Even though I know I shouldn't

We fall into a silence that may be described as comfortable or uncomfortable, depending which side of the table you’re sitting on. Occasionally we make eye contact over our meals, at which point slavering smiles and much eye rolling are employed to show each other how great the food is. My glass is empty again, so I refill it casually. Too casually, in fact – a couple of ruby drops spatter the table cloth, a third trickles down the outside of the glass. I put the bottle down and use a finger to remove the red smear from the delicate stem before it too soils the cloth, then gather up the bottle again and up-end it over Jenny’s glass, filling it to the brim and draining the bottle in the process. No matter, I’ll get another as soon as Annoyingly is within range.

You trying to get me pissed?

Might be, yeah. Am I succeeding?

Might be. Trying to loosen me up?

Maybe I smile, I don’t know, but whatever, somehow Jen divines an answer. She fixes me with an unblinking stare, her over-full wine glass poised before her lips.

Why’s that then? she says.

I have to look away, and use cutting the last of my veal into two as an excuse. It gives me thinking time too, and I need it because I’m starting to feel muzzy.

Well, you know, you’re going to move in with me at the weekend. It’s all happening very quickly. We don’t even know if we’re compatible. You know.

I risk a look up. Behind the still-poised glass, she is smiling.

You’re worried because we’ve only ever kissed, is that it?

Well –

So you thought you’d get me pissed and take me off to the back seat of your car, did you?

Not exac-

A few glasses of the old vino and you thought we’d be fucking like bunnies, is that it?

This feels like a shout, even though Jen is almost whispering, her voice a subtle murmur with a range so short it can traverse the table but surely no further, especially given Cena’s background noise. Even so, heat prickles around my collar. My eyes dart around – I am convinced that our waiter is close by but for once he is not. I can’t think of anything to say, so take a sip of my wine as slowly as I can, just as Jen puts her glass down.

Well eat up then, she says, and we’ll skip dessert.

After what can only be a couple of seconds, but feels longer, I realise I should probably close my mouth. A couple of seconds more and I catch up, realisation spreading slowly over my face in smile form. Jen returns the smile, though there is something cold, maybe even clinical about hers. She cradles her wine glass, the stem balanced delicately between index and middle fingers, then takes a sip.

Nice as it is, you don’t need this to loosen me up.

And with that, she places the glass on the table and pushes her mostly empty plate away.

Come on, she says, dessert is waiting.

I thought you said we’d sk- oh, right.

I feel foolish, feeble, floundering. And I am keen, really, to see whether this fledgling relationship might work. But I don’t want to leave my veal Milanese. Or my valpolicella. Especially not here.

I look around and catch Annoylingly Handsome’s eye. Although it’s not something I’d usually do, for him I make an exception and beckon him over with a raised hand, forking the last of the veal into my mouth at the same time.

Is everything alright with your meals?

Yes but we’re done, I say. I’ll have the bill please, quick as you can.

Certainly sir.

Quick as you can? Is it the wine or Jenny that’s turning me into the kind of arsehole I despise? I resolve to leave a large tip, if my wallet is up to it. Half a meal or not, Cena is not cheap. Speaking of which…

Drink up, I say, scooping my glass up with what I hope is a confident flourish. This stuff isn’t cheap, you know.

Our glasses are empty by the time the bill arrives. I balk a little at the bottom line, and revise my tipping plans somewhat. As I count notes out onto the little silver tray the bill is on, I experience a gentle wave of déjà vu, so subtle that I cannot locate its source.

Let’s go, I say, gathering Jenny’s shopping as I stand.

But as we turn towards the door I am stopped dead in my tracks. The couple that have just come in are being greeted by Annoyingly – he offers them menus and then, with an expansive sweep of one arm, indicates that their table is towards the back of the restaurant. The waiter sets off, and the couple trail obediently behind, the woman first, the man with one hand resting gently at the base of her spine, just below the V of her open-backed dress. I stand back in the gap between two tables to let them pass. She catches my eye and smiles but says nothing. As he draws level he finally notices me, and performs a near-perfect comedy double-take. He pulls his hand back, and his companion stops a pace ahead.

