Best Served Cold, page 7
Alice and Rose are quick to respond, demanding details, and a little bit of me is loath to hand it all over to them on a plate. I’m being mean, but I don’t give them the restaurant name where we hope to go. I want to have something for myself, as it feels like three of us are going on this date. I don’t think Jack signed up for a hydra!
And yet more memories are surfacing. Is this because I feel I might have a chance with Jack? Are they warnings? No, I chide myself. I should be cautious. I don’t know him, although that will hopefully change next Saturday. I will not blow it right at the start with unfounded misgivings. I will be open to this.
Harry came around the following day. By then, I could truly feel the extent of my injuries, and there didn’t seem to be enough of the Co-codamol tablets left in that little orange pot. The previous night was a bit hazy, although I seemed to remember Hugh Penfold had me by the hair in the pub. My neck felt as if I’d been under a meat tenderiser.
‘Are you decent?’ The key rattled in the lock.
‘Yes,’ I called back.
Cold air entered with him as he wrestled off his coat. He clutched a bag, and I wasn’t sure if it was the bag or Harry that smelt so good. I hoped it was the bag.
‘Much as muesli was so enticing, I thought I’d come prepared. I have two coffees and two Danish pastries. They’re still warm from the oven.’
‘Ooh! Give me, give me.’ I held out my hand.
‘Plates?’
I waved towards a small cupboard on the wall, and we were soon eating and slurping at the coffee.
‘Thanks so much for this, Harry.’ I didn’t know if it was the effect of the painkillers, but I felt pretty confident, which was a bit of a first for me.
‘You’re welcome. By the way, Alice sends her love. And, back to the nitty-gritty. How are you feeling today?’
Licking my fingers, I pulled back the duvet and showed him the discolouration spreading down most of my thigh and my pumpkin-sized ankle. ‘I would say it looks worse than it is, but I’d be lying. It hurts, and I mean really, really hurts. And I think I might have lost some of my hair.’
‘It looks dreadful. Don’t worry, Lily. He’ll get what’s coming to him.’ He stood, wrenched open the fridge door and rummaged through the cupboard. ‘Okay. I’m going to go and get some supplies in for you, and we can spend the day watching films or listening to music or whatever you want.’ He turned abruptly. ‘Or not? Sorry, didn’t mean to assume or anything?’
‘I’d appreciate some help with food and things, though you don’t have to stay with me.’ I looked away. ‘Unless you want to stay with me.’ I tried to sound flippant, ‘No worries, either way.’
‘Of course I’ll stay with you. I’ll be back in a mo.’
All I can say is, ‘thank God for Netflix’, as we spent that day and the day after nestled into my duvet, binge-watching series, eating crap and talking about the weirdest stuff. We didn’t even share a kiss, yet it was terrific.
Of course, as the bruises faded and my ankle resumed its usual size, the Netflix sessions turned into something else. Many a time, a film finished, and neither of us had a clue what it was about. Harry wasn’t my first boyfriend, yet I hoped he would be my last. All the sexual experiences I’d had so far now seemed adolescent fumbling and gropings. It felt easy with Harry, as I’d always imagined sex should be. And we talked about everything, art, politics, religion and history, though we never broached the future. I suppose it was because we were so young – the future was shining brightly in front of us, and we didn’t need to discuss it. In my mind, we would be together until we were grey and wrinkly and knew each other inside out. Until our teeth and hair fell out. Until we died in each other’s arms. How naive!
Without even realising it, I had become part of the in-crowd. I cut my hair short, dyed it deep burgundy, started to wear retro clothes bought from various trendy markets and fitted in seamlessly. Apart from the feeling that I was a fake and they would all see through the façade to the painfully shy little girl inside. But they never seemingly did. I’m not sure if Harry did, either. It occurred to me maybe all of us were doing this, reinventing ourselves in the image we wanted to be, not as the pimply, gangly, unsophisticated kids we’d all been at home. That made me feel better. We were all forcing ourselves out of our chrysalises, slowly unfolding our wings, ready to show off our dazzling colours, transitioning into the beautiful butterflies we longed to be.
