What total shite!

‘What we do here is serve good honest homely fresh-cooked fare from scratch, no fuss or showing off, and our regulars love it. These are old recipes from our owner’s mother. So if they don’t like our classics or say they’re not authentic, argue with his Nonna – she lives in Turin!’

‘She lives in fucking Bridlington!’ I snort.

The piece swerves into a generalised discussion of the benefits and drawbacks of TripAdvisor as guidance service, so no one’s given the chance to answer Tony back. ‘Greg Withers’ would’ve been a very chatty respondent, if he could’ve used email (or if I’d persuaded Rav to moonlight).

Oh man, this is so unfair. Has it not occurred to the reporter that That’s Amore! might have terrible feedback because it’s terrible? Has he heard of Occam’s Razor? Has he tried any of its food? This is basically a big free advertisement for That’s Amore! That I prompted. There’s no doubt about this, the byline is an ‘Ant Haddon.’

That’s Amore!, 1, Georgina, 0.

‘Good honest fresh-cooked fare’, my arse. I’ve seen Tony up-end a box of Quality Street, take the wrappers off, have a go at bevelling them with a cheese paring knife, pile them in a pyramid on a saucer, stick a dusting of drinking chocolate powder over the top, and tell me to tell the customer they’re our in-house handmade chocolates. Fawlty Towers ‘Gourmet Night’ without the slick presentation.

I ring Rav.

‘Why do the bad guys always win, Rav? Always?!’

I’m half joking-exasperated, half genuinely upset. ‘I mean, they do, don’t they? That’s Amore! survive anything! Even the critic visiting, thanks to sacking me. What do they have to do? Put polonium in the Pollo alla Cacciatore?’

‘Haaaah. It’s a bit much, right?’ Rav hoots. ‘I liked the part where he says everyone thinks they’re shit because they’re expecting L’Enclume and sea urchin sashimi. That, without a doubt, is what’s going wrong. People mincing up from Mayfair and not understanding what two mains for a tenner and half a carafe of rough red might entail.’

I start laughing. ‘A That’s Amore! tasting menu. Can’t imagine what would be in a Tony foam.’

‘I can.’

I wheeze helplessly.

‘My efforts have filled That’s Amore!’s tables for the next month. I mean, even if anyone goes there because of this and ends up agreeing with me, they’ve still had their money once. There is no God,’ I say.

‘Yeah, but we knew that. Listen, that’s not actually why I was originally going to call you. We all feel a bit bad for ragging on Robin the other night.’

I cackle. ‘Oh, Rav, I love you, but if Clem feels bad about that, I am Mr Greg Withers from Stockport.’

‘Alright, admittedly, Jo and I told Clem she should feel bad about ragging on Robin.’

‘And did she agree?’

‘She said: “Why are you defending that conceited jeb-end court jester who treated George like dirt?” which I think you’ll agree has a strong subtext of wishing her repentance to be known.’

I laugh some more.

‘Look, either way, Jo and I will be getting her to split the bill three ways with us when we take you out – you free tonight?’

‘Ooh, where? I have something to do at six-thirty but I don’t think it’ll be long.’

‘Where do you think?’

‘… Curry?!’

‘Ta dah! … Or. That’s Amore?’

‘Oh, God! I can’t imagine what Tony would do to my food.’

‘… I can.’

‘Blee!’ I pause. ‘There’s no such thing as karma, is there, Rav? No one gets what they deserve.’

‘There’s a long answer to that and a shorter one and given you’re not paying me for this in a counselling session, I will give you the short one.’

‘Which is?’

‘Nope, there’s no such thing as karma and people don’t get what they deserve. It’s a comforting myth to reconcile us to the savage randomness of the universe and wrongs inflicted upon us.’

‘Argh! Is the longer answer more uplifting?’

‘Yes that’s why it costs you.’

I laugh, ring off and inhale tart October air. I don’t know why I’d still cling to the notion that karma exists, given I’ve never seen it in action in my thirty years. I should’ve let it go at the same time as the Tooth Fairy.

14

As warned, there is no answer at the pub when I arrive on the dot of 6.30 that evening. I breathe out dragon-smoke in the cold. Three hammerings of my fist against the door and no response. I try the handle and step inside, saying, ‘Hello?’