Peter! Didn’t know you were coming here tonight. You two.

He inclines his head towards Jenny.

Likewise, Alan, likewise.

And then, even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I know I should just pretend to look away and get out of there as fast as possible, I say it anyway.

Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?

Ah. Indeed.

She steps back towards him, as if on cue, and Alan, my boss, my very-much-married boss, loops a casual, avuncular arm around the waist of this woman who is not his wife. To his credit, he delivers the line without hesitation or blushing.

This, he says, is my niece, Laura.

Other drinks beginning with ‘v’

By the time our starters arrive, I’m draining the last of a large glass of the red. Annoyingly Handsome soundlessly slips the plates down in front of us, and favours Jenny with a shy smile that makes me want to break his nose. When he’s gone, Jen whips up her fork and, with a sotto voce thank God, I’m starving proceeds to devour her salad. I’m glad of this because it means a break in her incessant chatter. Honestly, she’s been going ten to the dozen since we sat down, a stream of inanity that I am not used to from work: which shops she’s been buying things in, which assistant was rude to her about her bust size, what a cow Mel at work is, who she thinks the guy in the pinstriped shirt might be, and on and on. I have feigned interest, mumbling over the top of my wine, nodding where I sense agreement might be required. All the while though, I have inevitably been thinking of my last visit here. They’ve redecorated since then – the black gloss around the window frames looks pristine, hard and shiny – but Cena hasn’t changed in any fundamental way. The ceilings are still high. The tablecloths are still spotless, plain white cotton. The plates are still square and the portions are still trendily small.

Jenny’s salad is half gone before I even start on my polenta morbida. It tastes fine, I guess, though my palate is dulled by the valpolicella and vodka. I’m just starting to wonder if there are any other drinks beginning with ‘v’ that I can have tonight – vermouth, maybe – when I realise I am being asked a question.

Sorry, what?

I said, I thought you were driving.

I am. Was, I mean. I’ll ditch the car here, get the train home.

Right.

A silence falls between us, though the assonant chatter of other diners and a CD of anonymous piano noodling fills the gap easily. I refill my glass and, unbidden, top Jen’s up too. She pushes her salad plate away.

Are you looking forward to the weekend then? she asks.

The weekend.

Yes, the weekend! You know, I’m leaving Phil and moving into your’s. We can finally be together.

God yes, I bluster, the weekend. Course, yeah. Can’t wait.

You could sound a little more enthusiastic. I’m giving up a lot for this, you know, for you.

Like a fiancé who roughs you up, I think but don’t say. At least I don’t think I say it. If I do, it doesn’t get a reaction.

I make a show of looking to see if our main courses are coming, peering back over my shoulder, past the long bar into the darker, more intimate body of the restaurant. The wide mirror with the gilt frame is still there, and an effortlessly successful-looking couple are sat at the table below it. The table Emma and I had occupied on our sole visit here. The woman in the couple is wearing a tight strapless dress, not unlike Emma’s that night, though hers had been black not blue. She’d worn my birthday gift underneath the dress that night, and when we’d got home later she'd kept some of it on as we fucked wildly and with abandon. I can’t be absolutely certain but the dates tie up – that, I’m fairly sure, is the night our troubles started.

Er, hello, Pete? I’m over here?

Sorry. Miles away.

Someone you know, is it?

Who?

That couple. That woman in the blue dress.

Oh. Oh no. I thought so, maybe, from a distance, but no.

Mercifully, our main courses arrive. Jen’s pasta is swimming in a sauce that looks sickeningly creamy. It’s served in something that’s neither plate nor bowl, but somewhere in-between, and that is approximately twice as big as it needs to be. Predictably, I have ordered veal Milanese, just as I did that other night. Annoyingly Handsome is offering black pepper from a ridiculous oversized mill. Jen smiles a yes please, and actually puts her hand on his forearm when she wants him to stop. I don’t really want any, but nod my assent anyway because I want him to serve me. I hope my nod looks haughty, superior, and maybe it does because his perma-smile seems to slip just a fraction. Good. It’s too late for him to spit in my food, so good.

Enjoy your meals, he says, through gritted teeth. Mealsss.