The euphoria hadn’t worn off the next morning. I couldn’t stop grinning. I grinned as I drank green juice with Jen, even offering a little shuffle and spin along with her music. I grinned as I patted Noodle’s head, soft and still as she dozed in the corner. Baxter had gone to doggy heaven years before, but Noodle was my little lady, a raggedy mixed breed with golden curly fur. She was one of those designer dogs who hadn’t turned out quite right, but when we went to see her at the rescue centre, and she put her head next to mine, my long golden curls mixing in with hers, everyone laughed and said owners looked like their pets. It was meant to be, and I spent most of the next few years running with her around the park, and falling asleep with her curled up against me, her paws hanging neatly over my arm.
‘I think we should go for lunch,’ I said to Jen suddenly. ‘A whole new world of food awaits with this restaurant thing. Wanna have a fancy lunch with me today?’
Jen placed a hand on her chest. ‘A fancy lunch with little old me? What did I do to deserve this honour?’
‘Because you’re always looking after me, and I think it’d be fun.’
‘Getting dolled up and eating in the city at one of your fancy freebies? You’ve got me,’ she smiled.
‘Nope,’ I shook my head, ‘not a freebie. I’m paying and we’re not going to a Restaurateur Club venue, otherwise I’ll have to pay attention to every detail of the meal and I want to concentrate on you.’
Jen started to protest, but I interrupted. ‘Even without the temping I’ve got more free cash now that I’m not paying for DJ equipment and subscriptions to fancy gyms. As well as the infuriating fact you won’t take any rent from me – my treat.’
‘You win. Pick somewhere.’
A few hours later we emerged from the Tube arm in arm, walking down Embankment. I’d booked at Amazing Grace, an Italian restaurant. It was just sparkly and vintage enough to impress Jen without making her feel overwhelmed.
She grinned as she looked up at the chandeliers, engaging in a back and forth with the cheery host as she led us to our table. I looked around to see if there were any famous people, wondering if I’d know them if there were, and in between I watched with delight as Jen took in every dish, tasting with her eyes closed, revelling in them. And I suddenly realized where my love of food came from.
‘So I’ve been thinking I might want to train as a chef,’ I said into my wine glass, looking up at her briefly. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that’s a wonderful idea! You’ve always been an excellent cook.’
‘I was just worried about working in a kitchen, being strong enough, tough enough…’ I pressed my lips together. ‘But I think I’ve just got to get over that.’
‘Savannah, you are one of the strongest people I know. Just because you don’t shout the loudest or demand everyone’s attention the minute you enter a room does not mean you’re not tough. Tough can be quiet. Being strong is a long-time gig, sweetheart, and you’ve been doing it your whole life.’
I felt the sudden desire to cry, and shook my head to try and ward the tears off.
‘You know, my favourite times were cooking together when you were a child. It was the first thing we did together, do you remember?’ Jen ruffled her dark pixie hair and her cheeks dimpled at the memory.
‘The pancakes the first morning after she left,’ I nodded. I was silent and still that first evening, sitting stroking Baxter as Jen put Disney movie after Disney movie on the television. She made me fish fingers for dinner, and I wondered how she had kids’ food when she had no kids. By the end of the evening I’d smiled a couple of times, mainly excited to have an adult sit with me all evening without having to go anywhere, and having a fluffy companion to warm my feet and be happily cuddled. The morning after, Jen had asked if I had ever made pancakes, and I said I hadn’t. She told me there was a very special way to make pancakes, and you had to have great music and lots of dancing whilst you stirred the batter, to make the pancakes fluffy.
‘You were the one who taught me how to cook,’ I said. ‘Before you I lived on McDonald’s and room service, and suddenly there was all this amazing food in the world.’
‘I loved it. I loved every minute teaching you to cook, and helping you with your homework, and watching you become this amazing person.’ Jen clasped my hands across the table, then lifted her glass to clink against mine.
I paused. ‘Are you happy with how everything turned out? Is this what you wanted for your life?’
‘I’ve had a wonderful life, Savannah, and I continue to. I didn’t have the career or adventures in the way your mother did, but I lived a wild life earlier, before you, and then I got to be with you, and what an adventure that was.’
‘Still is, if these last few weeks have been anything to go by,’ I laughed. ‘But you didn’t… you didn’t want that traditional thing, the family, more kids?’
Jen’s smile faded a little, and she regarded me seriously. ‘You’ve been wanting to ask me that for about 20 years, haven’t you?’
‘I remember asking you before, and you seemed sad.’
Jen leaned back in her chair, moving the food around her plate before putting the fork down, and pushing the plate away.
‘When we were kids, your mum and me, we were quite different. If anyone had guessed which one of us would be the crazy party girl with no responsibilities, it would have been me.’
‘Really?’ I couldn’t help myself.
‘I know,’ she smirked. ‘I travelled, wanted to be an artist, sold a few paintings, got in with a bad crowd. Lots of drugs and drinking and I ended up feeling numb. Your mum was a lot younger than me, she was the golden child, still doing what she was told and singing for family friends at dinner parties.’
