‘Table for three?’ asks the waitress, standing guard next to a cardboard cactus at the entrance to the restaurant.
‘No, four.’ I turn around. ‘Where’s Ellie?’ I ask Mark.
‘You really wanted to come here?’ he replies with a look so disdainful I whisk my head back round towards the waitress, ready to apologise for my husband’s rudeness, but she’s busy handing George a colouring-in menu and a pot of crayons.
‘He’s a very short fifteen!’ I say, thrusting my hand out to intercept the handover. It’s not George’s fault he’s still waiting for a growth spurt, but it might help if he didn’t hide his face in the depths of a hoody if he wants to avoid being mistaken for someone in need of artistic distraction during a meal. I am too eager in my protectiveness, however, and send the pot of crayons flying out of the idiotic waitress’ hands and all over the blue and white mosaic tiled floor.
George grunts.
Mark tuts.
The waitress gasps.
No one helps as I bend down to pick up the broken colouring sticks.
‘What’s Mum doing on the floor?’ I hear Ellie say as she emerges from whatever cover she was using to avoid being seen dead with her family.
‘She knocked the crayons out of her hand,’ I hear Mark reply with a sigh.
I can see the yellow one has rolled next to his foot ready to cause a potentially serious incident. I leave it there.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say, standing up and handing over a pile of broken coloured wax into the hand of the waitress. ‘He’s just a bit short,’ I add, pulling George’s hood off his head to reveal the back of his neck, which is bright pink.
‘Would you like to follow me?’ asks the waitress, grabbing four enormous menus as she escapes down the length of the restaurant towards the back.
I chase after her to ask if we could actually sit near the front. I need to be able to see the cactus fairy lights, you see. And I want to be near the bar where it’s livelier. Where I can sit and watch other people enjoying themselves even if I’m not.
‘We’re not actually serving food in that area,’ she replies as she carefully lays the enormous menus on a table in a dark corner with no view of anything.
‘But I would like to sit there,’ I say defiantly, looking round to see if there is any vague chance Mark will step in and back me up. Mark, Ellie and George have not even registered that I have moved, all engrossed in their phones or, in George’s case, his own mortification.
The waitress looks at me and puts her hands on her hips. Yes, her hips.
‘We are only serving food in this section,’ she says.
I stare back at her. Part of me wants to give up now, go home and write the night off as a bad idea. But it’s my birthday. I want to at least attempt an enjoyable meal with my family before… well, before things may never be the same again. Before I break the news to Mark on the twentieth anniversary of us getting together that, well… there might be something wrong with me. Catastrophically wrong with me.
‘I want a table where I can see the cactus fairy lights,’ I tell her with what I hope is an air of authority.
‘Yeah.’ She shrugs.
I realise I am in a stand-off in the back of a Mexican restaurant.
‘You let us have a table at the front or we will leave,’ I demand. My voice wobbles slightly, which may have given her the upper hand. I hold my breath.
She looks at me and sighs – yes, sighs.
‘I’ll have to go and ask the manager if we can open up another section,’ she says, strutting off and leaving me standing on my own.
I quickly gather up the enormous menus and begin a fast walk back up to the front of the restaurant. I’m thinking that if we’re seated before the waitress gets back she won’t be able to do anything about it.
‘What is Mum doing?’ I hear Ellie ask for the second time that night.
In my haste to win the race I have not spotted that the other three members of my family have finally deigned to join me and are walking in the opposite direction down the next aisle.
‘We’re sitting at the front,’ I say, barely slowing up. ‘Quick, this way,’ I shout over my shoulder.
‘But someone might see us if we sit there,’ I hear Ellie cry.
By the time Mark, Ellie and George join me, I’ve bagged, in my opinion, the best seat in the house. Back to the wall, right at the front, facing the bar, I can see everything going on. That is, until we all pick up our menus, blocking all of the view and a big chunk of light.
‘Why on earth did you want to come here?’ grumbles Mark from somewhere behind two layers of laminated card. ‘We could have gone to Sebastian’s. I said I’d treat you all. You don’t even have to book to come here. I can’t remember the last time I went to a restaurant where you could just turn up. Can you imagine if you did that at Sebastian’s?’
