Page 89 of Counting Down To You

28

I’m on edge as I walk down the quiet alley toward the tapas restaurant where I suggested James meet me. It’s just a few tube stops away from my flat and was a regular haunt of mine and Robyn’s. We’d discovered it by chance one evening when we’d been on the way back from somewhere or other and Robyn had declared that she was starving and that we must get off the tube immediately to find sustenance. I still have no idea how we found it—it’s the kind of place you only go to if you already know where it is. Their website never seems to be working, and there’s little sign that it’s a restaurant until you step inside the front door.

A streetlamp flickers above me as I approach, the sound of my boots lightly echoing on the damp pavement. I feel a tightening around my heart. The last time I was here, I was with Robyn. It was just after she’d got her diagnosis, and with it the answer to why she hadn’t been feeling right for some time. She’d been determined, then, that it would only be “a minor setback.”

I’d hesitated. I didn’t want to make Robyn worried, but I also didn’t think we could just avoid the diagnosis like she was trying to. “I think this qualifies as a bit more than just a minor setback, Ro.”

Robyn’s expression flickered, and it was only because I knew her so well that I saw it: the pain, the sadness, the anxiety. “I know, Al,” she murmured. “But for tonight I need to believe that. Okay?”

I nodded firmly, refusing to let my own panic rise. “Okay.”

We ordered way too much food, drank way too much sangria, and it had seemed impossible, then, that things wouldn’t be okay in the end.

I hadn’t thought I’d ever come here again without Robyn. Then I’d opened my calendar this morning.

Go to our tapas place and find out how Arlo is doing. Did his daughter stick with the violin in the end?!

James is waiting for me under the little overhang outside the front door. He is hunched over his phone, the dim light from the restaurant spilling over his features—darker than mine, more like our dad than our mum. He looks basically the same, maybe a bit of gray in his hair that wasn’t there before, a slight rounding of his features. He’s let his beard grow out a little—that’s new. Or maybe not so new. I have no idea.

He looks up at the sound of my footsteps and I see the quick assessment he gives me, like I just gave him. I wonder if he’s noticing subtle differences in me, too, wonder how much I’ve changed since we last saw each other.

He smiles, and though I can see the tension around his jaw, it seems warm. “Hey, Al.” He steps toward me, like he might fold me into a hug, then seems to think better of it, swinging his arms at his sides awkwardly instead.

“Hey,” I say.

He clears his throat, nods toward the door. “Shall we go inside?”

“Sure.” Oh God, it’s so awkward. And we’ve agreed to a whole dinner together, for Christ’s sake. Why didn’t I counter? I should have suggested coffee instead—twenty minutes, max.

James holds the door open for me and I step through, warm air caressing my cold cheeks. It smells unbelievable in here, the way it always does—fresh bread and garlic and herbs. Today, there’s also a subtle undercurrent of something sweet and spicy, like a nod to the Christmas season. Candles flicker on the tables, with low lighting overhead. It’s small and intimate, no more than ten tables, all of which have always been full each time I’ve been here. I didn’t think I’d get in when I called them earlier, but it had been Arlo, the owner, who answered, and he’d remembered me.

“We haven’t seen you or your friend for a long time!”

“No. No, I’m sorry. My friend, she…” And Arlo had heard the unspoken words.

“Chiquita, I’m so sorry. And, for you, we have space tonight.”

We are shown to our table, one in the corner, next to a rowdy table of four. I take off my coat, draping it over the back of my wooden chair, which scrapes lightly over the floor as I pull it out. I thank the waiter as I take my menu and put my phone on the table.

James picks up the drinks list first. “Sangria?” he asks.

“Oh, I think we’re going to need it.”

“A jug?” asks the waiter.

“That would be great,” James says.

When the waiter leaves, we fall into silence. Spanish music plays in the background, and laughter swells from the other tables. Across from me, James rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“So, how are you?” he asks, tone forcibly bright. “How’s work? Recruitment, right?”

Work should be an easy starting topic, I suppose. Although I don’t know how he knows I’m in recruitment given I got the job after he left. Maybe Mum told him.

“That’s right,” I say, starting to fiddle with the napkin in front of me.

I think of walking in the Lake District with James, of him asking what I’d want to do if I could do anything. I’d want to be outdoors, in the countryside, walking until my legs hurt. And then of the same conversation with Leo, just a matter of days ago. Stuart had given me an opportunity to do exactly that, even if only temporarily. I hadn’t realized how much the idea had taken hold, until now, when the possibility has been taken from me.

But I have a job, and I should be grateful for that. I should be in touch with Farah, actually, and make sure everything’s on track for me to go back in January. I try to ignore the weight in my stomach at the thought of it. At the thought of never going back to Châtel again, or seeing Lucie, or walking with Stuart. I need to come to terms with the fact that I can’t have that, not anymore.