‘Wow.’
‘I know,’ Jen snorted, ‘and then I met Dave, and he pulled me back from all that. I met him when we were in our early 30s – he was in the art scene, and he thought I had talent. I wish you’d met him.’ Her face lit up with the memory. ‘He was the kindest, cheeriest guy. Always turned everything into a joke. There was nothing that couldn’t be fixed. And he taught me about everything else in life, beyond partying and losing myself. He taught me about plants, took me abroad, showed me art and history and all sorts.’
‘So before him, you weren’t you?’ I said in surprise. ‘I mean, the you I know.’
‘Exactly.’ She shrugged. ‘Before him, I was… well, I was more like your mother.’
The waitress came over and offered us desserts, and Jen seamlessly switched, her voice light and cheery as she asked about the cherry cheesecake and what flavour ice cream was available. As the waitress left, she turned back to me.
‘So, obviously, there’s not a happy ending to the story, is there? Or rather, I had a happy ending with you, but it wasn’t as expected.’ Jen took a breath. ‘He died. In a car accident. I was pregnant at the time, and the grief and the shock – well, I lost the baby.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I reached across the table for her hand, and she squeezed it as I took hold.
‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, ‘a very long time ago. And I lived my quiet life, as he had shown me, seeking to find joy in growing, and cooking, and learning, and day by day, the colour came back. And then you arrived. And even though I was so angry at my sister for the way she left you, the way she ignored her responsibilities and didn’t think to call or stay in touch, I had been angrier at the way she had been raising you on the road, all the things she was denying you. And I was relieved that she left you with me, so I could give you something warm and loving and stable. Something I had always been ready to give, and something you needed.’
She met my eyes then, searching mine for something. ‘I did all right, didn’t I? I know… I know it wasn’t always easy for you, but you were happy overall, right? You had a happy life with me?’
‘I had a very happy life with you,’ I told her, smiling. ‘Happier than I had on the road, definitely. I was difficult sometimes, but I was always so grateful for you taking me in. You saved me from being miserable and lonely.’
‘You saved me too, sweetheart. You have no idea.’ She squeezed my hand again, those light eyes of hers so like my mother’s. ‘But if you want to pay me back for all those years of teenage strops and rolled eyes, you can bloody well go to cookery school and live your life to the fullest. Don’t live small. You deserve better than that.’
‘Live small?’
‘Settling for the quiet, easy life. You need to love things enough to fight for them.’
I paused. ‘What are you fighting for?’
‘For you, obviously,’ she laughed. ‘I’m fighting for you to live the life you deserve to have. That’s what I’ve always been fighting for. And first place at the swing dance competition, of course.’
‘Of course,’ I laughed, stealing a forkful of Tiramisu, feeling more and more like I was finally making the right choices in my life, grateful to finally know the person who had raised me as more than a guardian, but as a whole. She was right, I didn’t just deserve to ‘live big’ – it was my duty. And that’s why I was going to see Milo again.
I finally felt like I was making the right choices, guided by instinct. I grinned at the man who stood too near me on the Tube, until he backed off. I grinned at the lady who bumped into me and told me to watch where I was going. And I grinned as I walked through the lobby of Soraya, explaining that I was a Restaurateur Club member, and, no, I didn’t have a reservation, but maybe she could make an exception, seeing as it was three p.m. and I just wanted to sit at the bar? I was getting a little too comfortable with the privilege. The staff member smiled through gritted teeth and assured me it wasn’t a problem.
I’d already checked with Alba if I could start visiting different places as and when I felt like it, and she said as long as I sent her an email to report whether it was a crappy experience, or if I got any VIP treatment, she was happy for me to pick and choose.
I don’t know what it was, but I just wanted to tell Milo things. I wanted to walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, I’m not just a bartender, I’m gonna be a chef. Let me tell you about my life. Tell me about yours.’
But I considered it was probably a little less crazy to work on the facts first, rather than walking up to a near stranger and telling them your life plans. Soraya was gorgeous. A little 1940s, with red leather chairs and the bartenders wearing braces over their white shirts. The floors were marble and there were floor-to-ceiling windows. The food was pan-Asian, and the cocktails followed suit, with lychee, coconut and lemongrass featuring in most of them.
I was surprised how at home I felt in such a beautiful place. I felt less shocked by it all now. It was just dining out, but with really tasty food and interesting drinks. I deserved to be there. I wasn’t scared of anything any more, because I had found something I was good at. Something that made a table full of talented, beautiful people who moved on stage and got paid for being their wonderful, glorious selves turn to me and say I was brilliant too. Nothing could take that away.
There were fewer beanies at Soraya, but still a lot of laptops. People sat reading the paper, eating their gluten-free, vegan, paleo meals and generally not paying attention to the world around them. I ordered a Thai coffee, sat and observed and got out my computer. Not quite as expensive as everyone else’s but at least the childish stickers on the lid added a little personality. Although the ‘Keep your hands off my kitties’ sticker was probably a bit ridiculous, thinking about it.