I remember the last time I’d agreed to go to Sebastian’s with Mark. It was his firm’s Christmas do. The lack of food (overblown and insipid) and terrible company (men: overblown, women: insipid) had led to an overindulgence in champagne on my part. When I loudly whispered into Mark’s ear that the only way the night could be salvaged was by a visit to a karaoke bar he’d given me a horrified glare followed by a large glass of water.
‘Do not drink any more champagne,’ he’d angrily whispered. ‘This is not the time nor the place to get drunk.’
But it’s a Christmas party, I thought. If there is any time and place to get completely pissed, surely it’s now. I watched as Mark leaned forward over his vanilla and basil posset with a hint of lavender foam to ask the Chairman’s wife about her plans for the holiday season. I leant back, sulked and never said another word. No one noticed.
The atmosphere between us was somewhat frosty for several days afterwards until he announced we were at the point in our marriage where we should no longer bother with Christmas presents. I declared I’d already purchased his and so he begrudgingly agreed we should do it one last time. The next day I went out and bought him a karaoke machine. He bought me a SodaStream.
The enormous menus effectively prevent any eye contact until a waiter, thankfully not the scowling one, appears to take our order. All that can be heard is Mark huffing at the thought of nachos being the peak of today’s culinary experience. We even place our orders from behind our temporary barriers. I hear Mark ask for a chicken burrito like he’s agreed to eat regurgitated frogs’ testicles. Ellie asks for a taco salad but without the tacos, and the only indication that George has successfully ordered is the lowering of the menu and a wordless jab of the finger at an item, followed by a tremor of panic when the waiter asks how he wants his steak to be cooked.
‘Do you want it medium rare?’ I ask George.
‘For goodness’ sake, Jenny,’ snaps Mark. ‘Make him ask for it, if that’s what he wants.’
George doesn’t raise his eyes from the menu but I know he is wounded.
‘Medium rare, please,’ he whispers without looking at the waiter.
Then suddenly our barriers are whipped from us and we are all caught like rabbits in the headlights from the glare of our nearest and dearest.
‘Drinks?’ the waiter asks chirpily. Clearly he’s already completed the course on how to smile at a customer – unlike his colleague.
‘I’ll have a lime and soda,’ answers Mark before any consultation can take place.
‘I’ll have a large Chardonnay,’ says Ellie.
‘You will not,’ cries Mark.
‘All right then, a small one,’ she replies.
I smirk.
‘It’s a school night and you are seventeen,’ says Mark, looking at me as though I made the request.
‘Perhaps we could share a bottle?’ I say.
He doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head in wonder.
‘I mean, you and me could share and perhaps let them have a small bit,’ I say.
Mark looks at the waiter.
‘These two will both have a Diet Coke,’ he says, waggling his finger at Ellie and George.
‘I’ll have a margarita,’ I jump in.
‘It’s only six o’clock, Jenny,’ warns Mark.
‘On the rocks or frozen?’ the waiter asks, looking right at me with a smile. I like him.
‘Definitely on the rocks,’ I reply, grinning back. ‘It’s a special occasion.’
I watch him cast his eyes around our party. Ellie has her elbows on the table, phone held at eye level, the screen illuminating her face as she taps away furiously. George has his head staring down in his lap, the air of concentration giving away the fact he has also turned to his phone for company. Mark is stroking his own phone, which is on the table in front of him, as though to reassure it of his constant presence.
‘And what is the occasion?’ the waiter asks, struggling to keep hold of the slippery menus clamped under his arm.
‘It’s my birthday.’ I swallow. We share a look. I could burst into tears but I hold them back. I stupidly bought cheap mascara that doesn’t mix well with tears, and I can’t cry yet.
