The Saturday Supper Club Read online

  It was wonderful – if embarrassing – to be admired like that, after feeling like the bottom had fallen out of my world when Ethan left. Joe banished my crushing feelings of self-doubt and I tried to repay him by sharing everything I loved. I took him to my favourite cafes and restaurants, introduced him to lazy Saturdays wandering through the food markets and let him in to my secret Sunday brunch: Bloody Mary with grated fresh horseradish and lashings of Tabasco to accompany huevos rancheros at a pub in Clerkenwell, trying to erase the memories I’d made in the same places with Ethan. Because we had known each other for so long I felt comfortable and safe with Joe. But it wasn’t just comfort. That makes him sound like a pair of slippers. I respected him and I appreciated him. I started to love him more deeply, though occasionally, usually just after we’d made love and were tangled up together in bed, his arm like an anchor across my waist, I had the sensation of needing to fight for air. I would close my eyes and count pebbles on a beach in my mind’s eye, waiting for the feeling to fade. It always did.

  Ethan crept into my thoughts most days, but I did my best to ignore them. I believed that if I pretended I didn’t miss him then eventually I wouldn’t miss him. Denial worked, to a degree. Though sometimes, if I caught the Tube to Shepherd’s Bush where Ethan had lived, or heard a loud, infectious laugh, or saw a guy standing outside a pub smoking a cigarette looking like he knew something everyone else didn’t, I physically craved him. But even though I sometimes ached to see him again, I never did.

  Until tonight.

  ‘Well,’ said Ethan, now, closing the door behind him. ‘This is awkward.’

  I was relieved that Ethan had spoken because I had lost my voice. I looked at him; his crow-black hair, grey-blue eyes and pale skin, those rose-pink lips quivering slightly. I watched him run his hand through his hair repeatedly – his nervous affectation. He cleared his throat several times and I understood that Ethan was as shocked to see me as I was to see him. He hadn’t, as I fleetingly imagined, tracked me down for nostalgic reasons, but had applied for the Saturday Supper Club and had, because of the last-minute replacement, been sent to my address without knowing it would be me waiting at the door. I fought the instinct to grab hold of him and press my lips to his. I swallowed at the lump in my throat.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m . . .’ I said. ‘I’m . . . so shocked to see you, I don’t know what to . . . so, you applied for the Saturday Supper Club? Did they not give you my name? You didn’t know I would open the door? Christ, what are you doing here, Ethan?’

  I pushed my hand through my hair, unconsciously copying him. Ethan shook his head and lifted his hands up in the air, before letting them drop down again.

  ‘No; I was just given an address,’ he said emphatically. ‘Believe me, this is as much of a shock to me as it is to you. In a city of nine million people, I knock on your door . . . wow . . . it’s . . . well, it’s unbelievable. You didn’t know I was coming either?’

  Trembling – no, visibly shaking – I stared at Ethan and shook my head. Joe hadn’t given me any details of who would actually be coming – he hadn’t known – just that three guests and a photographer would arrive with his colleague, Dominique.

  ‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I had no idea. I was asked to stand in because someone dropped out. I had no idea you—’

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘And you live here? In this flat.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do. Live here. Yes.’

  We seemed to have lost the ability to speak with any intellect. I couldn’t stop staring at Ethan. Standing there in the hallway, he towered above me. His height and broad shoulders had always made me feel particularly small and thus feminine, which I had loved. I felt a blush creeping up my neck and spreading across my face. I lifted my hands to my cheeks and patted them self-consciously.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked now. ‘You look hot.’

  His eyes widened and he shook his head.

  ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘you look like you’re feeling hot, the weather, it’s stifling, isn’t it? Jesus, am I really talking about the weather? Please shoot me now.’

  He held his fingers up to his head like a gun and grinned. Ethan had now got himself together and was staring at me, looking like he was about to laugh. It was his defence mechanism, to laugh. His black hair was slightly longer, but he looked just as gorgeous as ever. Famous lookalike? A bit like a young Robert Mitchum. Kind of dangerous. His eyes, always the topic of frantic discussion amongst females, were astonishing and, once you saw them up close, you didn’t forget.