A cheerful female server came over to take my drinks order and recommended a few options. I enjoyed asking questions about it, being specific in this new joyful world of food that I was going to be a part of. What was in the salad, could she tell me about that ingredient, was there anything special about the mayo or was it just out of a jar? She looked unflustered and unsurprised, and it was just like Alba had said. People pay good money for something, they expect to get what they want. Even if it was a complete pain in the arse. Just as she started to leave, I suddenly asked, ‘Oh, is Milo working today?’
She tilted her head in that way women do when they’re working out your intentions. A small smile played about her lips, and I felt my cheeks redden even as she answered. ‘Yeah, he’s helping set up for an event downstairs, but I think he’s on his way up. I’ll send him over.’
‘Oh no, that’s just –’
‘No, really –’ She smiled, overly helpful. ‘It’s no problem.’
‘No…’ I paused, searching for a lie. ‘He served me the other day, and I was a little curt with him, so I just wanted to apologize, that’s all.’
The girl blinked, as if she’d never heard of a customer doing that before, and her gaze seemed to soften. ‘That’s so nice. People tend to not even really see servers half the time. It’s nice that you would do that.’ Then she straightened, realising that was probably not the right thing to say. ‘Your drink will be over shortly.’
As she retreated I wanted to shout after her, I’m one of you! I get shouted at each night, or hit on, or mocked, or have to deal with someone using me as an emotional punchbag because they’ve had a bad day! I get it!
Instead, I was on the other side now. I was the customer who wondered what the heck was so special about the dressing, if they had aioli instead, and asked if they could have it on the side.
I decided Soraya was definitely somewhere Alba should be proud to have on her list, as long as the food was as good as the coffee. Then I started looking at cookery schools. There were so many options. I’d started looking around London; then I found one in Scotland, using locally grown produce. Then there was France, where everyone trained. If you were going to be a classical chef. But did I want to be a classical chef? Maybe I wanted to train in cooking with foraged ingredients in Denmark, or make pasta in Italy. Maybe I wanted to make sushi, or do a course pairing wine with food? I thought back to watching Audrey Hepburn in Sabrina with Jen, not long after Mum had left me with her. ‘Watch this, Savvy! Look how all her dreams come true!’ And I had loved it, even though it was black and white, and everyone spoke so quickly and I wasn’t really sure why she’d been sent away to learn how to make soufflés. Sabrina was sent to Paris to learn to cook and she came back someone glamorous, beautiful and sophisticated. That was what Paris could do for a broken-hearted girl. But I didn’t want sophistication. I didn’t want classic. I wanted something new, something about flavour and experimentation and the music of food. I wanted to do what I did last night every night, getting better and better, learning more and more ways to make people sigh in delight as they ate.
I had never really travelled, and now there were so many places to see, things to eat, recipes to try. I could go anywhere I wanted, depending on whether the cookery schools would accept me. I had some money saved up, scrimper and saver that I was, as well as those odd cheques my mother sent to Jen, who had deposited them in my account over the years. I had never touched them, out of pride, but as Jen has pointed out, my mother would never know if I’d cashed them or not. And sometimes, when it came to money, you had to swallow your pride. Especially if that money could float my dreams. I could go somewhere sunny, somewhere I could ride a bike in the morning, or walk down little cobblestone paths. I pictured myself buying vegetables from a local market and cooking in a cute flat with hardwood floors and colourful kitchen tiles. I enjoyed the dream for a little longer, imagining what wine I’d be drinking and the view I’d see out of my window, when I saw Milo turn up behind the bar. I got up to walk over to him, eyes focused, and was immediately knocked into.
She hadn’t aged at all. Her golden hair still curled gently, long and heavy with perhaps a couple of lighter streaks. She was still wearing the jeans and floaty tops and those goddamn cowboy boots with the daisies up the side. There were hundreds of necklaces laced one over the other, and almost each finger had a ring on it. She swirled round as she knocked into me, grabbing my shoulder to stop me hurtling along.
‘Sorry, sweetheart, you okay?’ Her voice was drier, rasping just a little. It used to be deep but sultry; now it sounded like she’d been smoking since she left all those years ago. I searched her face for recognition, waiting for that moment, for that light to come on in those brown eyes, but she just blinked again. I saw the tan lines, faint around her eyes, where she’d been wearing sunglasses. Papers said she’d been playing in LA. She looked good, but I took joyful notice of the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, and the chapped lips.
‘Darling, you all right there?’ She caught my eye, moving closer, still holding my arm. I waited, not saying anything, just breathing, just waiting for her to say, Oh my God, baby girl!
She got a little smile on her face, understanding but patronising. ‘Do you want an autograph, or a picture? I don’t mind. Especially as I knocked into you!’
Oh, St Persephone of the adoring fans, always thinking of how she can give back, make them love her more. But can’t recognize her own fucking child.