My gaze goes to the cactus fairy lights above the bar. I love them. They are so stupid and pointless but so bloody happy. How can you not smile at the sight of cactus fairy lights? There’s a couple sitting on high stools sipping fluorescent pink cocktails. Clearly not married. He’s trying really hard to entertain her and she’s trying really hard to be entertained. They are all smiles, hair flicks, body part touching and eye contact. Maybe it’s the promise of potential sex that is the only reason why people make eye contact these days, I think as I pull my eyes back to my fellow celebrators. Or to deliver bad news. I shudder.
I wonder how Mark will look at me when I tell him later that I’ve been prodded and poked to investigate my defects. What will he say when I tell him I need him to come and hold my hand when they deliver the verdict on what they have found? That it could be bad, really bad. They might say the C-word. How will my husband look at me then, I wonder.
Mark gets up out of his bright green chair and wanders off, murmuring into his phone. George and Ellie… well, you can guess what they are doing.
The drinks arrive. The margarita looks magnificent. I thank the waiter as he places it in front of me, then thank him individually for everyone else’s drink as they fail to acknowledge their arrival.
Mark takes his seat again and puts his phone face down on the table. It buzzes immediately, its glowing underside making it look like a mini rectangular UFO. Thankfully he ignores it and gulps down half his lime and soda. George and Ellie sip on their Cokes without tearing their eyes away from their screens. Mark picks his phone up again.
I sigh and lift my glass to my lips and mutter, ‘Happy birthday, Jenny.’
‘Tell you what, shall we play “Would you rather”?’ I say after several minutes during which the only words spoken have been me requesting the delivery of my second cocktail, following my explanation to Mark that it’s happy hour so it’s technically a free drink.
Ellie turns to look at her father.
‘What’s she doing?’ she asks him.
‘You remember we always used to play “Would you rather” in restaurants when you were little,’ I say. ‘George was brilliant at it. He always thought of the best ones. It was hilarious.’ I nudge his elbow and he grunts.
‘What was that one he said when we were at Watford Gap Services? He was sat there eating fried chicken and he just came out with it. Something like, “Would you rather fight ten chicken-sized hamsters or a hundred hamster-sized chickens?” That was it, wasn’t it, George?’
‘Zombies,’ he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Oh that’s right,’ I say, nodding encouragingly. ‘“Would you rather fight ten zombie-sized hamsters…”’
‘No,’ interrupts George, shaking his head.
‘Jenny, please,’ says Mark, but I refuse to look at him.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask George.
‘Other way,’ he mutters.
‘Right, got you.’ I clear my throat. ‘So, would you rather fight ten chicken-sized zombies or a hundred zombie-sized chickens? Anyone?’
Utter silence and blank stares from Mark and Ellie.
‘Really, what is she doing?’ Ellie asks Mark as though I’m an exhibit in a zoo.
‘I’m trying to have a conversation with my family,’ I spit out in frustration, tears hovering dangerously close to the cheap, unable-to-deal-with-any-kind-of-moisture mascara.
‘About zombie-sized chickens?’ asks Ellie.
‘No!’ I exclaim loudly enough for Mark to look around in embarrassment. ‘Chicken-sized zombies. Don’t you remember that was the answer? We all agreed. We discussed it for a very long time and, after a family vote, we decided that you would have more chance against chicken-sized zombies than zombie-sized chickens. It was a conversation where everyone had their say—’
I pause to look pointedly at George.
‘Everyone had an opinion, everyone joined in. We were just… talking,’ I say, falling back in my chair with the sheer exhaustion of trying to get through to someone, anyone.
No one says anything.
Thankfully, the nachos arrive.
‘Do you remember my twenty-fifth birthday?’ I murmur after we have eaten our main courses largely in silence. The shadow of tomorrow is looming over me and I’m miserably attempting to remember happier times to somehow lighten the mood.
‘What?’ says Mark.
‘My twenty-fifth birthday,’ I repeat. ‘I was just remembering it.’
‘The one where you got the sack,’ he states.
‘The one where we got together,’ I reply.
‘I nearly didn’t come.’ Mark says this as if it is no great revelation. That if he hadn’t come it would not have dramatically changed the course of both of our lives.
‘But… but it was the hottest ticket in town surely,’ I splutter. ‘A holiday rep’s birthday party in Greece on a private beach. How could you not be dying to go to that?’