  ‘I can’t . . . actually, um,’ I croaked, ‘I’m expecting the others any minute. I should be in the kitchen. My chocolate sauce will be ruined. What are you staring at me for?’

  Ethan’s eyes were all over me. I panicked. I’d always daydreamed that when I saw him again, I’d be looking jaw-droppingly beautiful. Thin as a pin. I’d be breezy and positive, probably entertaining a crowd who hung on my every word, or speeding down the road in an open-top Mercedes. I’d toss my long blonde hair around a lot, throw my head back and laugh. But, in reality, I felt the blood draining from my cheeks and an awful fear chill my bones. My hair felt too short and red, my lipstick too thick. I had a bike chained to the front gate, no Mercedes. I wondered if I’d aged. I was only twenty-eight, but still, I knew I had deep laughter lines. I hated myself for caring. Tears welled in my eyes. I told myself not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. I bit my lip.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ Ethan said softly. ‘Please—’

  I covered my eyes with my hand and wiped away the tears, sniffing noisily.

  ‘I’m not!’ I insisted, my mouth contorting. ‘Really, I’m not.’

  Ethan touched my arm, suddenly serious.

  ‘Eve,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. I know this is a shock and I’m probably the last person you wanted to see. I certainly didn’t expect to see you.’

  Angrily, I wiped at the tears on my cheeks.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, my voice breaking. ‘It’s only that I thought . . . thought . . . I was never going to see you again. You know, you just disappeared in a puff of smoke . . .’

  I paused to snap my fingers.

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  ‘Just like that . . . you . . . you . . . left me that pathetic note! And still, to this day, I don’t know what I did wrong or what went wrong, but it must have been really fucking bad to desert me like that, or else you’re a total bastard and . . .’

  My voice was shaking. I stopped speaking for a moment, overwhelmed at how angry I felt. Ethan looked taken aback, his face pale.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know what went wrong?’ he asked quietly.

  Ethan shuffled from foot to foot. I took a deep breath and forced myself to stop crying.

  ‘I don’t know, because you never told me!’ I started, furious. ‘And you never even bothered to—’

  Ethan looked beyond me and chewed his lip.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, lifting his hand to stop me speaking. ‘Do you mind if I use your toilet? I need to pee.’

  I widened my eyes and a strange strangled laugh erupted from my mouth.

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘You need to pee? I don’t see you for three years, after you just walked out of my life without explaining why, and that’s your opening gambit? You need to pee! Jesus, Ethan!’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have asked. It’s just I’m really bursting. You know what a weak bladder I have.’

  I gasped in exasperation.

  ‘There,’ I said, pointing to the bathroom door. ‘In there. The light switch is on the left-hand side.’

  Ethan smiled gratefully and, after a moment, walked past me and towards the bathroom, pausing outside the door to turn back and look at me, a confused expression on his face. I watched him there, in a stripe of sunlight beaming through the glass panel above the front door, and I felt a strange sensation of dread tinged with excitement, like when you’re standing at the top of a helter-skelter, your legs tr
embling with fear, your heart racing in anticipation of the ride, your hair flying up in a gust of wind. I had to admit, though I hated him for what he’d done, I was also thrilled to see him again.

  ‘Am I the first here, by the way?’ he said, smiling. ‘Or are all the other contestants sitting round the table listening in?’

  I nodded that yes, I was alone, while he walked into the bathroom and shut the door. I listened, frozen to the spot, to Ethan use and flush the toilet and wash his hands and clear his throat. I picked up a notepad on the table by the phone and waved it in front of my face to cool myself down.

  ‘Shit,’ I said, suddenly remembering the food simmering in the kitchen. ‘The sauce is going to be burnt.’

  I darted into the kitchen and with shaking hands took the chocolate off the heat, turned down my stew, which was bubbling furiously, picked up a tea-towel and opened the oven to rescue the bread I was baking. I took it out with the fish-slice, threw it onto the side and slammed the oven shut with my shoe. I threw open the window over the sink and breathed in the fresh air, hoping to cool down my red cheeks.

  ‘Look,’ Ethan said, suddenly behind me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to go?’

