The History of Lucy's Love Life in Ten and a Half Chapters by Deborah Wright

Author:Deborah Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-12-27T16:00:00+00:00

We took a taxi to The House and got caught in the rush-hour traffic. At least all the honking filled our long silences. We both yawned a lot, as though emphasizing how tired we were. When we got to the restaurant, we found they’d lost our booking.

Anthony is naturally very good-natured and patient, but everyone has their flaws, their weak points. And if there is one thing that makes him mad, it’s bad restaurant behavior. It seems to act as some sort of trigger for a Jekyll to Hyde transformation that normally terrifies waiters into giving us the best table in the restaurant and a meal for free.

But this waitress—a thin Taiwanese girl with a tired, unsmiling face—shrugged at Anthony’s ranting. She was a tough case, clearly underpaid and overworked, with an aura of “I don’t really give a fuck if the customer is right—I wish you’d just give me a big fat tip and go away.”

“You can wait in the bar and we’ll have a table in an hour,” she said.

“We’ll want free drinks,” Anthony said sharply.

We got half-price drinks.

We sat down on an uncomfortable piece of gray cushion and sipped green concoctions from cocktail glasses. It was so noisy we had to shout at each other to be heard, so we gave up and just surveyed the room. I watched the couples and wondered idly if they were all as happy as they looked? Then I became aware of the girl at the bar surreptitiously eyeing up Anthony. It struck me that two years ago I would have been both jealous and proud to be seen with him. Now I just thought it was vaguely amusing.

Anthony wasn’t amused.

After half an hour of waiting, he hauled me up and decided we ought to storm out. And then things went from bad to worse.

During my Latin A level, I’d learned about the Fates: Clotho, who wove life together; Lachesis, who measured it; and Atropos, who cut the thread; a trio who perpetually laughed at humans’ feeble attempts to evade them. Well, it looked as though we had offended Clotho big-time, because after catching a sweaty Tube to Baker Street to try Odins, we found they were full too. By now Anthony was spitting. I suggested Pizza Express and he refused; then I threw a strop and he retaliated, saying he’d wanted to take me somewhere nice and what was the point of getting dressed up in suits and little black dresses if we were going to eat sophisticated cheese on toast, and I pointed out that the tartufo ice cream made it all worthwhile, but he still couldn’t be persuaded. Then we compromised and decided on the New Blues Jazz Café. We took the Tube to Chalk Farm, only to find a glass door looking into a room littered with junk and paper. The nice man next door helpfully informed us that the owners owed some heavies a lot of money and had fled to Mexico, but a chippie was going to be opening soon.

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