LifeStyles

Eighty-Three

We talk, or should I say Harry tries to explain his rationale which makes no sense. Our conversation becomes stilted then begins to fray around the edges. Not wanting to argue anymore I hang up.

He calls me straight back but with what feels like the whole café audience gawping, I mumble through gritted teeth and we end up wrangling again. This time he cuts me off and when my phone buzzes, I ignore it in favour of not only finishing my coffee but the entertainment I seem to be providing to a few amused patrons.

I rest my elbows on the table and cradle my coffee mug in both hands. The caffeine shot beats my heart faster and anxiety creeps in. Despite my phone being face down, a fan of light illuminates around its edges. I swig the dregs of my drink then suck in a deep breath ready for round three.

All fired up, I answer my phone with the intention of telling Harry I am on the next train home but he gives me no chance to get a word in edgeways. Apparently, a car is already on its way to collect me from Euston and my attempts at trying to refuse, on the grounds that we were supposed to be arriving at his house together, fall on deaf ears. His frustrated sigh is followed by a pause then a calm request to stop being stubborn and to please just accept the lift. With no energy left for a come back right now, and in truth not really wanting to go home, I mutter in sullen agreement.

Still in a vague stupor I gather my things together. A quick visit to the little girls room and I catch sight in the mirror of strained features staring back at me. Part of me still wants to jump on that train home but instead I make my way to the station exit and the pick up point where a silver Mercedes with blacked out windows is waiting. The driver gets out of the car and greets me with a polite nod before confirming my name. He takes my case and lifts it into the boot then kindly opens the door for me to get in. This feels very formal and although I appreciate the car, I could just have easily got a taxi.  Now it it me scolding myself for being pedantic.

We pull away slowly from the station and edge across the gridlocked London traffic. The car feels warm and I sink into the leather seat and let the classical track that is floating from the speakers lull me to relax. We follow the outskirts of Regents Park, passing London Zoo, before heading north with signs for Camden Town, Primrose Hill and Chalk Farm.

My stomach lets out a rumble and that makes up my mind; I am craving comfort food. I politely ask the driver to not drop me at Harry's home but the pub nearby. As he pulls into the car park and I exit the vehicle, I am temporarily blinded by the evening sun that has made an appearance.  I can hear that the outside beer garden is bursting with conversation and raucous laughter. Once I regain my focus, I see a labyrinth of wooden tables and chairs are all shaded by large overhanging trees, a few green parasols and pergolas draped in purple hanging wisteria. Stone planters are dotted around and are bursting with red begonias.  I imagine when the sun goes down that the white fairy lights wrapped around most of the tree branches look really pretty.

This place is clearly popular and I can see why people like to gather here. Deciding there is unlikely to be a free table for one outside, I head inside. The painted white exterior is in stark contrast to the classic darkness inside. There is a mixture of scents from the wood panelled walls to dust covered floorboards and brass metallic fixtures. A large copper fruit bowl sits on the bar and the brick fireplace and brown leather chairs give it almost the feel of a Gentleman's club.

Owing to the turn in the weather, the inside of the pub is relatively quiet. A smiling waitress shows me to a small table tucked away in a corner of the upstairs dining room.  She hands me a menu and I cannot help but eye-up the desserts first.  I am so hungry I order straightaway, selecting the first thing to make my mouth water along with a large glass of white wine.