  I turned quickly to face him, amazed that he was there, in my kitchen. Pulling myself together, I decided I wasn’t having Ethan come back for five minutes, then disappear again without telling me why he’d left in the first place. This was my chance to get answers. To defend myself against whatever it was I was supposed to have done wrong. I’d waited three years for this moment.

  ‘So you come in and use the toilet,’ I said, trying to sound light. ‘Then you bugger off somewhere else. No way. You’re going nowhere. I want answers.’

  Ethan pulled his packet of Drum tobacco from his pocket and started to roll a cigarette, which he did in about ten seconds flat.

  ‘Mind if I—?’ he asked, putting the cigarette, unlit, between his lips. He was looking at me, no, staring at me, in a state of nervous amusement. I didn’t know how to stand. I looked OK, at least – that was something. How did he expect me to look? In my mind’s eye, I caught a glimpse of how I had been after he’d gone, lying in my bed all day, analysing everything I’d said and done in the previous weeks, replaying every conversation we’d had, searching for clues to why he’d left. ‘Something smells good. What’s cooking?’

  ‘Fisherman’s stew,’ I said, waving my hand at the cooker. ‘Meringue. Chocolate. Stuff.’

  Ethan raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Stuff? Yum. Eve, I have to say it, you look great,’ he said seriously. Ignoring him I moved backwards, so I was leaning against the fridge, and wrapped my arms around my waist. I told myself to take control.

  ‘I need to know something,’ I said. ‘Didn’t I deserve some kind of explanation? You just wrote me a note, flew to Rome and that was it. Gone. It was like you’d died, Ethan! I thought you . . .’

  Loved me. I let the words hang in the air. They seemed to weigh heavily between us, like sopping wet clothes on a washing line.

  With one arm across his chest and the other holding his chin, Ethan looked at me, then away, as if deciding something.

  ‘I made the decision to go very quickly after . . .’ he said, letting his sentence dissolve. ‘I know I should have stuck around and talked to you about it, but under the circumstances I just wanted to get away. It was wrong, but I needed to run. I couldn’t be who you wanted me to be.’

  ‘What circumstances?’ I said. ‘I don’t know what the circumstances were, for God’s sake. Was it because I could be jealous at times?’

  I cringed at the memory of me flying off the handle when Ethan repeatedly stayed out until three a.m., partying. I was routinely invited to these parties, but, just before we broke up, I started playing the martyr and refused to go. In truth I was jealous of how much time he devoted to everyone else in his life, how much time he spent socializing, and wanted to force him into a position where he would choose me over them. Ethan’s life-and-soul personality was one of the major reasons I’d fallen for him in the first place, so why had I tried to change him?

  ‘I wasn’t trying to change you,’ I said now. ‘I mean, I shouldn’t have been so . . . controlling. I know I was a bit over the top at that summer party, but I probably just had too much to drink. Jesus, why the hell am I apologizing? It was always like this. I was always your sidekick, always trying to please you—’

  My hands flapped against my hips. He covered his face briefly and rubbed his cheeks. I’d spent months trying to work out what had made him go off so suddenly, and settled on it being my fault. I had tried to control someone who could never be controlled. I cleared my throat and stared at Ethan, desperate for him to say something. Anything.

  ‘It wasn’t you,’ Ethan said hesitantly. ‘It was me. I made a mistake.’

  I stared at him and almost laughed.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ I snapped. ‘Don’t say things like that! I thought it was all down to me being—’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted, his eyes flicking up at me. ‘I thought you would be better off without me. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for our relationship.’

  ‘Right frame of mind?’ I said, almost laughing. ‘What frame of mind were you in, then?’

  Ethan rubbed his brow. Questions about Ethan’s life fizzed in my mind. Had he thought about me almost every day as I had him, even though many of those thoughts were in anger? What did he think of me now? And why did I care? What on earth did he mean by a ‘mistake’, and wasn’t it a bit late to be regretful? My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices outside the front door. We moved into the hallway and, through the stained-glass door panels, I saw the outlines of four people. The doorbell sounded.