I shook my head, blinked in disbelief a couple more times, and watched as she shrugged and smiled, patted my shoulder and was gone, striding over to the other side of the room. She sat in intense conversation, and I realized her manager had changed again. This new one was young, too young to handle her. His blond hair slicked back, his suit a little too sharp for his surroundings, where everyone looked boho chic and shabby-but-expensive. He wouldn’t last. She always went back to Pete, no matter what. Pete was the one who jumpstarted her career, who recorded her album, got her the first tour. No matter how many times she switched labels, I was pretty sure she still spent nights smoking in Pete’s basement and drinking whisky, running back to her label when he told her what to do, or what to record.
I told myself I never looked for news about her, but if it came my way I paid attention. The word in the industry was that she’d dried up – there hadn’t been a new album in forever. There was a time when she put out hits like clockwork, but she was jumping from agency to agency non-stop. Now even the tours had stopped. It wasn’t like her to go quiet – she was frenetic, moveable chaos. She wasn’t about the long term.
I kept looking, twisting my neck to check she was still there, like picking at a scab. She didn’t look interested in what the Suit was saying. He was leaning in, all earnest, hands tapping the table to demand her attention. She was leaning back, unengaged, looking around at the other people in the restaurant. I willed her to make eye contact with me, willed her to suddenly see me and recognize me. But that moment had already passed.
I couldn’t just sit there. I shuffled in my seat, half stood, then sat again. What could I say? But if I didn’t say anything, this would be another incident like the other night with Rob. Another occasion when Savannah Curtis stood on the sidelines, watching as someone who had wronged her got away with it. It was painful enough to watch Rob propose to Leah, and stand there in the dark. Now I was standing in the dark again, letting her get away with making me invisible. I stood up, bridling with anger, ready to confront her. And then the waitress brought over my salad, looking at me in confusion. I sat down again, mumbling a ‘thank you’ and avoiding eye contact.
I just looked at that stupid sandwich, shell-shocked, angry at being denied my chance. I didn’t look at my mother again, instead focusing on the flavours of the salad, how the crunch of the cabbage and the light ginger dressing worked well, how the aioli was unnecessary and that I would have served the chicken hot.… but I truly did not give a shit. A salad had stopped my path to redemption. A salad. A few moments later, the same server brought over a Bloody Mary, with a receipt underneath. She was gone before I could say I hadn’t ordered it. It was served in a short glass, with a range of vegetation sprouting from it, a huge celery stick, vibrant carrot, herbs and ice, with a tiny bottle of Tabasco on the side. I looked at the receipt, and saw no charge, just a blank paper with an easy, looping scrawl:
Meet me tonight at the Attic for drinks we haven’t made ourselves. I’ll give you all my cocktail recipes if you stop looking so sad. 5 p.m.? Milo
I placed my shaking hand around the cold glass and sipped, considering the balance, allowing the flavours to ground me. I turned around before I could stop myself, and Persephone was gone, the slimy Suit along with her. The meeting would not have gone well. I suddenly thought I might have imagined her. But I remembered that physical bump, the smell of cigarettes and nag champa, still the same. Unforgettable. I took a breath and sipped the Bloody Mary again, looking back to the note. I added some Tabasco and a little pepper, tasting it again, before sighing, focusing on my breathing.
Milo looked at me from across the bar, dark hair falling over his eye as his tilted his head in a question. The note. Right, see Milo. The whole point I was here. Apart from being blindsided by the mother who abandoned me. I held up the drink and nodded. He tilted his head to the note and raised his eyebrows. I nodded again, and he smiled, bright and beaming, before pressing his lips together and turning away. That one moment made me feel a little better, but as I looked back at my computer screen, I suddenly wondered what the hell I was doing. I wanted to travel to Italy and make pasta? I’d never travelled alone. I’d never lived alone. My own mother didn’t even recognize me. I wasn’t interesting or engaging, and yes, so I could cook decent food, but the people at the Martini Club liked me, they were friendly and felt sorry for me. They were being nice. Proper chefs, proper people who had been studying cooking for years, they weren’t going to like me, they weren’t going to think I was special. Everything I’d been thinking suddenly seemed ridiculous, and in the space of 30 seconds with my mother, I was back to being invisible Savvy. I could put a thousand colours in my hair, or cook a thousand wonderful dishes, but I was still just going to be me.
I didn’t bother going home. I didn’t want to talk about Mum, I didn’t want to see Jen’s eyes widen or her hands clench. I didn’t want to hear my dad wave it away with, ‘That’s just your mum, love. That’s the way she is.’ I wanted to hold on to the feeling of that Bloody Mary in my stomach, the curls of Milo’s ‘l’ on his note, that smile beneath his lashes across the bar. And I wanted to cook.
I strode into the Martini Club whilst the guys were rehearsing. Arabella was singing ‘All that Jazz’, and it was funny to see her on stage in jeans and a T-shirt, still giving it her all, still sassy without the black eyeliner. She never really performed any more – running the business was more than enough – but she liked to rehearse, and she liked to occasionally wow us when she returned to the stage.
‘Hey, closed session –’ She paused, suddenly looking less like a builder who’d deck you for trespassing, and smiling sweetly. ‘Hey, Savvy, back so soon?’
