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‘I wonder how many salads they sell?’ I say to Toby. ‘It doesn’t strike me as the sort of place you’d naturally pick out for a delicious salad.’
‘Perhaps you should try one,’ he replies. ‘Let’s see, you could have tuna, egg, tuna and egg for an extra one pound fifty, or chicken. Pretty exotic stuff, don’t you agree? In fact, I think I can hear Gordon Ramsay trembling with fear at the prospect of Nora’s diner stealing his Michelin stars.’
I laugh. ‘I’m not sure my palate is sophisticated enough for such delicacies,’ I tell him. ‘I think I’ll have a baked potato with tuna mayo.’
‘I’m not sure where the sommelier is,’ Toby continues, warming to his theme. ‘It’s a shame, because I’ve heard the wine cellars here would put the Mirabelle’s to shame. Can I tempt you to a cup of tea or coffee instead?’
I study the list of drinks and decide that a Diet Coke is probably the safest option. Toby goes up to the counter to order, and I continue my observation of the café. On one wall is a large blackboard with ‘Specials’ written at the top. The board itself is blank. I wonder how long it’s been since they had anything to write on there. There’s a pretty young girl serving behind the counter. She can’t be more than sixteen, so I imagine this is a Saturday job for her. She seems happy in her work and smiles widely at Toby as he places our order. The tables, which are fixed to the floor, are covered with chipped Formica, and each table has salt and pepper shakers, bottles of vinegar and red and brown squeezy bottles for the different types of ketchup. Everything feels very slightly sticky, which is not a pleasant sensation. It has the air of a place that might have been loved once, but has been neglected for a long time.
The baked potatoes, as Toby promised, are not too bad. The skins aren’t crispy, so they’ve obviously been microwaved, but they’re a decent size and generously filled. I offer to pay my share when we finish, but Toby is having none of it, insisting it’s the least he can do in return for my help with the painting.
The afternoon follows much the same pattern as the morning. I’ve moved on to painting the toilet; Toby has chosen a neutral bluey-green colour for the walls, which is a huge improvement on the bubblegum pink that was there before. Toby continues in the dressing room and, by the end of the day, both rooms have had their first coats of paint. I have got a few spatters of white paint on me from painting the ceiling in the toilet, so I’m glad I remembered the cap to protect my hair. Promising to be back bright and early the next morning, I head home to soak in a long, hot bath.
* * *
By Sunday evening, the painting is finished and the studio looks very smart. We’ve refreshed the paint in the entry area as well. Toby has decided to dress it rather like an art gallery, with large scale prints of some of his work, so we’ve painted everything in white as a neutral backdrop.
‘What about that fish and chips I promised you?’ he asks, after we’ve tidied the painting stuff away.
‘I’d like that,’ I reply, and we wander across the road to Tony’s Fish Bar. It’s obviously popular, as there’s a bit of a queue, but there are several people working behind the counter and on the fryers, so we don’t have to wait long. We eat it out of the paper, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the studio. The fish batter is light and crunchy, and the cod steams and flakes underneath. It’s delicious, and I groan with pleasure as I bite into it.
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ Toby says. ‘A bit of an improvement on the café, anyway.’
‘It’s excellent,’ I reply. ‘Give me this over the ponced-up stuff we had at the Mirabelle any day. Food like this is why I could never go back to America.’
‘I’m sure they have fish and chips in America, don’t they?’
‘They do, but it’s just not the same somehow. Sometimes it comes with skinny fries, which is patently wrong, but even when they get the chips right, it just isn’t quite there. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s definitely something missing. To be fair, it’s not just an American problem. I’ve tried fish and chips in all sorts of countries, and none of them are like we get here.’
‘Do you think you’ll always be a travel writer?’
The question catches me by surprise, and I take a moment to think before answering. ‘I loved it in my twenties, in fact I used to pinch myself sometimes because I couldn’t believe I was able to visit all these amazing places and get paid for it. But the insecurity of it becomes wearing after a while. You’re only ever as good as your last piece, you know? And, if you make a mistake…’ I tail off, remembering how closely I came to losing it all at the beginning of the year.
‘Have you ever made a mistake?’ Toby asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘That’s what we’re hopefully going to find out when we go to the Bellavista.’
‘Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about that.’ He puts on a film trailer voice. ‘Lucy Swann, aka Madison Morgan, gets her fingers burned by TripAdvisor. Is this the end for her, or will photographer Toby Roberts ride to her rescue?’
‘Piss off, idiot! Anyway, it was a close shave, and I suppose it’s got me wondering whether I should start looking for something with a bit more job security.’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know. I like the industry so, if an editing job came up, I might apply for that. I’ve probably got another couple of years of this in me, so we’ll see what happens.’
When we’ve finished eating, I gather my stuff together and get ready to go.
‘Are you around next Saturday evening?’ Toby asks.
‘Why, are you after more slave labour?’ I laugh.
‘No, it’s the grand opening. It’s a black tie do, and I’ve invited various people from the industry, other photographers, editors, friends. I’d love it if you could come, particularly after all the work you’ve put in.’
I consult the diary on my phone. I’m off to Iceland on Sunday evening for four days, but Saturday is currently free.
‘Saturday’s fine. I’ll look forward to it.’
* * *
