Page 38 of A Miracle on Hope Street
‘I’ve always imagined what it would be like to run my own restaurant,’ I say to him and his face brightens.
‘Really?’ he says. ‘You certainly have the magic touch when it comes to Italian food. Why don’t you do it, then?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not something I ever see happening, just a deep-rooted dream. And I don’t necessarily mean an Italian restaurant,’ I explain. ‘I’ve this long-lived dream of working in hospitality of some sort, just looking after people because I love the idea of new faces and new stories and knowing that people leave your company feeling nourished and maybe a little fulfilled inside. That’s what I’d aim for, if I ever was to do it.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ says Michael. ‘Working in Gloria’s Café is scratching that itch for me in a way, but there’s only so much excitement you can get from soups, sandwiches and coffee. I’d love to splurge out some day and put one of my Thai curries on the menu. Or host an evening dinner with candlelight like this and maybe some live music in the corner. I’ve so many ideas but, to be honest, Gloria is set in her ways. She is ticking along nicely and doesn’t want to rock the boat or take on, as she would see it, any additional stress.’
‘But she might let you do it for yourself?’ I suggest to him. ‘Have you told her your ideas? She might give you a go at it if you take on all the headaches that she’s afraid of, like the preparation, the staff, the marketing.’
‘Nah, I think she’s been very kind to me by giving me a new start and I’d never push her for anything more,’ he says to me. ‘Maybe one day when I get on my feet a bit more. I’m getting there, bit by bit Ruth, I just need to keep focused and keep taking those baby steps in the right direction.’
His eyes avoid mine and he fidgets with the menu now.
‘You can tell me if you want to?’ I suggest, regretting it immediately as this is hardly the time or place for a heart-to-heart. ‘Or don’t. Just know that I’m always here, just like you said you would be for me. Gosh, what are we like? More baggage than a small aircraft between us.’
Michael raises his glass of water.
‘My ex used to say I was like an open book, and that wasn’t a compliment,’ he tells me and my stomach gives a leap at the glimpse into his past. ‘I used to divulge everything to anyone who would listen and there was no such thing as a secret with me.’
‘I find that hard to believe,’ I reply.
‘I know. I blamed it on working anti-social hours as a chef with no interaction with anyone only my staff, then when I did get into a social situation, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut,’ he says and laughs. ‘I think I’ve gone full circle now. She wouldn’t recognise the new me at all. I give virtually nothing away if I don’t have to.’
He doesn’t look at me as he talks and the mention of his ex seems to sting him sorely. He really has closed up since then, that’s for sure.
‘Were you together a long time?’ I ask casually, sipping my wine which tastes so, so good. I want to nudge this information from him slowly, realising that dipping even a toe into the past might be too much for him.
‘Seven and a half years,’ he says, playing with his napkin now. ‘Six years of heaven and a year and a half of hell. That’s it in a nutshell. We didn’t leave on good terms, and that’s putting it very lightly.’
He goes from smiling to looking stoic and serious when he talks about it, the bitterness sticking in his throat.
‘Married?’ I dare to ask.
He looks up at me now. I’m pushing him too far.
‘No. Not married,’ he says after a long pause. ‘Almost, though. Maybe if we’d have been married we’d have pushed harder to make it work when it started to go so wrong.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, going back to my wine. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Michael.’
He shrugs, as if to say ‘shit happens.’
‘On that note, here’s to the future and whatever it may bring our way,’ he says and I raise my glass to his, taking the hint to change the subject and noticing again that he is on water while I am on wine. Maybe he is driving again . . .
‘To the future,’ I echo, and the waiter comes to take our order, saving us from any overindulgence of our past that we are so badly trying to move on from.
I don’t need to look at the menu. I already know it inside out.
‘So, can you speak Italian?’ Michael asks me as he later enjoys his pasta dish. My seafood spaghetti dish is to die for and his carbonara looks equally pleasing.
‘Of course,’ I say to him. ‘I have a whole Italian side of the family who barely know a word of English and who are too stubborn to learn it, so I had no choice. Even though I haven’t seen them in a long time, they’re still very much part of me. We used to holiday there as much as possible and I loved it, but funnily enough, the most precious memory of holidaying with my parents was not in Italy, but in a little place called Rossnowlagh in Donegal. Do you know it?’
Michael raises an eyebrow and thinks.
‘Yes, yes I do,’ he says to me. ‘It’s a beautiful part of the world there too. Do you visit it much?’
I sigh as I reminisce. ‘You know, I’ve never been there since and it’s on my bucket list to just pack up one day and go there and relive those wonderful memories I associate with that place. I suppose I could say I’m Irish in my soul with an Italian heart, if you know what I mean. I love both places, but this town will always be my home.’
‘You have a very beautiful home,’ Michael tells me and, after my conversation with Molly today, I feel like such a fool for all my complaining about its emptiness and memories when I have no idea how or where other people live, people like Michael, or the home he may have left behind.
