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If ever there was a candidate for a solo shipwrecking, it would be Paul.
One of the wait staff arrives and I realise in horror that Paul has ordered a starter, adding at least another twenty minutes to this debacle. My shoulders sink and while he tucks into his crab salad, I attack the bread bowl.
‘You wanna be careful with carbs,’ he says with a shake of the head. ‘Hips and thighs, mate.’
Slowly and deliberately, I stick the whole roll into my mouth in an act of defiance. Then I slather the next roll, destined for him, with so much butter it looks like a cupcake. I take a bite out of that too.
‘You do you. I’m just saying that as you get older your metabolism—’
‘Paul, can I stop you right there? I’m not interested in a lecture on metabolism, mate. Shall we talk about something that interests both of us?’
He sniffs. ‘Is that a fake tat?’
He’s looking at my arm and I realise there is still a bit of temporary Elsa tattoo there. Pre-motherhood, I’d never have allowed this to stay on for so long, but now there is so much stuff running through my mind at all times that small tasks like ‘scrub off tattoo’ fall by the wayside.
‘Got any real ones?’
‘No. I’d be too worried that I might change my mind about the design later in life.’
‘I’ve got one.’
I get an uncomfortable sense of foreboding. ‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. The words “lucky you” tattooed above my groin, mate.’
My soul has exited my body. I bid it a fond farewell.
‘You know, for all the lucky birds to see before …’
I swallow back the rising bile. Paul is saying something about me playing my cards right but it’s all background noise, now. Something inside me has snapped. I do not have to put up with this! I am over and I am out. I stand up, throw my napkin down on the table and leg it.
Literally leg it!
I’m tempted to shout fuck it into the abyss but I feel bad for the other diners so land on a more family-friendly dramatic exit.
‘Eff you, Paul! And eff this!’ I call out as I clatter out of the restaurant.
I run on my long legs all the way down College Green. As my heels clack I feel a strange mix of elation and guilt. How rude of me to run away from a dinner date and yet, how thrilling.
I am free! I am Braveheart!
I am … way too early to go home because then Poppy will know I didn’t stick with it.
Being a hot, cross mum on the run has given me a certain clarity. I’m quite flustered by now, and people are staring because only lunatics go for a jog in heels. But I’ve decided to capitalise on this time to myself which, as a single parent, never happens.
Like a homing pigeon, I head for the harbour. There I find Tara, an old client of mine, and her super popular food truck Hook + Bait. She waves as she spots me and I join the queue to order some of her fabulous fresh seafood. It smells so good and I get a real glow from seeing how well she’s doing, even on a cold February evening like this one. We have a brief chat as she hands over lobster rolls and she promises to come over as soon as the queue’s gone down, so I grab a spot on the water’s edge, still sticky from the run, and tuck in.
Her food is mouth-wateringly good and I can feel my frayed temper soothing with each delicious bite. I watch the boats bob on the water, their sails jangling in the wind.
‘Hey, Sophie.’ Tara perches next to me.
I clap my hands and gesture madly towards the now empty cardboard box by my side. ‘These lobster rolls are your best yet. I’d happily moisturise my whole body in that mayo.’
She hoots. ‘I’m not sure even you could make a business out of garlic mayo moisturiser.’ She wipes her hands down an apron and sets a tin of white wine down next to me. ‘On the house.’
‘Tara, that’s really kind but I can’t accept freebies from clients.’ I’m about to launch into a monologue about nurturing financial growth when I notice that she is giving me quite a stern look. I pull the ring back obediently and take a slurp.
‘Good.’ Tara nods. ‘After everything you’ve done for me, you can expect drinks on the house whenever you visit. If we hadn’t got chatting that day …’ She trails off, lost in thought.
