Sawyer makes a dismissive noise, “It doesn’t seem like it was made with theatre makers in mind. The fly tower is tiny, for one thing.”
Ursula looks thoughtful as she says, “It was one of the first fairly large theatre in New England to really think about using sustainable energy sources.”
“Oh wow,” says Sawyer sardonically.
Natasha's mom checks her watch and suggests they start walking to the restaurant.
As they close up the house, Sawyer turns to Natasha and whispers, “I’m sorry I’m being so terrible. I’m really nervous.”
Natasha fixes Sawyer with an unblinking look and wraps her hand over Sawyer’s wrist as Sawyer turns the key in the front door, “I’m really glad you suggested this, Sawyer. It’s really exciting to see my sisters. Try and get to know them, yeah?”
Natasha's dad and Ursula stride out in front, talking quietly but intensely. Natasha's mom and Alisha walk behind them. They link their arms and giggle together, and Natasha and Sawyer follow on last.
"Is this the usual Siroezhkin formation?" Sawyer asks.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, those two and then those two and then you at the back?"
Natasha shrugs, "When we were kids Dad always used to quiz Ursula about school, and Alisha was little and needed Mom to hold her hand, and then I'd just daydream. I used to love daydreaming."
"My poor neglected middle child," Sawyer teases. She squeezes Natasha's hand. They gossip about Mikaela's unsuccessful date from her, the archaic lesbian dating sites of the past, and funny and lewd headlines they would use if they had Grindr profiles. Alisha overhears a particularly filthy one and looks over her shoulder, giving Natasha a mock-scandalized look.
It doesn't take long to get to the restaurant. It's already busy, two families are eating at tables outside in the last of the day's sunshine. Sawyer's shoulders look tempting in the late afternoon glow. Her sundress has a bow on each shoulder and Natasha wants to pull at them until her dress falls open.
Inside, the restaurant is fresh and modern. Natasha remembers going to Italian restaurants as a child, how there would always be candles wedged in wine bottles and plastic grapevines hanging from the ceiling. This restaurant is painted crisp white, with monochrome shots of Italian architecture framed on the walls. The kitchen is open; one chef slams his palm onto fat balls of dough while another cradles long strands of fresh, yellow pasta that he pulls from the machine.
"Hi, I've got a table booked for Siroezhkin," Her father says at the host stand.
A sunny young waitress flips through the reservation book, "Hrm. Nothing under that name, I'm afraid.”
"It's under Martinez," says Sawyer, squeezing past Natasha’s dad to the front of the group. "Sorry Peter, I booked it under my name out of habit."
The waitress ticks the name off the list, leads them to their table. There’s plenty of choice on the menu. Sawyer chooses an unctuous aubergine dish which arrives bubbling in a ceramic dish, while Natasha goes for langoustine ravioli. She squeezes lemon all over the plate and breathes in the fresh scent before she starts to eat.
Natasha finds herself observing everyone else at the table. She is finished with her meal. She pushes the last remaining pasta squares around the little puddles of butter, while tuning in to the conversations going on around her. On one side, her mother is talking to Ursula about the practicalities of relocating back to the States and the legal process of her divorce. On the other side, Sawyer seems to be dragging Natasha’s father into a discussion about Portugal’s drug policies. Natasha had sent Sawyer a long-read about the decriminalization of drugs in Portugal the other night, and Sawyer is ably summarizing it to her father.
Natasha hears Sawyer say, “The thing is, you’ll never get rid of drugs from the streets. But if you tackle stigma and make it safer for people to use, you save lives and enable people to remain part of society, not on the fringes.”
Her dad has taken his glasses off and is tapping the end of one of the arms against his mouth, which usually means he’s listening closely. When Sawyer takes a breath, he asks her for statistics about a study into the methadone programme run in Lisbon, and Sawyer stumbles and reddens. She avoids the question by telling him about an emotive case study instead.
“Is this article something that Princess has sent you? What is the editorial position of this newspaper?”
“Yes,” replies Sawyer smoothly. “It’s from the Guardian, a British paper. It does have quite a socially progressive outlook.”
Natasha’s dad makes a particularly Russian dismissive sound. He puts his glasses back on and peers at Sawyer from behind them, “I find my daughter often seeks out sources that validate her own beliefs.”
Natasha’s heart sinks and she thinks of intervening, but then Sawyer shrugs, “I think we all do that. But surely trying something more radical than just pushing people into the criminal justice system is worth trying.”
Alisha gamely begins an anecdote about travelling from her recent sabbatical in Europe. In Portugal she learnt an untranslatable word, saudade, which Alisha found irrepressibly romantic. She tells Sawyer and her father that it describes a particularly melancholic sort of missing, where you yearn intensely for something you know you can never experience again. Alisha’s eyes abruptly fill with tears and she’s unable to finish her explanation. Natasha can’t help smiling down at her