That’s my theory, and I’m sticking to it.
At some point, Hugh Penfold’s case was sent to court. As witnesses, all the students present who had seen the assault in the pub were in the front seats. We wore our best clothes and tried not to be intimidated by the austerity of the courtroom. The principal was sitting at the back, face grave, with a couple of the other tutors from our school. What were they expecting? Clemency? A clean slate? No shit on their shoes?
When the judge entered, we all stood. A woman judge, and for that I was grateful. The press were stationed in the top gallery, and the jurors in their benches down one side. They were sworn in on either the Bible or the Quran.
It was pretty cut and dried after that. The list of offences was read out: sexual harassment, intimidation and Grievous Bodily Harm. GBH. The film Harry took of Hugh intimidating me at the party was shown, quickly followed by Lauren’s film when Hugh attacked us in the pub. Seeing myself on the screen like that was horrifying, as I hadn’t seen the footage until this moment. It was a brutal attack, and watching it now from the outside, so to speak, I hoped the judge would lock the bastard up for ever and a day. I also saw how Harry had been injured. He’d taken a blow meant for me. I didn’t think I could love Harry more, but I did that day. Harry and Alice also looked shocked, and Alice turned her face away at the end, even though she’d been there that night.
There was absolutely no wriggle room. It was blatantly evident Hugh was guilty, although I wondered if he might still deny it all. Head in the sand. Anyone can see that it wasn’t me. I thought at that point it was done. Except it wasn’t, was it?
I was called as a witness and had to go through it all again, aware of everyone’s eyes on me. Feeling judged. Was any of this my fault? Would I be the one to be condemned? Images of my injuries were blown up huge on the screen, and photos were passed along the row of jurors for them to um and ah over. I could see some of my friends wince when they saw them and mutter under their breath. Harry was called, as were Alice and Lauren. They all swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but… except it was all there to see in glorious colour. It wasn’t as if we would differ from the filmed evidence.
Hugh was called then. He’d been watching and listening from a glass-fronted area in the middle of the courtroom. A prison guard stood at his back. His eyes slid to mine, and I felt queasy. ‘No comment,’ was all he said.
When Hugh was finally asked how he would plead, he said, ‘Guilty.’ His face was granite, his jaw grinding, and he stared forward through the whole proceedings, never looking at me or Harry again. A wave of relief swept over me, then a woman in one of the seats at the back put her head in her hands, and I saw her shoulders heave. This poor woman must be his wife. Was she relieved or saddened?
The jury was led out to deliberate. They quickly filed back in and stated that, yes, Hugh Penfold was definitely guilty. The judge nodded solemnly and sorted through some paperwork.
‘I sentence Hugh Penfold to five years imprisonment and a fine of twenty thousand pounds.’
There. Now it was done.
Did Hugh Penfold do five years, or was he let out for good behaviour? I won’t bother to check. The most important thing was that the court case was so high profile, appearing in newspapers and the news channels; it also helped to change the culture in the school. And for that alone, I was proud. It turned out other women had come forward to accuse Hugh Penfold of sexual misconduct and worse. This evidence was not allowed to be part of the court case and was suppressed until after the trial when it all came out. It was a bit of a scandal the school tried to weather as best it could. Things had to change, and I felt I was a part of that change.
Why on earth is Harry popping into my mind, left, right and centre? What? The mention of another Harry can send me off on a tangent like this? God help me! I need to get a handle on this, having at long last made contact with the first possibly non-weird bloke in ages. There have been so many stomach-curdling, arrogant, clingy wackos so far since I broke up with Harry; I can’t afford to lose my shit at this point. My head must be clear if I have any chance with Jack. Just saying his name out loud makes me shiver in anticipation. Jack Kelly. What will he be like? And more to the point, I hope he likes me.