‘I… I’ve got some time to kill, and I am pissed off about life, and I thought maybe I could make you lunch?’
She grinned from the stage, her round face and blue eyes suddenly so less bombastic without the make-up or the figure-hugging outfits. ‘That would be fab, darling. Thank you.’
‘The others rehearsing?’
She shook her head. ‘About half an hour, I just… I missed it, you know? Wanted to make sure I still had it.’
‘I don’t think you lose what you’ve got, Bel.’ I shrugged. ‘I think it’s part of who you are.’
I watched as her forehead lifted in surprise, and she simply stared at me in pleased wonder, until I shook my head.
‘Ricardo here? Think he’ll mind me using his kitchen?’
‘I think he’ll be thrilled,’ she said. ‘We got a ridiculous shipment of salmon in – the orders guy is trying to get in my good books. Use up as much as you can!’
I walked into the kitchen, pushing the door with force, letting it swing. It was clean but empty, and I knew Ricardo had probably already been and done his prep that morning. I tied up my hair, washed my hands and put on an apron, before assessing the spare ingredients. I looked at each one, considering flavour, texture, cooking method. Time of year and location. These things were important; they were the basis for how to create a meal, how to make something that evoked memories and stirred taste buds.
I did everything in slow motion, working from instinct. Chopping slowly, properly, speeding up. Tearing herbs, crushing garlic. I heated a pan and watched as the oil sizzled. I spread out, using all the space, turning up the music on my phone and dancing as I moved. I was queen of my own domain and it was beautiful.
When I brought out the food, Bel and I sat in the corner booth, which she’d laid out with knives and forks and a bottle of beer each, and clapped her hands together as I placed the plates on the table.
‘What is it?’
‘Poached salmon salsa tacos, with crème fraiche and baked avocado fries.’ I smiled. ‘I need to work on plate presentation but…’
‘It smells amazing!’ She fell into the booth and gestured for me to join. ‘I thought we could watch their rehearsals. You’re never here at this time of day, and you never really get to watch whilst you’re working anyway.’
She picked up her fork and speared some salmon, before pausing and looking at me. ‘I know a lot of people think seeing it all in rehearsal spoils it, but I think it’s the best bit. Without the frills and the make-up and everything else, they can still make it seem magic.’
She tilted her chin towards the stage, where Jacques was practising his moves, twisting his shoulders before doing a one-handed back flip, righting himself instantly.
‘Whoa.’
‘See,’ Bel snorted, ‘it’s important to see how much work goes into stuff like this. The same way you’ll be with your craft. It takes practice, and instinct and talent, and desperation, all rolled into one.’
We sat in a companionable silence as we ate, nodding to ourselves, sipping at the beers as they each started to sing, dance, move. The music started playing, and eventually Taya and Charlotte moved and preened and sang along to ‘Stupid Cupid’, fluttering their eyelashes to let you know that the winged little bastard had never got them yet. But if you hoped enough, maybe you’d be lucky.
‘They’re selling possibility,’ Bel grinned at me, suddenly looking so young. ‘That’s the beauty of it.’
‘You know,’ I ventured, swirling my fork around, ‘this is the longest time we’ve interacted without you calling me “darling”.’
‘That’s because technically I’m off the clock,’ she winked, her dark brown hair flowing loose over her shoulders, her lovely round face crinkled in a cheeky smile. She sighed, looking at the forkful of food, held up to her eye line. ‘You know, I never used to be able to eat like this – I would never even have looked at this food – and now here I am, tasting it and enjoying it. It’s wonderful.’
‘It’s not unhealthy… I poached the salmon!’
Arabella snorted, and smiled at me, tilting her head. ‘When I came to London I was here to be a dancer, a singer, an actress. Anything. Only work I could get was modelling, which seemed great at the beginning. I was 21, living on coffee and cigarettes. But then… well, there seemed to be less dancing, and I was getting too old for the modelling, and gradually, these hips and boobs and arse seemed to grow, because I wasn’t working, and I was drinking every night and living off takeaways, and somehow… no matter how hard I hated my body, or how much I tried to force it to go back, it wouldn’t.’
‘You stopped dancing?’ The thought made me sad.
‘For a while,’ she shrugged, ‘and then one night I came to a burlesque show and I saw this woman, this femme fatale standing there proud and shameless, knowing how to contort her body to make jaws drop, how to bare all and give nothing away. How to make them weak with a wink. And so I decided to become that. And this place was born.’ She threw her hands up. ‘I was reborn.’
She winked slowly, and even without her fake lashes or dark eyeshadow, even without the sparkle, she had it.
‘And that, my darling, is why I will eat this and fucking well enjoy it. Because that’s what my beautiful body deserves.’ She nodded her head at me.
‘This place is all yours?’
Bel snorted. ‘Sweetheart, did it never occur to you that I swan about as if I own the place because I do, actually, own the place?’
‘… I didn’t think people owned burlesque clubs. I figured some rich fat-cat banker was sitting in his Notting Hill mansion getting rich, and we were putting in the work.’
