‘Coat?’ he asks, already slipping it from my shoulders before I can say yes. ‘I put you right in the window, best spot in the house. I didn’t know this reservation was for you. It’s a Mr Sainty – a client, yes? Or perhaps a lover!’ He grins.
I lightly shove his arm. ‘Don’t let my boyfriend hear you talk like that. He’s already jealous enough that I’m spending my lunch hour with another man.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Tony winks. ‘The lucky Reece Kernan-Jones. You’re still not married? What’s he waiting for? You date my son, TJ, he’ll have a ring on your finger by March.’
I laugh, not because it’s funny but because I need the release. Tony’s been making the same joke for years, ever since his son and I shared two botched dates in year 12, one of which ended with TJ slipping out early and leaving me to pay for the Nando’s.
I shake my head. ‘Thanks, but I’m not the marrying kind.’
Tony pulls a face of mock horror, clucking his tongue. ‘You all say this, then one day – husbands, babies, dogs. You see. I remind you of this when you bring me the wedding invitation.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ I quip, already feeling lighter just from the exchange.
He guides me to the table – a small, round affair with a view of the High Street, currently thronged with pensioners and that one street musician with the accordion who turns up, rain or shine. ‘You’re the first to arrive.’ He hands me the oversized leather-bound menu, mischief still in his eye. ‘So what you like to drink? We have a beautiful new house rosé, very light, very easy.’
I hesitate, but shake my head. ‘Sparkling water, please. It’s a business lunch; I need to impress my client, not embarrass myself.’
Tony raises his hands in surrender. ‘I remember, you always so serious. One day, you let yourself have some fun, eh?’
I grin. ‘Maybe after I close the deal. For now, I need a clear head.’ He nods, already drifting towards the bar, and I run my finger over the cool, white linen of the tablecloth.
Tony’s easy banter has relaxed me, and I sink back in my seat, going over the pitch in my head. I’m flattered that Joe got in touch with our agency. It’s good to know all our PR and advertising is having some effect – it certainly costs enough.
A waitress glides over with a bottle of San Pellegrino, slices of orange and lemon in a chilled glass, and I imagine for a moment what it would be like to be the sort of person who lingers in places like this for pleasure, ordering a single espresso or a glass of wine, reading the paper, nothing else pressing to do with the day. I see women like that sometimes – usually in tailored coats with caramel-blonde hair, air-kissing their friends, never flustered or stressed.
I’m not one of those women. I’m the kind who sneaks half a Twix in the stairwell on the way to her next showing, or who does her mascara in the bathroom of the out-of-town Sainsbury’s because she’s running a little late. Not that I should be complaining. I know I’m in a privileged position to have been handed the family business. It’s just so... all-consuming.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I check it, but it’s just a notification from our office group chat, which has devolved into memes and mild passive aggression over who keeps leaving dirty mugs in the sink. I should crack down on it – it’s supposed to be a business-related chat – but I’ve got too much else to worry about at the moment. No text from Joe. I check the time. 12.27. Too soon to worry. Maybe he’s one of those decisive types who likes to arrive on the dot, make the meeting all business, no unnecessary small talk.
I glance at the menu but can’t process the words. Instead, I rehearse my pitch in my head again, running through the points I want to make. I’ve even prepped a little speech in case he tries to haggle our commission down – I’m going to reference the last three developments I sold ahead of schedule, the glowing testimonials, the Instagram campaign that tripled footfall at our last show home. Okay, so they were at a much lower price point than Sainty’s apartments, but I won’t dwell on that. I try out a few lines under my breath, too quiet for anyone to hear.
The kitchen door thumps open, and I catch a whiff of garlic and rosemary. My stomach growls. I realise I haven’t eaten anything since a banana at eight o’clock. Maybe I should have ordered an appetiser. I check my phone again. It’s 12.38. Still no sign of Joe.
Another customer walks in – a woman in a North Face gilet and leggings, pushing a pram so expensive it probably requires its own insurance plan. She orders a flat white and settles at the table next to mine, frowning into her phone while her baby gurgles at the ceiling. Another woman joins her. I recognise her vaguely from yoga, but I don’t make eye contact. I don’t want to be asked what I’m doing here alone, waiting, pretending to look at the menu.
12.50 passes. I check my phone again. I realise my palms are damp and wipe them on the napkin under the table.
I try calling Joe, letting it ring three times before hanging up, worried about seeming desperate. I text him, breezy:Hi Joe! I’m here at Portofino, looking forward to meeting you. Let me know if you’re running late or want to reschedule!I tack on a smiley face, instantly regretting it, then tell myself it’s fine.
I check my work email, then my personal, then the DMs on Instagram, God knows why. Nothing.
At 12.59, Tony comes over brandishing a cocktail, stuffed with lime and mint. ‘Virgin mojito, no alcohol, on the house.’
‘Thank you,’ I reply weakly.
‘No sign of your man?’ He’s soft about it, and I’m grateful.
‘He’s probably caught in traffic.’ My voice quivers a fraction. ‘Developers, you know. Always busy.’
Tony nods, sympathetic. ‘If he does not call, you let me know. I bar him from the restaurant, for life.’ He makes a slicing motion through the air.
‘That’s sweet, but I’m sure he’ll be here,’ I say, though I’m not sure at all. My chest tightens. I start to imagine all the ways I could have blown it already: maybe I got the wrong date or time. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he checked my LinkedIn and decided I wasn’t experienced enough. Maybe he’s sitting at another restaurant, texting someone else, telling them I’m the one who’s late.
13.07. Still nothing.
Eventually, I stop pretending to read the menu and simply stare out the window at the people bustling by, wondering which of them are on their way to something important, and which are, like me, waiting to see if the world will offer up a little mercy.
By 1.15, I know it’s over. I send another message – just in case – then put my phone face down on the table. I wonder if I should order anyway, if it would be less humiliating to eat alone, or to simply leave and hope Tony doesn’t mention it the next time I’m in. For a few minutes, I just sit, letting the sunlight through the glass warm my face, feeling the edges of disappointment close in, sharp and cold.
