Lucia sighed. ‘Me and you, yes.’
David bobbed his head. ‘Okay. Sure. I can do that. How about Ciullo’s? On Charterhouse Street?’
‘I’ll find it. One o’clock?’
‘One o’clock,’ David echoed. He turned away, then reappeared at the door. ‘You sure you’re not pregnant?’
‘I’m not pregnant, David. Cross my heart.’
‘And you’re sure about the kissing thing? Not even a peck on the cheek?’
‘Not even that,’ said Lucia.
It was the same apartment. The walls were still white, the carpet still green. The furniture was as it had been, in the same places, against the same walls, and looking only marginally more scuffed than it had before. Even Jane Fonda was a longstanding tenant, the result of a compromise Lucia and David had reached at the outset of their cohabitation and that Lucia had regretted for its duration: Lucia was granted veto on every other wall so long as Barbarella retained her position above the mantelpiece. She was framed, David had argued: that made her art. She was wearing rubber and squashing her tits together, Lucia had countered: that made her porn.
Much was the same then but everything seemed altered. There was the smell, for one thing. The bathroom, for instance, smelt of cleaning products, which meant it smelt like the toilets at work; the kitchen smelt of milk that had been spilt but not fully wiped up. In the living room, there was a new television. Flipped sideways it would have doubled as a dining table. There were speakers too. Dozens, it seemed, at random heights and angles. None was particularly large yet they loomed like security cameras in a lift. On the shelves, the space that had been vacated by Lucia’s books had been infiltrated by the plastic boxes of DVDs, CDs and video games. There were bottles of spirits: Polish vodka, American bourbon, something yellow and Italian, all arranged like ornaments. And in various corners, cacti had been planted. Cacti were men’s plants, Lucia had long ago decided: low maintenance, high bluster.
The sensation, Lucia thought, was of rediscovering a favourite jumper but realising, as you pulled it on, that it was actually a little tight, and it smelt musty, and the colour did not really suit you. As she readied herself to leave, she felt relief. She felt relief too that seeing David had not triggered in her the emotional relapse she had feared. She had loved him and for some time she had hated him but in the time that had passed since she had last seen him – and almost without her conscious self noticing – her feelings for him seemed to have settled between the two extremes. They were volatile still; they were treacherous. If he had insisted, for instance, and leant in to kiss her goodbye, she would not have stopped him. Some perfidious reflex might even have nudged her lips just a fraction closer to his. But he had not kissed her. As far as David was concerned, she had not let him. It felt like progress. Not victory, not quite that, but progress nonetheless.
She shut the door behind her. She slid her bag on to her shoulder and she Chubb-locked the door and she made her way to the stairwell. She allowed herself just a single glance back.
‘David.’
‘Lulu.’
‘Please, David. Stop it.’
‘Stop what? Oh.’ He had been tapping a fingernail against his glass. He curled his fingers and slid his hand away.
‘Not that. Stop… this. Stop smiling like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re on a date. You’re not on a date.’
‘It’s not business.’
‘It is. That’s exactly what it is.’
David’s smile broadened. ‘Whatever you say, Lulu.’
‘And stop calling me Lulu.’ She turned her head away. ‘You’re not making this easy.’
The waiter arrived with the water Lucia had ordered. He made a fuss of placing it, clearing the wine glasses, presenting each of them with a menu. Lucia folded hers and set it to one side once the waiter had moved away. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Am I going to be able to talk to you?’
‘Sure,’ David said. ‘That’s why we’re here, right? To talk.’ He leant in and reached for Lucia’s hand. She let him take it, then snatched it back.
‘David—’
‘Lucia, look. I was wrong. Okay? I made a mistake and I’ve been paying for it ever since. Please, let me make things up to you.’
Lucia shook her head. She tucked her hands under the table. ‘David. Listen to me.’
Before she could go any further, however, another waiter appeared beside them, pen and paper poised. Lucia picked up her menu and gestured for David to order first. He chose pasta. Lucia was looking for soup. When she found it, she changed her mind. ‘Do you have chocolate cake?’ she asked.
‘We have a delightful Valrhona tart served with caramelised oranges.’
‘Does it have chocolate in it?’
‘It does, madam.’
‘I’ll have that,’ Lucia said. ‘Thank you.’ She relinquished her menu.
The waiter retreated. Lucia looked back at David, who had his head slightly bowed and a hand on his forehead. She could not help but smile. Her order, she realised, had embarrassed him. It was a trait of his that she had forgotten: waiting staff intimidated him. A murderer, a rapist, even a crown court judge: none came close to having the same effect on David as a second-generation Italian in a bow tie bearing a notepad.
‘David,’ said Lucia. ‘I need your help. That’s why I’m here.’
‘You said that already. You said that last night.’
‘Yes. I know I did. But listen. It’s the only reason I’m here.’
Doubt tugged at the edges of David’s smile. ‘But I thought you meant… I mean, when you said help, I thought you meant… ’
‘Sex.’
‘No! Hell. Not sex.’ A corner of his mouth twitched upwards. ‘At least, not right away.’
Lucia rolled her eyes. ‘I’m trying to be serious, David. I’m trying to have a serious conversation.’
‘So am I, Lucia. I mean, what am I supposed to think? You can’t deny that you’ve been giving me some mixed-up signals.’
‘That’s not true,’ Lucia said. ‘You know that’s not true.’
‘You hugged me. When you first saw me, you hugged me.’
‘That was a reflex! It was platonic.’
‘You were laughing at my jokes all evening. They weren’t even that funny.’
‘I was being polite, David. Your jokes are never particularly funny.’
‘You let me kiss you goodnight.’
‘You kissed me goodnight? When did you kiss me goodnight? ’
‘When you were lying down. On the couch.’
‘Lying down? With my eyes closed? Sort of breathing heavily? That’s called sleep, David. That’s called being asleep. You may have kissed me but, trust me, there was no consent.’
David shifted. As he moved, the tablecloth twisted. He ran a hand across the surface to flatten it out. ‘Well, anyway. The point is, you spent the night at my flat. Wearing just my T-shirt and a pair of knickers.’
Their table was tucked in one corner, against the bar and away from the entrance. Behind Lucia a Kentia palm loomed, close enough for her to feel the tips of its leaves against her hair. She felt prickles, too, of attention from the table across from theirs. When she spoke again, she kept her voice low. ‘You need to get that image out of your head,’ she said. ‘Because it was a mistake. Clearly it was a mistake. I should have waited until morning. Maybe I shouldn’t have come at all.’ She made to stand. Before she could extricate herself from the palm, however, David reached across and put a hand on her forearm.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Wait. Sit down, Lucia, please.’
The waiter arrived with their food, blocking Lucia’s only path out of the restaurant. She hesitated. She glanced at David.
