Chapter twenty-six
Ben
I’m turning the key in my front door when my phone buzzes. Antonia.
Dinner tomorrow night 8 p.m. Ricos, Clerkenwell
The giddiness from the drive home resurfaces. She only asked me to dinner an hour ago, and the arrangements are already made. I’d expected her to reconsider. Or at least hesitate.
But Clerkenwell? Not an area I would have placed her in. I’d have pictured her in Mayfair. Somewhere polished and anonymous. Where the linen is starched white, and the glass sparkles under false candlelight.
When I’m inside, I search the restaurant on my browser. A small family-run Italian place, open since 1956. The photos of the interior suggest that it was the last time it was decorated too. The menu is traditional. All the favorites there.
Between pink Wellington boots and a sixty-year-old Italian restaurant in Clerkenwell, Antonia is nothing like the woman I first assumed she was. Maybe tomorrow isn’t about dinner. Maybe it’s about seeing the parts of her she doesn’t bring to work. That intrigues me, excites me even. I want to know more.
I quickly type out a reply:
Looking forward to it.
Then, I take off my shoes, hang up my coat, and walk into my kitchen as if there’s nothing to tell. As if my sons won’t notice.
***
My pillow is crushed flat by morning. All I can think of is her and what tonight could bring. I manage an hour’s sleep here and there, but certainly not the rest I hoped for. I’m already showered and dressed when the boys appear for breakfast. Both still with their lids half-closed.
“Morning,” I say.
The table is set—cereal, milk, bowls, and a few extra treats. Two sets of suspicious eyes land between my shoulder blades. I can feel them.
“You’re in a good mood,” Ollie mumbles.
Wood drags against porcelain, then there’s a thud as each of them drop into their chairs.
“It’s a lovely day.”
“It’s raining,” Liam says. I spin, frying pan in hand, and drop a fried egg onto each plate.
“It’s nature,” I say. My sons’ jaws slacken in unison. Breakfast tends to be a time full of chatter in our home, but today, they’re looking at me as if I’ve grown a second head.
“Are you feeling okay, Dad?” Ollie asks, voice laced with genuine concern.
“I’m fine.” I move to the sink. The water splashes into the first pot, and I pick up the scrubbing brush. “I won’t be home for dinner tonight.”
“Why?” Liam walks over to the fridge, his eyes narrowing at my work calendar we keep pinned there. “You’re not scheduled for tonight.”
“I didn’t say I was working.” I try to keep my voice level. “I’m having dinner with a friend.”
“A friend?” Ollie says. “Do you have any of those? Apart from Aunt Amy.”
I should be offended, but I’m not. Since Bex died, my life has centered around my kids. There’s been no time for anyone or anything else. I didn’t want a distraction from them. They kept me sane.
“Who?” Liam chimes in.
His head tilts to one side, eyes running over my face. Curious.
“Antonia.”
Silence. Even Ollie is lost for words. No doubt surprised I’m going out at all, never mind with a woman.