‘Oh I was. But you were all so wild and crazy.’ He casts me a small smile. ‘I really had no idea why you invited boring old me. Besides, I couldn’t get my head around your theme, to be honest.’
I drop my knife and fork on the table and push my chair back in amazement.
‘It’s a Knockout, you mean!’ I can hardly believe my ears. ‘It was utter genius.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asks Ellie. Clearly my outburst over the nature of my birthday party twenty years ago has fought its way through the cyber-babble.
‘Only the best birthday party of all time,’ I tell her, determined to share a piece of my misspent youth, in stark contrast to the pathetic excuse of a birthday I seem to be experiencing now. ‘When I was a holiday rep in Greece.’
‘Please, no stories of nakedness or shagging or anything,’ she replies, reeling in horror.
There were most certainly both of those going on at the time but they are not the aspects I want to dwell on with my daughter.
‘My boss, Clare, refused to give me the night off so we planned this epic party instead for all the reps after we’d finished work.’
Ellie looks vaguely impressed.
‘We did It’s a Knockout on the beach!’
Ellie looks blank.
‘People in stupid costumes going over obstacles whilst getting fired at with foam machines and water guns,’ Mark informs her. ‘It was a TV show from the seventies.’
‘Me and my mate Karen pulled in favours from all over to set it up,’ I tell Ellie excitedly. ‘We wangled a private bit of beach from one of the hotel owners and we had twelve inflatable banana boats, fourteen ringos, twenty sumo suits, three water cannons, five foam guns, a smoke machine and a massive drum of custard. Oh, and a karaoke machine as well as Dave on his decks. Have you ever seen twenty people dressed as sumo wrestlers playing British Bulldog whilst being pelted by custard pies?’
I lay this down before her with utter confidence that she hasn’t and that I am absolutely certain it is the best fun ever. End of.
Ellie stares back at me and I watch as she tries to work out how to turn this dream night against me.
‘At about four in the morning Karen brought out this enormous birthday cake with twenty-five sparklers on it and everyone went mental,’ I babble on. ‘I mean, they went crazy, and then all the lads got me up on their shoulders and I was bouncing up and down and everyone was chanting my name like this – “Jen-ny, Jen-ny, Jen-ny, Jen-ny, Jen-ny” – and then Dave put Oasis on and we were shouting the lyrics to “Cigarettes & Alcohol” at the tops of our voices.’
I’m pumping my fist in the air and singing Oasis like I’m right back there in 1996. And I am, just for a moment. I’m twenty-five again. I can smell the sea and the sand and feel the cigarette smoke prickling my eyes and I’m laughing my head off, six foot off the ground without a care in the world, Mark hovering somewhere below, adding an extra romantic frisson to the night.
Then I’m back in 2016, sitting in a Mexican-themed restaurant, aware that Ellie and George are staring at me in horror whilst Mark looks around to make sure no one else is observing the spectacle he clearly thinks I’m making of myself.
I lower my fist.
‘Like I said, best night of my life.’ I bite my lip.
‘Then all your mates threw you in the sea,’ adds Mark.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And you rescued me.’
‘Well, what could I do? You were a damsel in distress.’ He smiles at me again. A flicker of memories of happy times flashes between us. The smile fades fast. Is he thinking the same as me? That we haven’t managed to make many of those lately.
‘They left me lying there in the water,’ I tell Ellie and George. ‘Your father came over and offered me a hand up.’ I stop.
‘And?’ asks Ellie.
I glance over to Mark. He’s shaking his head and looking down at the dessert menu.
‘Well… the rest is history.’ I clear my throat.
‘You shagged, didn’t you?’ spits Ellie.
Mark’s head jerks up to look at me in an accusing manner.
Yes! I want to cry. Yes, yes, yes and it was glorious!
‘How long had you known each other?’ she demands when both of us reveal our guilt by failing to answer her question.
Mark shakes his head again, then shrugs as if to say, ‘You got yourself into this one, you can get yourself out of it.’
I close my eyes and mentally count in my head.
