My resounding and limited memory of Florian was that he had always been slightly scruffy. No matter what the occasion, there would be holes in his jumpers, scuffs on his trousers and paint smears on most of the cuffs of his jackets. He’s tidier now, like he has thought about what clothes he’s thrown on. The most notable change, however, is his hair. It’s shorter, loosely tousled with some wax that makes it darker than I remember. It had been shoulder length the last time I saw him. He had tied it into a scruffy bun for the funeral which he let down for the pathetic excuse of a wake that I was far too anesthetised by Valium and whisky to take much of a part in. He looks younger, his face only shadowed by a couple of creases here and there, the kind that make a man look distinguished, not haggard. The three years have been kinder to him than they have to me.
‘Hello.’ I approach carefully but he still jolts and then lets out an awkward laugh. ‘Not expecting me or…’ I trail off as he slips from the stool and greets me, quickly pressing his lips to my cheeks.
‘I guess I just thought you wouldn’t come.’ He shrugs, his English word perfect, only the faint echo of an accent.
‘I thought about it.’ I pull myself up onto the bar stool facing him. ‘But I figured that we were going to see each other again at some point.’
He assesses me and then nods. ‘That’s why I thought this would be good. And I also thought that somewhere new might be less…’ He searches for the right word.
‘Triggering?’ He weighs it up, whether it truly does fit, and when he tries it on his lips he nods.
‘Yes. Triggering.’
He calls over the waitress and a young woman comes over. She smiles at him, a hand on his shoulder, and she looks nervously at me with the same appraising look that Florian had given me moments before. I know they have been talking about me. Probably placing bets on whether I would turn up, giving her a one-sided version of our limited familial interactions.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asks. It feels impolite to ask for a vodka so I gesture to the carafe of wine on another table. ‘Red, please.’
‘Two glasses.’ Florian chips in.
‘Sure.’ She smiles sweetly and heads back into the bar.
The terrace is lit with festoon bulbs and patio heaters and I think I have been concentrating so hard on what I’m going to say, on trying to puzzle out what’s happening, that I haven’t really taken in the fact it’s almost warm.
The waitress brings out the wine immediately, catching Florian’s eye as she places the glasses on the table and sweeps back away.
‘You two a thing?’ I ask as I pour out a glass that is so large the carafe is now only half full. We both know why we’re here, but it is a subject that I will need to be tipsy to broach and so a conversation about Florian’s love life is a much more interesting appetiser.
He shrugs, taking the carafe off me and pouring himself a glass that is equally as big. ‘Not really.’
We descend into an awkward silence, both gulping back our wine and refilling our glasses quickly.
‘Thank you for bringing my shopping back,’ I start. Archie had told me to make sure I wasn’t starting the conversation on the attack. He said that he imagined I could be quite wounding when I went into things with an attitude. I felt strangely proud of that.
‘You’re welcome.’ He doesn’t look at me as he says it.
‘You owe me a bottle of wine though.’
He looks up then, his neck whipping straight, his eyes bright and fixed on me. ‘I gave you a better bottle.’
‘I don’t need my shopping delivered with suggestions.’
‘You’re telling me you didn’t enjoy the replacement?’ He already knows my answer. He knows it would be near impossible to not enjoy the bottle that did arrive in the bag.
‘I—’ I stumble for the right words but give up and just shrug. ‘I want my bottle back.’
‘Fine.’ He drums his fingers on the table. ‘I will get you another shit bottle.’ There is an irritating smile at the corner of his mouth. I didn’t come to entertain him. There is another awkward beat in the conversation and I watch as the attempt at a smile flattens, turns into a thin-lipped line.
‘You thought I was him, didn’t you?’ He doesn’t look me in the eye when he says it but his face is pained. He knows my answer before I say it. I think he has been thinking about it since I ran off.
I brush a hair from my eyes and tuck it behind my ear, thinking about yesterday, how in a moment I had managed to convince myself that I had run into my dead husband. The husband I watched being lowered into the ground. ‘You know, it’s funny. I never thought you two looked alike before. I don’t even think you do now but… I don’t know.’
‘We’re more alike than strangers.’
‘I think perhaps I saw what I wanted to see.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he says sadly.
‘For what? It’s not your fault I thought you were him.’