‘I can assure you no one is getting rich. But we’re all working, we’re all making money and friends and memories, right?’ Bel laughed at me, piling up our plates. ‘And one of these days we’re going to get you on the stage, too – right, Sav?’
‘You’ve already got me in the kitchen. Leave me be!’
‘And look how wonderful you were once we got you in there.’ Bel winked as she stood up, taking the dishes to the back. ‘Think of the wonderful things you could do.’
The Attic was one of those pretentious places that tried to trick you into thinking it was something that it wasn’t. Mainly in that it was called the Attic, and it was a basement bar.
It was one of those places Rob used to love, lots of people talking to each other loudly about how great they were, and trying to look like they were having the best time. Everything was a competition. However, at five o’clock, it was quiet. There was space to sit at the bar, and the few people in there had clocked off early to have a quiet Tuesday with their friends. Buddy Holly was playing in the background, and the bartender was dancing along behind the bar as she swept. When she looked up and saw me, she didn’t even look embarrassed.
‘What can I get you?’
‘She’ll have a Manhattan Twist, my way.’ Milo slid onto the bar stool next to mine, and I jumped at the proximity. I was used to him being on the other side of the bar, and to have him right there felt too close. I could see each inch of the stubble on his chin, the hazel of his eyes.
‘You know why no one makes it your way any more, Milo?’ The girl rolled her eyes and made a face, but winked at me.
‘Because nobody can get it right?’
‘Because it’s pretentious and people would rather have a fish bowl of Woo Woo, even if it tastes like someone tried to hide the taste of vodka with a bucket of Listerine.’
Milo turned to me and pointed at the bartender ‘Can you believe you’re hearing this?’
He sounded even more American, suddenly making me feel uptight and overtly English somehow.
‘Come on, Dana, you can do it, I believe in you. Two Manhattan Twists, for old times?’
‘What, those times where you called yourself the best bartender in London and jumped ship to work at a fancy restaurant?’ Dana bit back, but she was already making the drinks. ‘Sure.’
‘Don’t forget –’
‘The extra lime juice and to char the brown sugar slightly. Fuck off, Superman, I’ve been doing just fine without you.’
Milo turned to me. ‘She loves me really. I taught her everything she knows.’
‘I can see that,’ I laughed. ‘Seems to be endless waves of affection and gratitude.’
He twisted his body to face me, laughing slightly. His smile was soft and I liked the way his eyes crinkled and a dimple briefly appeared in his cheek, before disappearing.
‘So, this isn’t the way I usually do things, but I was thinking, seeing as we’re here –’ He gestured around them. ‘We’ve shared recipes, I’ve seen you a few times and you’re possibly going to make me look bad at my own art… what’s your name?’
I laughed, clapping my hands over my mouth. ‘Have we really not –’ I pointed between the two of us, and shook my head, before putting out my hand awkwardly.
‘Savannah Curtis.’
He took my hand, thumb stroking gently as he smiled.
‘Milo Durante.’
I smiled too, waiting for him to let go of my hand, and he did, his eyes still on mine.
‘Savannah, I never would have guessed that.’
‘It’s too interesting, right?’ I said without pause, as if I was talking to Mia or Jen. ‘It doesn’t fit at all. I’d be better off as a Sarah or a Mary or a normal name.’
His forehead creased, and he raised an eyebrow at me. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. I just wondered what led your parents to name you that. Were you conceived at a safari park?’
I snorted, shaking my head as the bartender brought over the drinks. I smiled at her as she placed them down, and left.
‘I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before.’
‘I get that a lot.’ Milo laughed, pushing the drink towards me. ‘Try it.’
I sipped tentatively, closing my eyes and licking my lips. ‘Okay, yeah, it’s good, but who the hell puts lime with a Manhattan? Is nothing sacred?’
‘Oh, so now you’re a purist!’ That dimple appeared again. ‘I go with the unexpected. It’s not a Manhattan, but I didn’t know what to call it. Besides, it never made it onto the menu here.’
‘Then why’d you order it?’
‘It’s the drink that got me into Soraya and Cafe Argentine. Restaurateur Club standard. Why they hired me. My interview piece, in a way.’
He looked so proud of himself, not vain or showing off, but quietly pleased.
‘I’ve always loved that playfulness, that there are basic cocktails and things you can improve on,’ I told him. ‘I’ve been doing it with food more and more too now. My colleagues are convinced I should quit and go off to cookery school.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘I…’ I winced a little before speaking. ‘I’ve had a fairly small life. Simple. I did my job and I came home and I loved my family and spent time with my friends, and that was kind of it. The idea of taking a risk, doing something I’ve never done before…’
‘It’s scary,’ he finished.
‘And invigorating, and exciting. I don’t have to tell you – you’re here.’
Milo smiled softly, nodding at the bar as he sipped his drink. ‘Sure, exciting and scary. And lonely. And sometimes you wonder what the hell you’ve done or why you’re here.’