Chapter Six
SATURDAY, 5 DECEMBER – JACK
Toast and tea are all I can manage this morning, as anything heavier might make me throw up. Today I will meet Jack Kelly. I roll his name around on my tongue to taste it. Jack Kelly. I shouldn’t have nerves such as this for a first date, especially as the last few have been so disastrous, yet I’m hoping this time it will work. It’s not so much that I think Jack could be the one; more like, at least, we might start off on the same page. In one of my previous encounters, the man had obviously chosen a ten-year-old photo (I’m being complimentary here), and then he enlightened me that ‘women always get their way by using sex’. I’m not sure what he expected to happen after such a comment. Perhaps he thought I might fall face-first onto his dick, and the fact we were in a café be damned! To say I couldn’t get out of there fast enough is an understatement. He seemed surprised as I raced out the door, so maybe this initial gambit had worked for him before. Can’t see it myself, but it takes all sorts.
I agonise over what to wear. The only picture he’s seen of me was summer and soft focus. Now it’s mid-winter, which means red runny noses and chapped lips. Not a good look, and not to mention resembling a hamster with all the scarves, gloves and coats. I wonder if he will be able to recognise me, and maybe waving a placard with his name on it isn’t such a bad idea now. I choose a pair of bootleg jeans and a long-sleeved black sweater over a T-shirt. And team them with low-heeled boots.
I lurk close enough to the barriers to see who is pushing through but not so close I appear too eager and, conversely, so I have leeway to run should the need arise. I spot Jack at the exact moment he sees me. Wearing jeans and boots, a dark leather jacket over a hoodie and with his hands stuffed into his pockets, he looks like a young Chris Hemsworth. That’s good enough for me! I hope his first impression of me is as favourable. He grins and waves as he sticks his ticket in to get through the barrier. I start to move forward, and we meet in the middle.
He peers at me. ‘Lily?’ He holds out his hand, and I shake it. ‘At least I hope you are, or you’re going to think I’m a nutter.’
‘Hi, Jack.’ I seem to be still holding his hand, which is warm and a bit rough, as if he does manual labour. I pull away and say, ‘Good journey? Sorry, that sounds so crass.’
‘No, it’s what people say who have just met up. And I will say back, “thank you, Lily. It was a delightful journey, indeed”. Okay?’
I laugh and peer down at my boots. ‘Yeah, that’s better.’
‘It’s very nice to finally meet you, Lily. So? Where are we going again?’
I peek up at him, aware he is taller than me. That’s a plus to start with. ‘Do you still want to go to the Mexican place?’
He nods. ‘That’d be great. But I’d prefer indoors if poss. It was a bit parky on the train. I’ll follow you, as I don’t know Brighton.’ I have to blink a few times. There’s something about his accent. I can’t quite put my finger on it, except that I’ve heard it before. Neither this nor that, though still something recognisable, and in that recognition, I get a strange fleeting feeling of loss.
‘Are you from here?’ he asks.
I shake my head, but that’s more to knock out these odd feelings. ‘No, I’m from a town called Edenbridge. It’s not too far away.’ I nod at him. ‘You?’
‘A small village near Cheshire. And like most people, I got out years ago.’
Ah! That must be it. Every slight northern accent reminds me of Harry… Best not to start thinking of him just as I’m meeting Jack.
Heading out, we push against the flow of people and walk down Queen’s Road. Our pace is slow as he is looking about, and then he steps on my heel.
‘Sorry, but I’ve just seen the view and wasn’t watching where I was going!’ He turns to me. ‘I still have that feeling like when you’re a kid, and you see the sea for the first time. Too long cooped up in the big city. I’m so glad it’s a nice day. I mean, the colour of the sea is beautiful, especially against that sky.’
It’s not as if I need reminding, though seeing it through someone else’s eyes is great. And to know he can appreciate the same feelings I have. After all, colour is my life. ‘That’s one of the reasons I love it here. I can easily walk to the sea from my place and either go towards the main drag or along the wilder part of the coast. The city is big enough to feel like a city but small enough to walk from one end to the other.’ I laugh. ‘Sorry, didn’t know you were on a tourist excursion, did you?’
