch my rib in the wrong position. The food and the peace are preparing me for whatever is next.