‘Well, thanks!’ I laughed. ‘That’s exactly what I needed to hear when making a big scary decision about my life!’
He winked. ‘There’s good bits too. Adventures, you know? Can’t beat a good bit of adventure.’ Milo put down the drink. ‘This big life change wouldn’t have something to do with an ex, would it?’
I blinked and he laughed. ‘Your friend, remember? At Cafe Argentine. She said she’d had to put up with you moaning about your ex.’
I nodded, taking a breath. ‘Ah, you remember that.’
‘Yeah, so I wondered if that was why you looked so sad today…’
‘You saw that all the way from the bar?’
‘I think you could see that sad, beautiful face from the moon, it was so full of despair,’ he said softly, eyes hovering on my lips before meeting my eyes. I snorted gently at the cheesiness, but he looked incredibly earnest.
‘It wasn’t Rob today. It was Rob a couple of weeks ago, when he was proposing to another woman. After leaving me because we didn’t have anything in common after nearly a decade together. And I’m the moron who was plodding along with damp socks and lonely Friday nights instead of kisses like fireworks.’
I blushed, staring at the bar.
‘Fireworks, huh.’ He grinned, waiting for me to look up. ‘Good to know. So what was today about if it wasn’t about the damp-socked moron?’
I paused, wondering how to say it. I avoided telling people about her, because it just led to endless questions, and a fake sense of who I was. I wasn’t the child of some rock-and-roll star. I’d grown up in a semi-detached in Watford, with my dad living a couple of roads over. I wasn’t who she made me sound like.
‘It’s about one of your guests, at Soraya today.’
Milo tilted his head. ‘Get a bit star-struck? I know it’s easily done.’
I bit back a smile. ‘I don’t really have that problem. Unfortunately I know that fame often doesn’t make a difference to who someone really is.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Persephone Black was there today, which means she’s probably staying in the penthouse suite above the restaurant I’ve read about.’
Milo paused, sipping his drink. ‘I can officially neither confirm nor deny that.’ Then he blinked, twice, incredibly slowly, then grinned.
‘It’s okay, I know because I bumped into her there. Or rather, she bumped into me, quite literally.’
‘And that’s what made you sad?’
I took a breath, and sighed. ‘She didn’t recognize me. I mean, we haven’t seen each other for a while, but she didn’t recognize me.’
He smiled suddenly, like it was the most adorable thing that I was upset about that. ‘I wouldn’t take it personally. I’m sure she’s just got so many fans around the world that she can’t always –’
I laughed, shaking my head. ‘I’m not a fan. I’m her daughter.’
Milo blinked, widening his eyes and turning his whole body on the bar stool to face me.
‘You’re Persephone Black’s daughter? Persephone Black is your mom?’
‘Uh-huh… It’s not as exciting as it sounds.’
‘And… she didn’t recognize you?’ I shook my head and he pushed the drink away. ‘Well, fuck, we should be drinking something stronger.’
I laughed, swirling the final dregs of the drink around my glass. ‘Go on, ask.’
‘What?’
‘Ask the same question everyone always asks – what’s it like to have the wondrous Persephone Black as your mum? What’s she like?’ I made my voice starry-eyed and full of awe.
He laughed, shaking his head. ‘Actually, I was going to ask how you were feeling about that.’
I shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s complicated. I’m pissed off that I’m not memorable, I’m sad because I felt invisible. I wish I’d walked over to her and told her to fuck off before she disappeared, and yet… I’m relieved because I don’t think I could have dealt with her bullshit, pulling me into some big, fake, emotional reunion. She’d have had her favourite journalists running a story about Persephone Black’s tearful reunion with her long-lost daughter before I’d left the building.’
‘Sounds like that would have been fun to grow up with,’ Milo said.
‘And that’s why I was very lucky that I didn’t grow up with her. She dumped me with her sister when I was 7. And I’ve had a lovely, very quiet, very happy life without her. Very boring, the end.’
‘Wow,’ he said, nodding. ‘I don’t think that’s the end.’
‘Well, I’ve got a very mixed view of her. Like, in some ways, I have some amazing fun memories, living on a tour bus as a kid, and all the roadies who looked after me and made me feel special, but… well… my mother is a mess.’
‘You know what you should do?’ Milo said. ‘You should walk up to her and announce yourself as her daughter in front of everyone.’
‘Just walk in and say, “I’m Persephone Black’s daughter”?’ I laughed. ‘That’s the only label I’ve ever been allowed to own. I was Rob’s girlfriend, and Persephone Black’s daughter, and a doormat for anyone who felt like walking over me.’
Milo tilted his head. ‘Really? I don’t get that, because you seem like Savannah Curtis, overly polite to serving staff, food obsessive, cocktail-making genius, who is just waiting for her adventure to start.’
I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. I coughed, instead, looking at the ceiling.
‘Seems as if you’ve got me down pretty easily, especially from a couple of chats across a bar and a scribbled note on the back of a receipt.’
‘Well, you’re pretty memorable.’
I shook my head. ‘Now that is one thing I am not. My own mother doesn’t even remember me.’
