From the blaring of the television, Morton ascertained that Juliette was in the lounge. He ambled in expecting to see her curled up in her tracksuit or pyjamas catching up on one of her soap operas. What he saw instead alarmed him greatly. She was wearing one of her best (or was it the best?) black dresses and a ton of make-up. It was very un-Juliette and he was very suspicious. Had he forgotten something? Was it their anniversary? Or her birthday? He racked his brains but couldn’t come up with anything.
‘Why are you all dolled up?’ he asked, fearing the answer.
‘Hello to you, too, darling fiancé,’ she quipped, turning off the television and standing to greet him. She planted a lingering kiss on his lips.
‘Sorry—hello, darling fiancée,’ he said. ‘You look lovely.’
Juliette curtseyed. ‘Why, thank you.’
‘Have I perhaps forgotten something?’ Morton questioned uncertainly. ‘A special occasion?’
Juliette giggled. ‘Your face, Morton—it’s a picture. No, you haven’t forgotten anything. I like the way that when I get dressed up, it has to be because of a special occasion.’
‘In fairness, it usually is.’
‘Yeah, true. Anyway, I’ve booked us a table at Simply Italian. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make yourself look presentable.’
‘Have you ordered a taxi?’ Morton called, making his way up the stairs.
‘Ha ha—I’m sure even you can stagger that far home. Now hurry up.’
It took Morton fewer than five minutes to get ready and it took him and Juliette an even shorter time to walk to the restaurant, its being situated at the bottom of their street.
The restaurant—bedecked with exposed bricks and beams with a wine-bottle candle flickering on each table—had a cosy, romantic atmosphere. A handsome Italian waiter seated them at a table in the middle of the busy restaurant.
Morton ordered a bottle of house red, then asked Juliette how her day had been.
‘Usual,’ she replied, before realising from Morton’s face that her answer was a little brief. ‘Grade-one call to a house where a woman was reportedly screaming, but turned out to be a false alarm—baby crying. Then we got a call about a body floating in the sea, which turned out to be a Royal National Lifeboat Institution dummy. Then an old woman parked right across a zebra crossing. Then a domestic fight. Then a diamond ring stolen from a jewellers…’ she paused and looked into the air, as if seeking a celestial reminder. ‘Think that was it for today.’
‘Usual,’ Morton said sarcastically.
‘How about your day?’ she asked, as the waiter returned and poured the wine.
‘Not quite as exciting as yours,’ Morton said, before recounting the basics of his day.
‘So this Lovekin Case isn’t so dull after all, is it?’ Juliette said.
‘No, I suppose not. It’s keeping me occupied for the moment,’ he answered, knowing that he would happily hand everything over to Bunny right now if something—anything—came back from Roy Dyche.
‘Anyway, cheers—to you and me,’ Juliette proposed, raising her glass.
‘To you and me.’ He chinked her glass then added, ‘Am I missing some kind of anniversary?’
‘No!’ Juliette insisted.
Morton narrowed his eyes disbelievingly.
‘But…’ Juliette began, reaching down to her bag. ‘Whilst we’re here, we could discuss some things...’
Then it all fell into place for him: he had been shepherded into a confined space where he had no means of escape to discuss the wedding. ‘Do we have to do this, tonight?’ he said sulkily. ‘I’m not really in the mood.’
‘Yes, we do. Morton, do you realise that you proposed to me last Christmas and we’ve barely had a conversation about it since?’
‘Can I take your order please?’ the waiter asked, suddenly appearing at their table.
‘Rigatoni al Pasticcio, please,’ Juliette ordered, in her best attempt at an Italian accent.
‘And for you, sir?’
‘I’ll have the penne cacciatore, please,’ Morton said, making no effort whatsoever to sound Italian.
‘Lovely,’ the waiter enthused and flitted off towards the kitchens.
Morton took a gulp of wine and looked at Juliette. Her eyes were filled with exasperation. The stupid thing was, he actually wanted to talk about the wedding. He wanted to agree on a date and a venue, then happily become a nodding dog to the finer details of flower arrangements, bridesmaids and culinary choices. But something was holding him back.
Juliette exhaled. ‘Is it that your dad’s getting married—is that it?’
Morton nodded and looked her in the eyes. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled.
‘What is it about their wedding that bothers you so much?’
‘Everything,’ he mumbled vaguely.
‘But what?’ Juliette demanded, then laid her hand onto his. ‘Be specific—I can’t help if I don’t understand the problem.’
‘It’s my problem—not yours.’ He withdrew his hand from under hers and then instantly regretted it, when he saw the look of hurt in her eyes.
Several minutes of uncomfortable silence ensued, with both Morton and Juliette gazing around the restaurant, avoiding eye contact with each other.
Finally, Juliette took a long breath in and sat up sharply. Quietly, almost inaudibly she said, ‘Did you ever actually want to get married, or did you propose to shut me up, thinking we’d be one of those couples who are forever engaged and never get around to marrying?’
Morton shook his head. ‘No, that’s not true at all. I do want to marry you…’
‘But?’
‘There are no buts,’ Morton insisted, taking a large gulp of wine. ‘I just don’t want to discuss it tonight, is all.’
After another block of awkwardness, the waiter returned. ‘Penne cacciatore, sir,’ he announced, appearing at the side of the table and setting Morton’s food down in front of him. ‘And Rigatoni al Pasticcio, madam. Enjoy your meals.’
After muttering their gratitude, the pair began to half-heartedly pick at their food, neither seemed to have an appetite any longer.
For
