The Undomestic Goddess
Page 11
The waiter puts the tray down in front of me, but my hands are full with phones.
“I’ll take that for you,” says Lorraine, relieving me of Daniel’s phone. She lifts it to her ear, then beams at me. “He’s singing!” she says, pointing to the receiver encouragingly.
“Samantha?” Mum is saying in my ear. “Are you still there?”
“I’m just … they’re singing ‘Happy Birthday’ …”
I put the phone on the table. After a moment’s thought, Lorraine puts the other phone carefully down on the other side of me.
This is my family birthday party.
Two cell phones.
I can see people looking over at the singing, their smiles falling a little as they see I’m sitting on my own. I can see the sympathy in the faces of the waiters. I’m trying to keep my chin up, but my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.
Suddenly the waiter I ordered from earlier appears at the table. He’s carrying three cocktails on a tray and looks at the empty table in slight confusion.
“Who is the martini for?”
“It was … supposed to be for my brother …”
“That would be the Nokia,” says Lorraine helpfully, pointing at the mobile phone.
There’s a pause—then, with a blank, professional face, the waiter sets the drink down in front of the phone, together with a cocktail napkin.
I want to laugh—except there’s a stinging at the back of my eyes. He places the other cocktails on the table, nods at me, then retreats. There’s an awkward pause.
“So anyway …” Lorraine retrieves Daniel’s mobile phone and pops it into her bag. “Happy birthday—and have a lovely evening!”
As she tip-taps her way out of the restaurant, I pick up the other phone to say good-bye—but Mum’s already rung off. The singing waiters have melted away. It’s just me and a basket of soap.
“Did you wish to order?” The maître d’ has reappeared at my chair. “I can recommend the risotto,” he says in kind tones. “Some nice salad, perhaps? And a glass of wine?”
“Actually …” I force myself to smile. “I’ll just get the bill, thanks.”
It doesn’t matter.
We were never all going to make a dinner. We shouldn’t even have tried to set the date. We’re all busy, we all have careers, that’s just the way my family is.
As I stand outside the restaurant, a taxi pulls up right in front of me and I quickly stick my hand out. The rear door opens and a tatty beaded flip-flop emerges, followed by a pair of cutoff jeans, an embroidered kaftan, familiar tousled blond hair …
“Stay here,” she’s instructing the taxi driver. “I can only be five minutes—”
“Freya?” I say in disbelief. She wheels round and her eyes widen.
“Samantha! What are you doing on the pavement?”
“What are you doing here?” I counter. “I thought you were going to India.”
“I’m on my way! I’m meeting Lord at the airport in about …” She looks at her watch. “Ten minutes.”
She pulls a guilty face, and I can’t help laughing. I’ve known Freya since we were both seven years old and in boarding school together. On the first night she told me her family were circus performers and she knew how to ride an elephant and walk the tightrope. For a whole term I believed her stories about the exotic circus life. Until her parents arrived that first Christmas to pick her up and turned out to be a pair of accountants from Staines. Even then she was unabashed and said she’d lied to cover up the real truth—which was that they were spies.
She’s taller than me, with bright blue eyes and freckled skin, permanently tanned from her travels. Right now her skin is peeling slightly on her nose, and she has a new silver earring, right at the top of her ear. She has the whitest, most crooked teeth I’ve ever seen, and when she laughs, one corner of her top lip rises.
“I’m here to gate-crash your birthday dinner.” Freya focuses on the restaurant in suspicion. “But I thought I was late. What happened?”
“Well …” I hesitate. “The thing was … Mum and Daniel …”
“Left early?” As she peers at me, Freya’s expression changes to one of horror. “Didn’t turn up? Jesus Christ, the bastards. Couldn’t they just for once put you first instead of their frigging—” She stops her tirade; she knows I’ve heard it all before. “Sorry. I know. They’re your family. Whatever.”
Freya and my mum don’t exactly get on.
“I’ll take that for you,” says Lorraine, relieving me of Daniel’s phone. She lifts it to her ear, then beams at me. “He’s singing!” she says, pointing to the receiver encouragingly.
“Samantha?” Mum is saying in my ear. “Are you still there?”
“I’m just … they’re singing ‘Happy Birthday’ …”
I put the phone on the table. After a moment’s thought, Lorraine puts the other phone carefully down on the other side of me.
This is my family birthday party.
Two cell phones.
I can see people looking over at the singing, their smiles falling a little as they see I’m sitting on my own. I can see the sympathy in the faces of the waiters. I’m trying to keep my chin up, but my cheeks are burning with embarrassment.
Suddenly the waiter I ordered from earlier appears at the table. He’s carrying three cocktails on a tray and looks at the empty table in slight confusion.
“Who is the martini for?”
“It was … supposed to be for my brother …”
“That would be the Nokia,” says Lorraine helpfully, pointing at the mobile phone.
There’s a pause—then, with a blank, professional face, the waiter sets the drink down in front of the phone, together with a cocktail napkin.
I want to laugh—except there’s a stinging at the back of my eyes. He places the other cocktails on the table, nods at me, then retreats. There’s an awkward pause.
“So anyway …” Lorraine retrieves Daniel’s mobile phone and pops it into her bag. “Happy birthday—and have a lovely evening!”
As she tip-taps her way out of the restaurant, I pick up the other phone to say good-bye—but Mum’s already rung off. The singing waiters have melted away. It’s just me and a basket of soap.
“Did you wish to order?” The maître d’ has reappeared at my chair. “I can recommend the risotto,” he says in kind tones. “Some nice salad, perhaps? And a glass of wine?”
“Actually …” I force myself to smile. “I’ll just get the bill, thanks.”
It doesn’t matter.
We were never all going to make a dinner. We shouldn’t even have tried to set the date. We’re all busy, we all have careers, that’s just the way my family is.
As I stand outside the restaurant, a taxi pulls up right in front of me and I quickly stick my hand out. The rear door opens and a tatty beaded flip-flop emerges, followed by a pair of cutoff jeans, an embroidered kaftan, familiar tousled blond hair …
“Stay here,” she’s instructing the taxi driver. “I can only be five minutes—”
“Freya?” I say in disbelief. She wheels round and her eyes widen.
“Samantha! What are you doing on the pavement?”
“What are you doing here?” I counter. “I thought you were going to India.”
“I’m on my way! I’m meeting Lord at the airport in about …” She looks at her watch. “Ten minutes.”
She pulls a guilty face, and I can’t help laughing. I’ve known Freya since we were both seven years old and in boarding school together. On the first night she told me her family were circus performers and she knew how to ride an elephant and walk the tightrope. For a whole term I believed her stories about the exotic circus life. Until her parents arrived that first Christmas to pick her up and turned out to be a pair of accountants from Staines. Even then she was unabashed and said she’d lied to cover up the real truth—which was that they were spies.
She’s taller than me, with bright blue eyes and freckled skin, permanently tanned from her travels. Right now her skin is peeling slightly on her nose, and she has a new silver earring, right at the top of her ear. She has the whitest, most crooked teeth I’ve ever seen, and when she laughs, one corner of her top lip rises.
“I’m here to gate-crash your birthday dinner.” Freya focuses on the restaurant in suspicion. “But I thought I was late. What happened?”
“Well …” I hesitate. “The thing was … Mum and Daniel …”
“Left early?” As she peers at me, Freya’s expression changes to one of horror. “Didn’t turn up? Jesus Christ, the bastards. Couldn’t they just for once put you first instead of their frigging—” She stops her tirade; she knows I’ve heard it all before. “Sorry. I know. They’re your family. Whatever.”
Freya and my mum don’t exactly get on.
