I sigh, and drag myself inside. The smell of cooking hits me straight away, and Jane appears in the hallway. She whispers urgently: ‘Whatever happens, pretend you love it, okay?’
I nod, confused but willing, and she beckons me into the living room. The table has been cleared, and I clamp down on a moment of annoyance. It might have looked chaotic, but there was method in my madness, and I knew where everything was. I suck it up, because the table has now been laid – table cloth, the good plates, silverware, napkins, the lot. I’m fair convinced I don’t even own some of this stuff.
‘You’re here! Hurrah!’ says Beth, bustling in behind us. ‘I’ve cooked you dinner, as a thank you for having us.’
I can tell from the expression on Jane’s face that this might not be the act of kindness it sounds like, but I nod and smile. ‘That’s grand!’ I say. ‘I’m starving, I could eat an old boot.’
‘Be careful what you wish for…’ Jane mutters, as Beth pours wine. She disappears off into the kitchen, and returns with plates of pasta. At least I think that’s what it is – there are vague shapes swimming around beneath the blood-red sauce.
‘It’s only a spaghetti bolognaise,’ Beth says. ‘Except you had no spaghetti, so it’s a macaroni bolognaise I suppose. I’ve been learning how to cook at Rosie’s café!’
She sounds so proud of herself it’s impossible not to grin. Rosie is a tremendous cook, so it could be worse. I take a bite of the food, and realise Beth might need a few more lessons. The pasta is so hard you could crack a tooth, and the sauce is filled with solid clumps of mince. I chew it up, force myself to swallow down the salty glob, all the time with Beth watching me expectantly.
‘Delicious!’ I announce, once I’ve managed to force it down my tubes. Jane is fighting back a smirk, hiding it behind her wine glass. She has a much smaller portion than me, the witch. I can’t even claim I’m not hungry, given my last declaration about boots.
Beth is thrilled at my reaction, and launches into a spiel about her day, barely pausing for breath. Jane is looking at her, smiling and laughing, and I feel her relief – she’s told me Beth has been struggling back at home, been miserable, and the Beth here tonight is neither of those things. She’s happy and bubbly and possibly the world’s worst chef, but so animated that it sweeps us along with her.
‘So,’ she says, once she’s finally drawn to a halt. ‘Did Mum tell you about her secret history with this place? About herRomeo?’
Jane’s face drops, as does her fork. ‘He doesn’t want to hear about that,’ she says firmly. ‘Ancient history.’
Huh. Ancient history that’s sitting right across the table from her. I get why she’s reacting this way, but it stings to be dismissed like that.
‘No,’ I reply, a touch of the devil creeping in. ‘I do. Tell me about it.’
‘Well,’ Beth says, grinning with her mischief. ‘Like, a million years ago, Mum met a boy. Disgusting concept, but I have to acknowledge it’s possible. She was eighteen, and they were star-crossed lovers, fighting against an unjust world!’
Jane is pale, her fingers trembling slightly, and I suddenly feel bad for encouraging this. It was cruel, and I’m finding that sometimes she brings that out in me – I’m so desperate for a response from her, to crack her polite veneer, that I go too far.
‘She was madly in love,’ Beth continues, ‘and he was the dreamiest boy who ever lived!’
I have to smile at that. ‘He was now, was he?’
‘Oh yes! Handsome, cool, funny, clever, and apparently the world’s best kisser too.’
I glance over at Jane, who is now glugging down her wine and refusing to meet my eyes. World’s best kisser. I’ll take it.
‘He sounds class. So what happened?’
‘Well, they were supposed to run away together to Bonnie Bay, against their parents’ wishes – total Montague and Capulet stuff, right? They chose the place by picking it at random from a map – and actually it is really nice here, but what if they’d randomly picked, I don’t know, a retail park in Dartford or whatever? Nowhere near as romantic!’
She’s understandably amused, but I still recall that moment. The magic of it. The knowledge that wherever we’d picked, even if it was a retail park in Dartford, it would have been enough. It would have been perfect as long as we were together.
My stomach is churning now, and it’s not just the dodgy pasta. It’s the way all of this is making me feel, taking me back in time. I stay silent, and Beth asks: ‘Do you want to know the ending to our tragic lovers’ tale?’ I nod. It’s the only thing I can do.
‘Well, Romeo turned out to not be the hero of our story at all,’ she continues. ‘He turned out to be the villain – he abandoned our poor Juliet, totally ghosted her, moved away and left her heart broken into a million pieces. And – oh, sorry, it’s my dad, I have to take this!’
She grabs up her ringing phone from the table, jumps to her feet and skitters off. The sound of her footsteps galloping up the stairs the last we hear of her. It’s like she threw a hand grenade into the room and then made a run for it. I glance over at Jane, and she won’t meet my eyes. She’s staring at her glass, the table, the window, anything but me.
‘You okay?’ I ask quietly.
‘Of course,’ she replies, obviously lying. She’s upset, and I don’t know how to handle it. I want to touch her, to comfort her, but that would be far from appropriate. I’m also angry, annoyed that she’s lying.
‘You don’t look okay.’
‘Well, I am, all right!’ She throws her napkin across the table, and manages to knock her wine glass over in the process. There’s not much in it, but she still frets, jumping up and fussing, calling herself a clumsy oaf under her breath.
‘Leave it,’ I say, standing and reaching over the table to grab her wrist. ‘It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.’