The room is in complete darkness.

‘Hello?’ I call again, tentatively. ‘Anyone there?’

It’s quite spooky with no illumination at all. The pubs I’ve worked in have always kept those sconces on, even once the overhead is off. The only reason I’m not tripping over the furniture in the gloaming is the street lamps outside the windows.

A bulb switches on in a space beyond the main bar. A figure is silhouetted in the doorway to the saloon. As he steps forward, he throws more lights on.

He’s in a black shirt covered with dust and stands looking at me, a giant hoop of gaoler’s keys in one hand. I’m eighteen years old again, and Lucas McCarthy is staring across a room, eyes penetrating, expression unreadable.

For a moment, I can’t remember any standard British words of greeting.

‘Can I help you?’ Lucas says, eventually. ‘We’re closed.’

Uh yeah I sussed that. I wasn’t about to say half of mild, thanks and can I borrow a torch.

‘Dev—’ I cough, nerves a-jangle, clear my throat again. ‘Devlin told me to come in, he wanted to show me around.’

‘Ah, right. Dev’s gone to the shops, he’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Ah. OK.’

A strained pause as we each wait for the other to say something.

I feel like Devlin’s bottoming, as it were, of my being here, isn’t as bottomed as I might’ve hoped. It might even be entirely unbottomed.

I stand around uselessly, until Lucas says:

‘Sit down if you want. Would you like a drink? Nothing’s working on tap yet but we have stock. A Coke? It’s not chilled I’m afraid.’

Much like me haha.

I nod and mutter thank you and drop heavily into the nearest chair, feel the now-intensified layer of stuffy heat trapped between my skin and clothes, my nerves buzzing like faulty electrics.

Are we going to have to make conversation? For how long? Why did I say yes to this, why didn’t I tell Devlin something had come up in the meantime? Why would I want Lucas McCarthy to be my boss, does life not contain enough humiliation? There’s an answer to this question, hovering just outside of my consciousness.

Lucas has temporarily ducked out of sight and I glance around.

I hear funny rapid heavy breathing panting behind me and the clatter of toenails on timber and suddenly, at my table, looking up expectantly, is the world’s most appealing, low-bellied dog. I recognise it from the wake. Its hind quarters are so hefty, when it’s sat down, it’s like it’s squatting in a puddle of a russet-coloured fur. It has kind eyes and an eager expression. The sort of dog whose face conveys HELLO I AM DOG WHO ARE YOU I LOVE YOU.

I couldn’t be more pleased at the unscheduled canine intrusion. I am a friend to any animal at the best of times, and this isn’t the best of times.

The dog slaps its paw into my lap, and I lift and shake it.

‘Hello! Very nice to meet you! Who are you?’

It has such a friendly face it honestly looks like it’s grinning at me, and I laugh.

Lucas reappears, with the swish and clink of ice in a metal bucket as he sets it on the bar.

‘Should’ve said there’s a dog. This is Keith. No allergies or anything?’

‘Hello, Keith!’ I cry. ‘Aren’t you lovely? Is he yours?’

‘Yep.’

Petting Keith is a very welcome displacement activity.

‘Keith,’ I say, as Lucas puts my Coke in front of me. ‘Unusual name for a dog. Funny coincidence, the incognito restaurant critic for The Star books tables as Mr Keith.’

I was going to carry on and explain it’s a coincidence because I’d recently met him in my last place of work, but it’s such a stupid conversational gambit, I pause, midway.

Lucas looks at me as if I might be simple and says: ‘Not that funny a coincidence, unless you’re implying anything? I’m fairly certain this Keith isn’t a secret restaurant critic.’

‘Hahah, no, I just meant …’

I trail off, as I didn’t mean anything.

‘Keith’s reviews would give top marks for baked bean juice on a J-cloth. He’s an eager diner but not too discerning.’

I give a strained laugh, unsure if I’m partly the butt of the joke.

These are as many words in a row as I’ve heard Lucas speak so far. He sounds more posh-Irish than Devlin, his accent less broad. The thuddingly obvious thought lands – he’s a total stranger. Just because you kissed someone twelve years ago, that doesn’t mean you know them now. He was a stranger back then, come to think of it.