Lunch for Two.

Late! Or would be soon. He knew he should have met her; travelled down with her on the tube. She didn’t like that sort of thing. Holding doors and so on. Told him it was wrong, nowadays. He looked at his watch: 13.57 and 12 seconds. You have to know the exact time. Upsetting, not to. As bad as having a door behind you, or not having a table in the corner of a restaurant.

John had arrived at 13.30 precisely. A table booked means arriving half-an-hour before. His father had taught him that. It was good enough for the Army, so it was good enough for you, boy.

The formally dressed man’s welcome had inched John backwards towards the entrance.

-‘Just one, Sir, is it?’

-‘Two… at least there will be.’

-‘Will Sir be waiting at the bar… or..?

-‘At the bar.’ He’d said stiffly.

Felt awkward at the bar. Hard to find somewhere you could see the entrance and the kitchen and toilet doors.

- ‘Drink, Sir? While you wait?’ a maroon-jacketed barman had wanted to know.

- ‘No, not just now. I’ll wait for her.’

- ‘Ah, keep the breath sweet for the lady. I understand.’

Which was more than John did. A joke, was it? Or did he have bad breath, what? He hadn’t answered. That was often best.

He asked to be shown to the table with a minute to go: pushed ahead of the waitress for the last few feet. Two o’clock on the dot. John was always on time. Why didn’t lateness bother anyone else? The cutlery wasn’t correct. The fish knife was 2◦ from the perpendicular at Kat’s seat opposite. He moved it. Moved it again. Took out a handkerchief and polished off his fingerprint; replaced the knife. The balled hankie went into his jacket pocket. There were 27 people in the restaurant: 12 couples, 2 lone business women, probably staying at the nearby hotel. And himself. He looked up.

-‘Would Sir like a drink? While he’s waiting?’

The waitress smirked.

-‘No, thank you. Wouldn’t be right.’

She flounced off. Looking for a more pliable diner.

Another mobile phone rang. Everyone patted pockets and looked in handbags. One of the single women ran outside to answer the call. Good. Rude, not to. John studied the menu. French; two misplaced graves and a missing cedilla. He stopped himself getting out his pen. That was very hard: learning not to do something. Couldn’t understand it, when something’s wrong, you make it right. Not always, apparently. Still, he found it difficult. 21 years, two months and a day ago, new boy at boarding school, it had been harder still. The bullies had sniffed out the different. Different was somehow wrong, they believed. But wrong was incorrectly measured. Wrong was late, wrong was 2+2 = Pi. Pi is 3.1416 to five significant figures. Why didn’t people know that?

John refolded his napkin into an equilateral triangle. Then he refolded the other. The waitress was looking at him again. He stared back. She looked away. 3 minutes and 59 seconds past the hour. Unforgivable. He began to count the acoustic tiles on the ceiling. Amazing, £17.50p for a consommé and the ceiling was cheap. 224, so the room wasn’t square. There were only 210 floor tiles, they were bigger though. Still something was out. At least there was no muzak. In the evenings they ran to a string quartet, but he hated it when the violinist fluffed the pizzicatos. Only lunch for him now, here.

33 tables crammed in the restaurant. Time Out said it was bijou. He knew that should have been small and quaint. La Faloise wasn’t that small. He thought it was quite big for Theatreland. He stood up, slid around the table and straightened the chair. Kat would have been looking past him at the coat rack like that. Chairs on opposite sides should face each other. The tablecloth was tucked up on one side. Move it and risk something happening on the table? What to do?

The waitress was whispering to the Maître D’, trying not to point.

Kat’s place setting was on a chair by the time he arrived at the table.

-‘ Please sit down sir, we’ll relay the table for one if you wish.’

-‘What? Not at all, she’s coming. It’s just wrong, that’s all.’

-Nevertheless, sir, please sit down. The others…’ he waved airily at the diners behind.

The waitress returned to the table. The cutlery-clatter resounded in the hushed restaurant. People looked up, and quickly looked down. John’s instructions on the place-setting did not go down well. The girl seemed near to tears. Why? He didn’t know.

The digital read out was 14:08:08. No hands on this boy’s watch! Missed the ticking though. It had been eight minutes and eight seconds to nine when he’d first seen Kat, at the Hospital. They’d hit it off straight away, she understood what made him tick, she’d said. He’d laughed when she explained the joke. Only polite. Kat had been late before. Not like this.

It was a hot July day, tourists and Londoners alike loosening their clothes on the pavements outside.

123 people passed the front window in a minute. London was always busy. Lots to count. Counting was good, if you did it right, if you were exact. Lateness: it was so imprecise, to be late. You could be punctual - even when it took you an hour to leave the house. You have to wind the clocks. Hands are ok for clocks. Bigger faces, more accurate hands. They have to be right, though. Kat said you can tell when something doesn’t chime. That was probably a joke too. 34 minutes - and not a bus had gone past. Where were they? John didn’t like buses: he’d no idea why they called it a timetable. He pulled at his earlobe absently. Staring at the window. Where was she? He always forgave her immediately for up to thirty seconds lateness; life was about compromise, they both knew that. Still no buses; that was odd. No matter, she’d be coming by Tube. From Shepherd’s Bush.

Their first date in 2004; Kat was 53 seconds late. He was almost in tears. His earlobe was raw. She was amazing though. Explaining jokes, trying to make him laugh. So beautiful; when she did. How had she happened to him! There were far fewer episodes now, although he still carried a paper bag in his jacket pocket. Jan had said that was wonderful during a recent session: could see an end to the medication, even.