‘It makes me want to visit more.’ He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the corner. They are such an intense blue, although I’m not sure if they are simply reflecting the sky above. ‘And we both have to stop saying “sorry” so much. Agreed?’
I nod.
We wander down the slope to the beachfront. We are close but not touching as we dodge the crowds. Bars, restaurants and tourist traps abound, and we browse a little through the artists’ quarter. There’s some excellent stuff here, though I can’t afford to be frivolous, especially as I have decided to pay for the meal for the both of us. The sun is warm on my face, and people are snarling up the winding walkway as usual. A man on a bike zigzags his way through the crowd, and I marvel he doesn’t clip anyone. There are kids licking ice creams, and even the thought makes me shiver. Being British, everyone is sitting at the wooden benches outside the pubs, snuggled into hoods and coats but hands around a cold pint. I don’t think even a light blizzard could stop us.
Spotting the restaurant, I scan to see how crowded it is.
‘What do you think? Want to try inside?’
‘Sure. Looks great.’
Some of the tables out front are occupied with hardy souls. I steer Jack to the main entrance as a waitress bobs out, carrying four bottles of a Mexican beer and a hearty platter of nachos.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she calls over her shoulder.
As she returns, she barely slows her pace. I ask, ‘Is there any space upstairs?’
‘For two? We have a table by the window. Follow me, please.’
We clip-clop up the wooden staircase with a carved pomegranate on the post, passing the open kitchen where the chef, a tall, thin blonde woman, is pink-faced, cooking in a fug of smoke and steam. It smells delicious and authentic, although she doesn’t look particularly Mexican.
Upstairs is painted white, with wooden accessories, including old-fashioned farm tools, hung on the walls. The windows are semi-circular and look out over the front courtyard and walkway, across the pebbles to the stretch of sea and horizon. We are shown to the last remaining table, and I’m pleased as we have a perfect view. The rusty remains of the West Pier crumble into the sea to the right of us, and the more vibrant though somewhat tacky Brighton Pier is to our left. I want his first impressions to be good ones.
‘I like this place.’ Jack smiles at me as we are handed menus. ‘Wine or beer?’
‘Wine, for me.’
We both look down at the wine list and select a bottle of Campo Viejo Reserva 2015. At the same time, we order quesadillas and a salad to share. I listen to the waitress as she clomps down the wooden staircase.
There’s a lull as we look at anything except each other. Jack clears his throat.
‘Is this a favourite haunt of yours?’
‘Yep. The food is always cooked fresh, and the prices are affordable. If you can get a table in the summer, you can simply watch the world rollerblade by and the kids playing on the beach.’ I indicate out of the window. ‘And this is such a great view, even in winter.’
‘It certainly is.’
‘Where do you normally go? Do you stay in London, or do you go further out?’
‘Local pubs and then out to eat when I have time. I mean, nothing is cheap in London, though you can still find places that don’t need a second mortgage to be able to pay for it.’
‘Well,’ I shrug, ‘the fact Brighton is called “London-by-the-sea” says it all. Still, we also have our private little places that only Brightonians know about.’
Settling back in his chair, he stares at me. ‘I’d like to see a few of those. It’s not as if I’m bored of London, but as they say, a change is as good as a rest.’ Peering out the window, he sighs. ‘And even though I love English beaches, I hardly ever get the chance to be on one.’
‘Do you prefer our beaches to, say, Mediterranean ones?’
‘Yeah, I do. Endless blue sky and golden sand? How boring. I prefer glowering skies, crashing waves and the myriad colours of pebbles.’
‘So do I.’ I wonder if, one day, he might want to come swimming as the sun struggles to breach the horizon. I’ve done that a few times in the summer months, which is exhilarating. Cold but exhilarating! Or will this be our first and only date?
He changes tack. ‘I’m interested to know what’s your accomplishment you’re most proud of?’
The wine is placed on the table with a small pot of olives. I think about Jack’s question as he fills our glasses. It’s not an Alice measure.