‘Then maybe you’ve changed.’
‘I hope I have. I think I’m changing,’ I smiled, feeling the warmth of the alcohol in my cheeks.
We moved to a booth in the corner, ordering a bottle of wine and some tapas. We picked at it, talking about the flavours, the textures.
‘I love tapas!’ Milo exclaimed, holding up a deep-fried croquette. ‘I want to open a tapas bar one day.’
He paused before looking at me, as if waiting for laughter or derision.
‘That sounds awesome. Tapas is the friendliest way to eat, isn’t it? Sharing everything, tasting little bits of everything.’
‘Exactly!’ He sat up straighter in his seat, beaming. ‘The family weren’t so keen on that idea. If I was going to give up my life to cook food, why couldn’t it be good, traditional Italian food?’
‘Ah, well, excellent question – why not Italian food?’
He smiled at me, shaking his head. ‘Don’t get me wrong, there’s magic to Italian food, there’s flavour and passion and home. But it’s like your response to that Manhattan – you’re not allowed to bend the rules or play with recipes. You’re meant to make it the way your grandma makes it. The way her grandma made it before her.’
‘No changes?’
‘No changes. My mom… my mom once left a restaurant because she saw they were serving jalapenos on pizza. She was a purist.’ He smiled sadly, shaking the memory away. We sat quietly for a moment.
‘So where’s this wonderful tapas place gonna be – London?’
He shrugged, throwing his hands up. ‘I have no idea. I have no idea if I still even want to do it. I’ve been jumping from job to job for so long, with this little dream in my back pocket, that I didn’t even stop to think it might die if I didn’t keep dreaming.’
‘Dreams don’t die. They just sleep sometimes.’ I nudged his shoulder, my inhibitions softened by the wine. ‘They adapt, like your Manhattan.’
‘I think I need to remember it – Soraya may like my cocktails, but they’re not mad about my manner,’ he sighed, shrugging.
‘You’re perfectly polite, what are they on about?’
‘I’m too friendly… informal was the word they used. People who pay money like that want to be reminded that they’re paying your wages, sir, madam. Even if they’re sauntering in hungover on a Sunday, wearing a onesie, you can’t chat to them like a normal human being. And that’s kind of my thing.’
‘So they want you to be more stand-offish?’
Milo grinned. ‘Their precise words were, “Milo, we would appreciate it if you would strive to be just a tad more… well, British,” I believe.’
I snorted. ‘Painfully polite and uptight. Of course.’
He smiled, wide and beaming, and I was taken aback by how gorgeous he was. How his dark hair flicked over his eye, just a little, and how the hands on the table were tanned and gentle. ‘So cookery school wasn’t always your dream?’
I lifted my glass. ‘I was one of those rare people who didn’t have dreams. I was too busy helping other people make theirs come true… actually, that’s not true. All I dreamed of was a quiet life, with structure, stability and boredom. I wanted every day to be like the day before it.’
‘Being the daughter of a rock star could do that, I’d imagine,’ he smiled. ‘So what happened to that dream?’
I paused. ‘You know, I think I was wrong. Dreams die. They die when they’re ready to die, and when new ones are ready to bloom.’
We talked about pointless things after that, the songs playing over the speakers, the taste of the food, how we’d change it or make it better. What I’d cooked that day and stories of Arabella and the Martini Club girls. It was easy, easy to talk and be listened to, and somehow, easy to believe that I was interesting, that he wasn’t pretending when he leaned in close and asked me questions.
When we stumbled from the bar it was late, and though I wasn’t drunk, I felt light, giddy. I felt visible. He grinned at me, awkward, hands in his pockets as he rocked back on his heels.
‘So…’
‘So… I guess I’ll head to the station.’ I shrugged. ‘This was fun. Really, really fun.’
‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘if it was really, really fun, you think you’d want to do it again? I thought maybe I could cook for you, and you can make changes and make it better. Might as well carry on as we’ve started. Whatcha think?’
I pressed my lips together to stop myself from smiling too much. ‘Yeah, sure.’
He paused. ‘So… could I have your number to go with your newly acquired name?’
‘Oh!’ I laughed. ‘Sure! Sorry!’
We switched numbers and gave each other a hesitant grin as we put our phones away.
‘So…’ I said.
He shook his head, leaning in and kissing my cheek, the stubble scratching my skin softly, the smell of him engulfing me. ‘I had a good time too,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘A really, really good time.’
And then he was gone, and I felt the loss of him, the warmth of his body dissipating, as I watched him walk down the road.
Turn back. I crossed my fingers behind my back. Turn back and look.
I almost lost him in the crowd, but just before going left, he turned around, saw me looking, mouthed ‘Shit’ to himself and waved, grinning widely, before speeding around the corner.
I laughed as I skipped down the steps at Piccadilly Circus, hearing music in the stamps, coughs and conversation of the strangers around me. When I fell asleep that night, it was with a smile on my face, his assertion that I was memorable rolling around my head. I had changed, I was changing.