Lunch was for their anniversary, according to Kat. July 21st: although John counted from the first sight at the hospital, he didn’t mind. A year since the first date wasn’t wrong. She’d even booked today off. She was calling in though - to draft the new contract with Sky. Not bad for a 2nd generation dotcom company in Shepherds Bush, Kat had crowed. Not as much money as the last lot, but maybe she’d still have a job in six months, she reckoned. And they were very good about her problem, it had to be said.

Sirens wailed; three ambulances, two fire engines, three police cars and four motorbikes careered past outside. John had heard them all day. Some anti-terrorism exercise, probably. Maybe it would be on the news at Kat’s flat later. Watching television with her was alright: she explained when they were joking; tried to help him make sense of it. Before he’d never watched it; no radio either. News should be in newspapers: else why were they called that? She’d looked at him really oddly, when he’d said he had no television. She made jokes about it now; John remembered to smile, when she did. It was expected, he thought. He still couldn’t believe they were ‘going out’. Other people had girlfriends. There had been a lot of dates, before he told Jan about her.

Mobile phones had been ringing in the restaurant since he’d arrived. Several were ringing now. John had one too. It was switched off in his pocket, as it should be. As it had been in the library, where he’d spent the morning reading newspapers, before heading for La Faloise.

John had been first in every subject at school: managed university too. Jobs had come easily and gone just as quickly. People weren’t bothered about doing things right; they just wanted things done. That had been before the hospital, of course. There was no job now, and that was fine.

The Maitre D’ was looming over the table:

-‘Sir, I really must insist…’

-‘What?’

-‘The table, you haven’t ordered anything… a drink, perhaps?’

John was working this one out. It wasn’t right to start without your guest… but waiting for her was wrong? What would Kat do? He ordered water, still. Didn’t trust the bubbles. His waitress returned; water on a tray. She plonked it down and made her getaway. She was avoiding all eye contact now. Good.

Kat flat-refused to take the pills. When she had her bad days, she wouldn’t see him. Wouldn’t see anyone. Didn’t leave the flat. He didn’t get an answer to his texts, not on bad days. He sent one every day at 09.15 precisely, until he got an answer. When she was ready, John would go round. The new ornaments would look nice and the flat would smell of disinfectant. It was great being with her. She smiled all the time, laughed like other people breathed. He wondered if it would rub off on him; her spontaneity, her joy.

14.20.06: he pressed the button illuminating the display. It didn’t change the time. He was gripping the hair beside his ear: twisting, pulling. She’s coming, she’s not: she’s coming: she’s not. He looked down at the marble-tiled floor. As expensive as the ceiling was cheap. There was a mark on his shoe, a rub of a handkerchief – gone. That made two for the bin when he got home: Kat kept some packets of new handkerchiefs at her flat, just for him.

John looked around at the others. People were speaking in little more than whispers. Normally, people were much louder - and there were more glasses on the tables. Only 56 altogether, now. Usually 4 or 5 per person in a place like this… water, aperitíf, red, white, digestíf... Him - again!

‘Really, Sir, you must understand… the kitchen closes at half-past.’

What did he want? John thought hard. Did he have to start without Kat? Was that it?
He wished she was here so he could ask her. Hey, almost a joke! He’d tell her when she got here.

Back came the waitress, menu in front, like a shield.

11 starters, 16 entrees and 10 desserts. Odd, that there weren’t the same number of each. He ordered two of the most expensive of everything. It seemed safest. 4 minutes and 32 seconds later he was back. M. Beauchamp was written on some plastic on his lapel. What now?

-‘We’re ready to serve your appetisers, Sir, could you call your friend, perhaps?’

-‘Why?’

-‘It would be a shame… I mean, you’ve ordered some expens…’

John got up, walked outside, switching the mobile on. One missed call… one SMS:

-‘set off 4 wrk urly as poss. :-) On tube @ 1200, shld B @ Shep Bush 1230 LUL Kat.’

John hated this stuff. Except the emoticons; he wished people would hold up cards with them on in real life. He selected her number and pressed dial. Number unavailable.

Back inside, expectant looks …

-‘Can’t get through.’

-‘I thought the networks were back now, Sir’, the Maître D’ said helpfully.

-‘ What d’you mean?’ What are you talking about?

-‘They were down for an hour or so… the bombs.’

-‘Bombs?’

-‘Warren Street, University College Hospital… Shepherds Bush,’ the waitress chimed in.

Shepherds Bush.

-‘When?’

-‘About noon, I think wasn’t it, Miss Zipkowicza?’

-‘Yes, midday, M’sieur Beauchamp’, used to agreeing with him.

-‘No, what time… exactly’. John reached for his paper bag.

-‘They’re not sure…’ Beauchamp and the waitress’s shrill echo.

-‘Not sure…’ he whispered… blank-eyed.

They sat John down. His shoulders heaved, deep painful breaths, the bag over his face. Diners staring, annoyed at having their lunch disturbed. The waitress mimed dialling a rotary phone, the barman nodded vigorously, and punched out a number. The Maitre D’s hand was on John’s shoulder. John shrugged it off violently. Monsieur Beauchamp backed away. John -face reddened- sobbing, trying to speak and breathe all at once. People were looking away, embarrassed. There was a brief pause…

…As Kat walked in. Beaming, lighting up the restaurant. She ran over to John.

-‘It’s OK, John, I’m here now,’ stroking his hair, as she always did. ‘I couldn’t call, battery’s flat. Bombs on the Underground - not like last time, though.’

Hand on his chin; she took the bag from his face. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, shoulders still rocking.

Kat shook her head in disbelief.

-‘You’re laughing, really laughing!’

-‘B-better late than never.’ He spluttered.

(2178 Words)