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‘It’s a lot more than serving wine and chips, as you well know. You’re confusing Margot’s with the Wetherspoons you go to with your work mates.’
‘Call it Viognier and halloumi fries if it makes you feel better, but the reality is, you’re wasting time waitressing when we should be cracking on.’
‘What’s the rush? We’ve got plenty of time. Can’t we just enjoy the wedding and being Mr and Mrs on our own first? Before the Ballinger bambinos come along. I want to open my own restaurant and working with Margot is the best possible training I can have for that right now. I’m learning so much, but I need more time. Once the restaurant is up and running, we can think about starting a family.’
George walked over to the sofa in a huff, Basil snuffling at his heels, as the oven timer pinged to let me know his yellow food was ready.
Four
Two weeks to the wedding. 26th August
It was time to finally say goodbye to my little London flat. The place that had seen me through most of my twenties, my first real job, living with Abi while trying to make long-distance work with George. And then eventually, Abi moving out and George moving in.
George was still asleep as I tiptoed downstairs to have a few minutes alone and take it all in. One last time. The summer sun was shining bright and the apple tree that had brushed against my window and reminded me of the seasons for the last five years knocked its fruity branches in farewell on the glass. Bus after bus thundered past on the street below, speeding early-risers and late night-returners to destinations across London. The coffee shop on the corner had a steady stream of punters going in and out, laden down with cups and paper bags. I was going to miss my commuter cappuccino from there each day. The new tenants were moving in at the weekend and the landlord wanted to give the flat a lick of paint and fresh carpets, so it really was time for us to go. I stood on the stairs and snapped a couple of photos to remember the place by. The shelves where my books and plants had once sat were now bare, the floor lamps had all gone and Gordon had finally succumbed to storage. The place wasn’t the same without him. Everything we collectively owned was either packed into a box or zipped inside one of the Tardis-like Ikea bags. The only things not bubble-wrapped and boxed were the kettle, a few breakfast bits, the radio, and Basil, who eyed me suspiciously from his bed. Although, when it came down to it, what else did I need for a perfect morning? I flicked the radio on and filled the kettle, taking my time to enjoy the moment. It was the last time I’d do this first thing in the morning.
‘I’ll have a brew,’ George shouted down, breaking my reverie.
I took two cups from the cupboard and popped a teabag in each.
‘And some bacon if there’s any going?’ he added.
‘Anything else?’ I called up, sarcastically, opening the almost-empty fridge and pulling out the bacon and tomatoes. My frying pan was on the hob, where it always was, as I added a knob of butter and knifed open the bacon.
‘Yes, toasted bread and ketchup, not fresh tomatoes, please.’
Neanderthal.
I added the bacon and tomatoes to the pan as the water came to the boil, all the breakfast sounds kicking off at once. The bubble and steam of the kettle, the popping and spitting of the bacon, the thunk as the toast shot up. It was all go, while the stone-cold tomatoes sat quietly and tried to work out what was happening. Basil yawned and stretched before padding over and looking up at me with a miaow. He could obviously sense that change was afoot, although after me, no one loved Basil more than my mum, except maybe my dad, so he’d be getting a big lifestyle upgrade for the next few weeks.
I made two glossy teas and ran one upstairs to George, who was propped up in bed, reading his phone.
‘Thanks,’ he said, without shifting his gaze, as I placed his cup on the bedside table.
‘Last day in the flat then,’ I said, sadly, which got his attention. He clicked his phone blank and chucked it on the bed.
‘I know! I can’t wait to get out of here and into our brand-new house. Away from all the London pollution and living on top of one another. No more cracks in the walls or neighbours partying till three in the morning. We are moving up in the world, baby,’ he said, with a smile.
‘I’m going to really miss it, though, I’ve lived here for so long,’ I said, looking at the paper light shade that Abi and I had put up together while bouncing on the bed, the brown shelves I’d attempted to paint white, but were still a coffee cream, and the curtain pole I’d had made especially as the window was an odd shape and wonky at the top.
‘You’ll love it when we’re in the country. We’re both nearly thirty, Hols; we should be married with kids on the way by now. If only you’d stuck with your job, you’d be ticking off all the boxes: career, house, husband.’
‘I have got a career, George. Success doesn’t have to equal sitting at a desk, waiting for the next email to come in, you know.’
‘No, but it should equal pound signs somewhere along the line,’ he grumbled.
‘Oh for goodness sake, is it going to be like this for the rest of our lives?’ I said, exasperated. ‘How much does it cost to be a member of this relationship exactly?’
‘Sorry, babe. It’s just I could see our future so crystal clear before and now it’s more difficult, that’s all… I know you love the waitressing gig with Margot.’
‘It is NOT a waitressing gig.’
‘It’s putting plates of food down on tables and pouring wine… isn’t it?’
I glared at George and was about to say something I’d almost certainly regret when the fire alarm started shrieking. I ran downstairs and grabbed the frying pan, holding it out the back door in a fury as my blood boiled. The smoky bacon was sizzled and crispy, perfect for a sandwich, but I’d lost my appetite. The alarm blared on until George appeared with a broom and gave it a hefty poke, our ears still ringing with the noise.
‘Sorry, Hols, I didn’t mean to snap,’ he said, looking genuinely contrite in his M&S pants as he leant on the broom. ‘I’m hungover and wasn’t thinking. I don’t like it when we argue.’
‘It’s not a race to the grave, George. We are allowed to enjoy our lives and our jobs and being married for five minutes before we move on to the next thing on the list.’
