‘Proper pizza,’ he says, as the chef serves up their order, and it sounds like he’s stalling, like he’s saying anything that comes into his mind. ‘None of that chain stuff.’ He gestures to the other side of the glass. ‘Or the new stuff that claims to be authentic because they use sourdough bases and San Marzano tomatoes. But they’re just chains, too.’
It’s a cold mid-week night, and everyone else is presumably off eating that chain stuff. The little girl is pale, with ginger hair, while the man looks like he could be related tothe chef. The chef had wondered briefly whether the girl had been abducted, the man speaking so uncomfortably to her, the girl never once looking up at him from her lap. But then, if this guy had abducted a child, surely he wouldn’t take her out for pizza in a window booth in the centre of Soho. Italian Christmas jingles rattle out of the stereo speakers above. The child is eating slowly, carefully, nodding tentatively along to the music. The man’s pizza is still untouched, and he’s staring at the girl like he can’t summon an appetite. The other seat in the booth is empty. It’s snowing outside. The occasional passer-by floats past, arms laden with bags from Liberty and Selfridges and House of Fraser. Then, a beautiful woman in a long trench coat and a shirt not warm enough for the weather hurries towards the doors and bursts inside, a flurry of snowflakes arriving with her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says to the chef. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says to the pair in the window.
The little girl has been wriggling and squealing with delight ever since she saw the woman on the other side of the window. Now she’s getting frustrated, reaching up with grasping hands. The woman bends to the girl, holds her still and kisses the top of her head. She stays there for a moment with her eyes closed, breathing in the smell of the girl’s hair. Daughter and mother, the chef presumes. The father stares down into his pizza, as if this is a moment he’d rather not be part of.
‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ the mother says.
She doesn’t sit yet. Her eyes are still closed and her face is still pressed into the top of her daughter’s head. The chef assumes she is speaking to the child. Then she looks up, andit’s clear that she’s speaking to the man – and that the man is not the father after all.
‘You didn’t have to do that, back there,’ she says. ‘But thank you. You saved my life.’ An awkward pause. ‘I didn’t know. That you didn’t know.’
‘I don’t need protecting,’ the man says, curtly. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, even though he still hasn’t eaten anything. ‘Her dad?’
‘Dead,’ the woman says, quickly. She looks at her daughter. ‘To me,’ she adds. ‘It’s just us. It’s always just been us.’
The man looks from mother to daughter. ‘That can’t have been easy,’ he says.
The woman looks like she might burst into tears. Instead, she slips into the empty seat on the other side of the booth, depositing her daughter next to her. The girl chews busily on her piece of pizza, content now her mother is here.
‘I didn’t realise you were in London,’ the woman says, after a while.
‘I wasn’t.’
‘And yet, here you are.’
‘Here I am,’ the man replies.
The woman’s eyes search his weathered face. ‘Why did you come tonight, Seb?’
He returns her gaze. ‘I wanted to see if you still leave me a ticket.’
The woman looks down into her lap. ‘I always leave you a ticket.’
The man looks anywhere but at her, his eyes finally settling on the child. The girl has finished her pizza slice, is staringforlornly across the table at her vacated plate, far out of reach. Slowly, the man takes one of his own slices, brings it to his mouth. She watches him. He breathes deeply, then mimes gobbling down the pizza like some ravenous creature. The girl doesn’t even crack a smile. The man sits back in his chair, undeterred. He pats his belly, pretends to burp. Now the child smiles. She seems to forget herself, letting out a cackle, kicking her legs beneath the table. The man hands her the pizza slice as the mother watches them both, an unreadable look on her face.
‘Something for you?’ The chef has crossed to the table, is holding a laminated menu.
‘Huh?’ It takes her a moment to collect herself. ‘No, thank you,’ she says. ‘Actually.’ She glances at the half-finished beer in front of the man, the pizza with the missing slice. ‘A sparkling water.’
The chef heads back behind the counter, pops open a bottle and fetches a glass. He returns to the table with the mother’s drink, along with some crayons and colouring paper for the child. The woman’s eyes are still on the man’s plate. The man pushes it towards her.
‘Thanks,’ the woman says, with something like shame. ‘I’m so hungry.’
She wolfs down a slice. Then another. When she realises the man is watching her, she looks embarrassed. She adjusts her knotty blond hair. The man takes a swig of his beer. The little girl looks slowly from one of them to the other. She sets about her colouring-in.
‘Why did you really come?’ the woman says.
‘I wanted to see the film.’
‘Why?’
‘So many questions,’ he says. He stops, steadies his tone. ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘I’m back in town. I saw it was happening. I knew it would be half decent.’ A slight edge of sarcasm. ‘You always wanted to make great things.’
‘But you missed it,’ she says. ‘The film.’
‘Yes,’ he replies.
