Surprise, now. ‘You never struck me as a New Yorker.’
The man doesn’t respond to this. His face seems to suggest: you don’t know anything about me. At least, not any more.
The chef wrings out his cloth, shakes his head. He can tell that this isn’t going anywhere. The couple seem to feel the same way. The air turns frosty, now, their expressions hardening. The tenderness of a few moments before has been replaced by something else, a sudden recollection of who they are to one another, of why they haven’t seen each other in so long. Best to let bygones be bygones. Whatever’s broken won’t be fixed at this table, not when the man already has one eye on the door.
‘Anyway,’ the man says.
He sniffs, straightens up, then takes his coat from the empty seat next to him. As he dons the flannel jacket and stuffs his hands into his pockets, he tries to avoid the gaze of the little girl, who is watching him with something like disappointment.
‘We should get you home,’ the woman says suddenly to her daughter, as if desperate to get out ahead of him. ‘It’s so far past your bedtime that it’s not even funny.’
She’s embarrassed, to be acting like a mother in front of him.The chef can tell by her expression, by the redness that spreads once more across her cheeks, beneath her freckles. He hears it in the tremor of her voice. The man can’t help but look sorry for her, sorry for all of it. But he can’t let himself lose face.
‘I’ll go,’ he says, meaning, I’ll go before you. He stands, pulls out his wallet, lays down a few banknotes.
‘I’ll get this,’ the woman says, reaching into her bag.
‘I’ve got it.’
‘Let me give you some money.’
‘I don’t need your money.’
His tone makes her flinch. She bows her head, busies herself bundling her daughter into a puffer jacket and a hat that has to be fastened beneath her rosy little chin to keep it in place. The man watches on, until he can’t. He screws his eyes shut tight, angles his head downwards, breathes out a single, unsteady breath. The mother doesn’t see him do this, but the child stares at him all the while.
‘So, is that it?’ the mother says, once she’s finished. ‘Nice to see you. Never see you again?’
‘Something like that,’ the man says. His face is firm again. ‘What else do you expect? Tonight didn’t mean—’ He glances at the daughter, lowers his voice. ‘Just because I helped you out, it doesn’t change anything.’
‘What are you trying to say?’ She seems to know. She just wants him to say it.
‘I don’t forgive you.’
She returns his glare. ‘I don’t forgive you, either.’
They stay like this for a moment. Then she looks at the girl, and he looks away, and his voice is flat when he speaks again.
‘Goodbye, Nora,’ he says.
‘Goodbye, Seb,’ she says.
The chef can tell that the man hadn’t expected a response. The words seem to die in his throat. All he can do is leave, stepping out into the cold night and disappearing into the darkness beyond the streetlamps, leaving behind a woman and a child and a silence that settles like snow.
a personal trainer
They’re on very expensive mats in a very expensive gym, and Cee is wearing very expensive athleisure while barely breaking a sweat. She’s brought her sister, and her sister, whose name is Clara, has brought a friend. Clara is red-faced in an old T-shirt and trackie bottoms. Maisie, who is visiting for the weekend, looks like she’s going to be sick.
‘Is this who you’ve become since I left London?’ says Maisie. ‘A fancy gym woman?’
‘Cee is the fancy gym woman,’ says Clara. ‘She forces me to come. Have you ever tried disagreeing with Cee?’
Cee shoots them a look that confirms what Clara has to say. She’s lying beneath a TRX cable, pulling herself up off the floor with effortless grace. Maisie and Clara are trying and failing to do the same.
‘This is more Nimesh’s thing,’ Maisie says, arms straining. ‘Who knew his forties would be his fitness decade? You know he’s applied for the marathon?’
Clara visibly shudders. It’s clear that they aren’t going to make it through two more sets, so the PT pulls them over to the battle ropes and encourages Cee to demonstrate the nextexercise. He tucks her compact stomach, adjusts her lower back, but it’s all for show. Her form is perfect, legs planted hip-width apart, hamstrings firm beneath her leggings. Tight ponytail bobbing, taut back muscles flexing and flowing with each swing. He’s tried it on with every one of his female clients, even the married ones. Especially the married ones. And yet, never Cee, because he’s scared of her. Cee’s sister is less scary – and even less interested. She’s leaning against the mirrors with her arms crossed, like a misbehaving child playing truant from PE.
‘I know you set it up,’ she says to Maisie.
