Page 40 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘Yes. He’s a wizard in the kitchen but he doesn’t come in for much praise, because people who dine at our establishment tend to be pretty distracted.’
‘Tell him the woman in the Brain Injury Unit salutes him.’
‘I will,’ he says, gentle and kind.
And the way he looks at me, I could almost think that he feels something for me, too, and I have to look away because I can’t let myself hope. He’s made it clear that he has someone, or at least that there’s someone on the scene. All I can do is enjoy his visits and be grateful for the spare time he’s giving up for me.
‘Hey, guess what?’ I ask, suddenly remembering I have some news for once.
‘What?’
‘I had a scan today and my brain has stopped bleeding.’
‘Well, that’s great news.’
‘Yeah. I don’t think they’ll keep me much longer.’
‘How do you feel about going home?’
It’s a simple question, but I know he’s asking about so much more. The state of my marriage. Where I’ll call home.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to stay positive.’
He nods, then gives me the saddest smile and looks away. And then he drains his plastic cup and gets ready to leave. And though I don’t want to, I go back to the start of my marriage in my mind.
22
THEN
It is three days after our wedding when it happens. I still feel high from it – all the dancing and the beautiful, three-tiered cake and everyone I know telling me that I look beautiful. We’re not having a honeymoon, because the wedding cost us pretty much every penny we had. We’re saving up, planning to go away somewhere in a few months, or a year. I still haven’t been anywhere, really. Just the Isle of Wight, and rainy Wales. I long to go to France or Argentina or Japan – anywhere. But David says we have to be sensible. We closed the pub for a couple of days after the wedding, and we’ve been lazing around, eating sandwiches and opening cards and telling each other about the day, because there was so much packed into those hours, and I don’t want to lose any of it.
But today we’re opening the doors again. David isn’t back at work until tomorrow, so he’s offered to help. I have mixed feelings about this. Occasionally, David collects glasses or wipes down tables and very occasionally, like the time Dee had to go home with food poisoning and my new barman didn’t turn up, he’s served a few drinks. But he’s not at home behind the bar the way I am. I prefer it when he’s on the other side, chattingto the regulars and making me laugh whenever I have a minute between customers. But when he offered to help today, I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. And I am a man down – my latest recruit, Jon, has asked for a night off.
So here we are, at noon, Dee breezing in and unlocking the doors and David and me standing behind the bar. Dee tells him he looks like he’s concentrating, like he’s getting ready to catch a ball, and David says it is a bit like that, for him. That he’s not a natural like the two of us. Can’t make a cocktail with one hand and give someone their change with the other, while taking an order from a third person.
‘Why don’t you just do a couple of hours?’ I ask, flicking him gently with the tea towel I’ve been using to dry glasses. ‘Dee and I will be fine.’
‘Let’s see how busy it is,’ he says.
And he puts a hand on top of my head, pulls me in and kisses me on the cheek. I smooth my hair down, pretend I’m a bit annoyed that he’s messed it up, but I feel warm inside. Dee asked me, before the wedding, whether I thought it would change anything, and I said I wasn’t sure. We were already living together, already committed. But I do feel different, in a way I can’t quite define. I think perhaps his jealousy will be curbed, now I’ve promised myself to him forever.
The next few hours rush by in a haze of foaming pints and glasses hot from the dishwasher and condensation on the side of wine bottles. Laughter and questions about the wedding from regulars and snippets of gossip, and when I look at the clock, it’s coming up for six, and I’m hungry. When the evening staff arrive, I send Dee on a break, tell her to take her time because she hasn’t stopped since she arrived. And once she gets back, me and David go upstairs for something to eat. I’m so focussed on the pasta I’m going to make, can almost feel the warmth of it in my mouth and the contrast of the sharp tomato sauce, the saltycheese, that I don’t notice the atmosphere until we’re standing in the kitchen, the kettle boiling.
‘Thanks,’ I say, easing off my shoes. ‘You really didn’t need to do all afternoon. When I go back, you stay up here and relax a bit.’
‘So you can flirt with the customers without me seeing?’ he asks.
I turn to look at him. I don’t know where this has come from, but I know it’s nothing good.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say. I mumble it, my head low.
‘I saw you down there, winking, touching customers’ arms, acting like you’re anyone’s for the taking.’
I go over the day, sure at first that I haven’t done any of those things. But is it possible I did? I am friendly with the customers, always have been. It’s not out of the question for there to be the odd touch or wink. So I don’t say anything.
‘You’re my wife now, Shell,’ he says, waving his arms around, all tightly wound fury. ‘Christ, I thought it would stop.’
‘David, it’s my job. I’m just friendly, chatty. I’m not flirting with?—’