‘Nine days,’ I say when I’ve worked it out.
‘Jenny!’ gasps Mark. ‘You could have lied.’
I shrug – I don’t see the point. Ellie clearly can’t decide whether to be impressed or horrified and George’s chin is back in the top of his sweatshirt. Honestly, he’s like a tortoise.
‘All the lectures you give me about respecting my body and saving myself for the right person and you sleep with someone you’ve known for nine days!’ says Ellie, staring at me accusingly.
I note she is not blaming her dad for our promiscuity. Oh no. And she has the audacity to call herself a feminist.
‘We were twenty-five,’ I shrug again. ‘And we, well, I at least, just knew, somehow, that it meant something. That we were going to stay together.’
Mark isn’t looking at me. His head is bent low as he studies a picture of some churros. I spot the beginnings of a thinning patch of hair on the top of his head and it feels like another lifetime since we began our lives together on that beach.
I first laid eyes on Mark at Corfu airport on the 17th June 1996. It was just before midnight, I was tired and I still had to get fifty-three overexcited holidaymakers into seven different hotels.
His particular crowd were going to be the difficult ones to handle, I could already tell. I’d closed my eyes and gripped my Sunseeker clipboard as they approached me. The noise they were making was unbelievable and I’d prayed they’d walk past me to harass some other poor rep from another company waiting for the latest batch of lilywhites to arrive.
‘Well, if this is the standard, then we are in for a bit of all right, aren’t we, boys?’ said a stocky lad, draping a drunken arm around me.
‘Trust you to grab the first thing you lay eyes on,’ said another. ‘We haven’t even got to the hotel yet.’
‘You can never start too soon,’ replied his mate. ‘We only have fourteen days and I intend to pack as many in as I can, if you know what I mean.’
He squeezed my shoulder several times as he said this and I could clearly feel the sweat from his armpit on my bare skin.
I removed his hand deliberately and applied my authoritarian voice.
‘Right, can I have all your names please, and then you can take your luggage over to the coach in bay fifteen.’
‘Aye, aye,’ continued the rather short but very round lad, ‘she’s already asking my name. I’m in here, boys,’ he said, laughing.
‘Enough, Stubby,’ said a tall slim man, stepping forward to stand between me and this appropriately nicknamed idiot. ‘Please let me apologise for my so-called friends. They don’t get out very often. You lot,’ he shouted, turning to the rest of the group, ‘bay fifteen now, off you go.’
To my amazement, with some mumbling and gentle ribbing, they all shuffled off.
‘I’m Mark,’ he said, holding his hand out. I looked down at it and realised he wanted to shake my hand. Something which, in my three years of being a holiday rep, had never happened in an airport. I looked up as he shook it vigorously. He was smiling with his mouth and his eyes. I was smitten.
Throughout the following week I’d be hurtling here, there and everywhere but, if he was ever present on one of the trips I was running, or if we bumped into each other in one of the bars along the beachfront, then he would always insist on buying me a drink. Not to get me drunk and get in my pants, which was of course an occupational hazard, but just to show his gratitude for the job I was doing. Which I guess still had the effect of him getting into my pants by day nine, but there you go.
‘A Design for Life’ by the Manic Street Preachers always reminds me of those early days of low-level flirting. Mark liked to talk to me about his design for life. He was training to be an accountant whilst working for a building firm. He came from a working-class background and so university just hadn’t been on the radar, but he was determined to get to a ‘graduate-level lifestyle’, as he called it.
‘I want to be the Finance Director for a medium to large private company,’ he explained, as we shared a goldfish bowl full of margarita. ‘You need to be in finance, it’s the only position in a firm that knows exactly what is going on,’ he continued, as one of his mates danced topless on a podium next to him to The Prodigy’s ‘Firestarter’. ‘If you can get a job like that then you can make all sorts of things happen. Help grow the firm, get some shares, sell to an investment company, or go for private equity. That’s how you make serious money.’
I nodded in awe as if I knew what he was talking about.
‘Sorry, I must be really boring you,’ he added. ‘I know I can be really dull about this stuff sometime. . .
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