Karen Reyment
Dee inched her hand closer to the glass holding the house wine that readied her for tonight. Tony arrived at the bar much later than agreed, cloaked in the smell of his other life, the life that wouldn’t let him look into her eyes. He sat opposite her, distracted.
Dee’s hand continued towards her glass, she touched its stem and pushed. It tilted, held its pose in slow motion and then, crack! its contents ran to him. She knew his reaction; she had orchestrated this act and played it over and over in her mind. This was the last scene and there were no lines to rehearse; she would be silent and he would be predictable. As scripted, he left. With each step he took, her heart lightened. Smiling, she gathered her purse.
Next door was Pearl, its tables filled with seemingly happy lives. The jasmine bloom around the restaurant’s entrance sent tendrils of sweet fragrance to her. Twisting a dark tangle of hair around her fingers, she secured it with a pin and stepped inside. Opulence muted the sounds of the restaurant. China tinkled agreeably with soft music whose vague melancholy had no effect on her. The table she requested upon booking was beside a curtained window; she could see it waiting for her. The maître d’ appeared, ‘Table for …?’
‘Valance,’ she said, a name she had put on ice for six years.
Dee liked to be treated with respect and care. Alistair was her waiter. He pulled out her chair and laid a square of starched linen over her elegant lap. The menu promised good things; she lingered over it, running her fine fingers over the words like braille. For the first time she didn’t have to rush for fear of reprisal; this was her stage, her debut, and she would play it out as she wished.
French champagne veiled her glass in frost. She watched the bubbles rise to the surface before drinking them in, listening as they told their story. Alistair lingered. She was enjoying his manly attention, attention she wouldn’t have dared take pleasure in, even yesterday. He delivered her first bite of freedom, a mound of duck tartare resting on a fine crouton, beside it a golden, tear-shaped petal. It tasted of happiness.
Dee found a fold of soft velvet belonging to the heavy curtain beside her table and secured it between her first two fingers. She stroked it up and down, slowly and deliberately. Her thoughts travelled back to when she was young, when she stroked the curtain hanging beside her bed. It was made of the same soft velvet and it had comforted her. A feeling of wellbeing enveloped her now, just as it had then.
Her fingers were coaxed back to the table by a plate of truffled risotto releasing feathery wisps of steam into the air. She ate it slowly, allowing herself to become intimate with its musty earthiness. Her fingers wanted the velvet again; she sat stroking and tasting, enjoying the sensuality. ‘Alistair,’ she said, ‘please select a glass of wine to complement each course I order tonight.’
He pleased her with Madeira, beguiling with orangey glints that flickered playfully across her table, dancing in time with the candlelight. As the last mouthful coated her tongue, she amused herself by observing other diners. One couple mirrored how she and Tony must have appeared to the outside world. The woman’s eyes were filled with disdain; they searched for answers that would never be found. Her fingers were positioned dangerously close to her wine glass that if spilled could change the course of her life. She, too, had a partner whose eyes dashed and darted around the room, nervously avoiding her unspoken questions. Dee wanted to slap him and she wished the woman would inch her fingers closer to her wine, and push.
Alistair was beside her again, returning her thoughts to her own world. He had a plate of foie gras terrine, beside which lay an orchestrated mound of moss-coloured lentils, scattered with prisms of sherried jelly shimmering with the clarity of diamonds. He slid another glass, half full of wine, into her vision; she instinctively withdrew her hand so as not to spill it. Dee smiled at the thought of interpreting the glass as being half full; she had missed her old optimism. Swirling the wine under her nose it released a faint aroma reminiscent of varnish from the old furniture store she had visited as a child. They were happy days spent drawing pictures in dusty surfaces, waiting for her father to negotiate the best price with the shopkeeper. As he prepared to leave the store Dee would hide behind the dusty curtains and seek the comfort of velvet between her fingers until she was found.
With the flush of wine across her cheeks Dee sat back in her chair stroking the curtain. She hadn’t ordered dessert but it had arrived. Alistair introduced it as ‘textures of chocolate’. As Dee lifted the first spoonful to her mouth its smell invaded her. It was the same sweet smell as the satin-ribboned chocolate boxes Tony had used to placate her, or so he thought. The unexpected reminder of Tony stirred a reaction deep inside Dee had not prepared for. She released the curtain, her hands trembled as she removed the ring of gold from her finger; the only memories it held were lies. She tucked the ring deep into the chocolate masterpiece, returned her plate to Alistair without explanation and asked for the bill.
Dee bravely stepped outside and into her new life. She had not made plans beyond her maiden name reservation and the table beside the curtain. Slowly and calmly, she slid her hand over her skirt, folded its soft velvet between her fingers, stroked them up and down and readied herself to be alone in the world.