  ‘Is this the other guests?’ he said, sidestepping my question. ‘Or your boyfriend? I take it these aren’t yours?’

  He picked up one of Joe’s Vans in the hallway and held it dangling in the air. I stared at Ethan and shook my head.

  ‘His name is Joe,’ I said. ‘Actually. Joe Cooke.’

  ‘Joe Cooke,’ Ethan said. ‘The shy guy with the glasses who was your best pal at school?’

  ‘He’s not shy,’ I said, tutting. ‘And he does have other distinguishable features, besides glasses.

  ‘You were friends, though,’ Ethan said, sounding hurt. ‘I never realized there was anything more—’

  I opened my mouth to answer, then the doorbell sounded again.

  ‘Fuck,’ I snapped. ‘Christ, I can’t cope with this. Look, let’s just say we’re old friends or something to avoid the questions. I can’t cope with questions, I don’t even know what I’m thinking . . .’

  I moved towards the door, hoping I didn’t have rivulets of mascara cascading down my cheeks. I rubbed my face with the back of my hand, probably making it a whole lot worse.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ he said, and I turned to face him. ‘You know, as stupid as this sounds, since I came back to London a few weeks ago, I kept feeling I was going to bump into you again. It’s fate; it must be. This was meant to happen. Truly, it’s fated.’ Ethan spoke with such enthusiasm, I almost believed him. ‘Did you wonder the same about me?’ he asked.

  I shook my head energetically.

  ‘Ethan,’ I said, ‘for all I knew, you could have been living in the Tibetan mountains as a goat herder. Please remember, I have not heard from you, at all, for three years. I had no idea you were even alive, let alone back in London.’

  My lip quivered, but I refused to cry. The doorbell sounded again, followed by an impatient ‘Hello!’ through the letterbox. I looked from Ethan to the door, my heart hammering in my chest.

  ‘So you didn’t get my letter?’ Ethan said almost inaudibly, then he stopped and looked at the floor. ‘I shouldn’t have sent—’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘What did you say? You sent me a letter? When?’

  I imagined a letter, spilling over with Ethan’s apologies and proclamations of undying love, sitting lost on the floor of a Pos
t Office somewhere. Again, the doorbell sounded. I moved towards the door.

  ‘Coming,’ I shouted. Then to Ethan, ‘What did you send?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, you obviously didn’t get it,’ he said with one of his impossibly bright smiles that I’d archived in a locked chamber in my heart. ‘It was a letter to apologize for the way I left so suddenly, but it’s totally irrelevant now. I can apologize in person now, can’t I? I can make it up to you. We do need to talk, but later. I know it’s going to be weird, but let’s just be as normal as we can with each other. Let’s start afresh.’

  I shook my head. There was another knock on the door.

  ‘OK . . .’ I said vaguely. ‘I’m just so surprised to see you, I can hardly believe my eyes.’

  ‘Me neither,’ he said, curling his lips into a smile, before leaning over to me and kissing my cheek. I lifted my hand to my cheek, angry and pleased, blushing madly.

  ‘The door?’ Ethan said, breaking into a lopsided smile.

  ‘I’m getting it,’ I said. ‘I’m COMING!’

  Then, with my confused heart leaping and lurching in my chest, my cheek hot and tingling, I took a deep breath, twisted the Yale lock back with a click and forced myself to smile. I opened the door.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Drinks!’ I said too loudly minutes later, bursting into the living room, shakily carrying a tinkling tray of glasses and a bottle of ice-cold Prosecco. I was almost hysterical with nerves and hadn’t meant to shout. My guests visibly jumped. I hurried in and, with shaking hands, crashed the tray down on the wobbly card table, registering their wary stares. I picked up the first glass and began to pour, unable to keep my eyes off Ethan.

  ‘Still got that tic, I see,’ said Ethan with a wry smile. I ignored his comment, but before I turned away from him, I thought how relaxed and unfazed he looked. One hundred per cent sure of himself in social situations, probably more comfortable with other people than without; ever the actor, he clearly hadn’t changed. I, on the other hand, was dying. I lifted a glass to my lips, tipped back my head and gulped down half of it. Ethan cleared his throat.