‘Nah, I’ll save it for the Chinese bar.’ I prop my elbows on the railing beside him, our arms just touching as we take in the view of the colourful buildings and the glintingocean in the distance. I feel like I’m floating, here with him, above the city.
A little while later, we’re staring across the road at the tiny bar Stella recommended, which is sandwiched between Barbour International and a high-end antiques shop. Embroidered net curtains hang at the two windows, the paintwork is peeling and patchy and the canopy stretching across the front is sagging in the middle. Whether by design or unintentional, it lends it the architectural flavour of a traditional Chinese pavilion, which is apt for the name of the bar: Pavilhão Chinês.
‘Um,’ I say.
Ash casts me a grin, totally unfazed by the shabby outward appearance of the place.
Inside my bag, my phone begins to buzz. I pull it out and my stomach drops at the sight of the caller ID: Dad.
‘It’s my dad,’ I murmur. ‘I have to take this.’
‘Shall I see you inside?’
I nod. ‘I won’t be long.’
He sets off across the road and I answer the call, trying to inject cheerfulness into my voice.
‘Hi, Dad.’
He doesn’t answer, but I can hear him talking to someone. ‘It’s fine.’
‘No. Send it back,’ I hear my mum retort.
They sound like they’re in a busy restaurant.
‘Excuse me!’ Dad calls.
‘Dad!’ I say into the receiver.
‘Eleanor?’ Dad booms in my ear, making me wince.
‘Hi.’
‘Ah, you’re there.’
‘The wine is not chilled,’ I hear my mum saying haughtily, probably to some poor waiter.
‘All set for tomorrow?’ Dad asks me.
‘Yes. What time’s your flight again?’
‘Around ten, I think.’
‘Ten fifteen,’ I hear Mum correct him.
‘I’m not getting there until the evening, so will you text me the address?’
‘What time’s your train coming in?’ he asks.
‘Six thirty or something like that. I’ll jump in a cab.’
‘No, Alison will arrange a car for you.’ That’s my parents’ no-nonsense PA. ‘Text her your details.’
He never lowers his voice when he’s speaking on the phone in public – it’s mortifying when you’re with him, and even now I’m embarrassed about what the other diners must be thinking.
‘Tell her about the flight,’ Mum prompts.
‘Oh, she’s booked your return flight too,’ Dad says.
