Cathy Kelly - Just Between Us

‘Bad is not the word,’ Nick said. ‘Horrendous fits the bill more successfully. Apparently, the reviewer had mussels and ended up cancelling his holiday because he was so sick. Mussels you’d die from was the tone of the review, I’m afraid.’

The whole situation suddenly struck Stella as hilariously funny. Trying to prove that she was a coolly independent modern woman, she’d inadvertently recommended a restaurant rocked by a food poisoning scandal.

Laughter bubbled up inside her and she bit her lip to stop it erupting. It was no good. She burst into laughter at exactly the same time as Nick. They both roared so loudly that the newly-arrived customers stared at them curiously, interested to see what was so amusing.

‘It’s not funny for them, but it’s hilarious really,’ she howled, leaning over the table and clutching her stomach with the intensity of her outburst. ‘I knew I’d heard something about this place but I couldn’t remember what and I didn’t want to say yes to Figaro’s instantly because I didn’t want you to think…’

Their waitress appeared, looking anxious. ‘Is…is everything all right?’ she asked.

‘Wonderful,’ squawked Stella. ‘Joke, that’s all.’

Nick composed himself.

‘Just another minute, please.’

The waitress drifted off.

‘You didn’t want me to think you were a pushover,’ finished Nick.

Stella grinned. ‘Got it in one.’

‘We can leave if you want to,’ Nick added, ‘although I’d prefer to stay now that we’re here. It might be hard to get a table anywhere else at such short notice, and our waitress would be so upset if we did leave.’

That did it. Stella smiled at him in admiration. Any man who was so kind would be worth a proper date. She could always say she couldn’t see him again at the end.

‘I don’t think I’d have liked you if you’d wanted to leave,’ she admitted. ‘The mussels could have been a once off and it would see so mean to leave now, when the dear waitress was so thrilled to see us.’

‘I agree. And there’s pasta on the menu, anyway, so less chance of fatal illness there.’

Stella erupted again.

‘Are you ready to order?’ inquired the waitress, once again materialising out of nowhere. Was she on roller skates? Stella wondered.

‘Yes,’ smiled Nick.

They ordered quickly – no fish – and agreed on a bottle of claret.

‘I am very out of practice at this date thing,’ Stella confessed when they were alone after the waitress had served the wine. ‘I’m sure that even saying that contravenes modern dating standards, but I can’t help it. I did all my dating when flares were in, the first time. I’ve forgotten the rules.’

‘I didn’t know there were rules,’ Nick replied. ‘See what I know about women. I thought I had to fill in your dance card, and after fifty dates, we were allowed out without chaperonage as long as I kept one foot on the floor at all times.’

Stella giggled. ‘Let’s skip a bit. I left my dance card at home, anyway. I think we have to tell each other our histories. That’s what they do in those articles in the paper when they set people up on blind dates.’

‘I’m afraid I never read that stuff,’ Nick said apologetically.

‘Men never do. But the theory is simple: we each get five minutes to tell our life stories.’

‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if mine will last that long.’

‘I bet,’ said Stella in mock cynicism. ‘OK then, make it shorter, say…twenty words or less. Let’s keep it short.’

‘Twenty words,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘OK. You first or me?’

‘You,’ she said quickly.

‘Right. You keep count of the number of words and when I’ve done twenty, stop me.’

‘More than twenty, and I’ll leave,’ Stella replied solemnly.

‘Forty-four, Irish, two daughters, fourteen and nineteen, married for twenty years, worked abroad, ran engineering company, divorced a year ago, head-hunted home. That’s more than twenty words, isn’t it?’ He stopped and his face had a faint weariness about it.

A hard divorce? wondered Stella with intuition. Or something else?

‘Sorry,’ she apologised. ‘That seemed tough for you, I didn’t mean it to be.’

‘No, you’ve a right to know who you’re having dinner with. Laying your life down in a mere twenty words makes it sound pretty hopeless.’

Stella fiddled with the stem of her wine glass. She wanted to ask why the marriage had broken up but was unsure of venturing into such personal territory. She decided to tell him her story. ‘Age: undisclosed.’

He laughed.

‘A woman’s age, like her weight and dress size, is highly classified information,’ Stella said gravely. ‘If I tell you any of them, I have to kill you. One daughter, wonderful Amelia, who’s seven and absolutely adorable.’

‘You’re using too many words,’ Nick put in.

‘Nick.’ She fixed him with a stern glance. ‘I’m a lawyer .’

He laughed again.

‘One daughter, Amelia, seven. Lawyer, specialising in property, divorced, erm…two fantastic younger sisters, great parents, yoga, perfume bottles, bad at picking restaurants…’ She broke off.

‘That’s good.’ ‘Tell me more about the perfume bottles bit.’

‘I love those little crystal perfume bottles, the ones with silver tops from ladies’ dressing tables a hundred years ago. I have magpie tendencies when it comes to junk like that. And costume jewellery, forties and fifties stuff.’

‘What about the fantastic sisters?’

Stella’s face always softened when she thought of Holly and Tara. ‘Holly’s the youngest and she works in the children’s department in Lee’s. She’s so funny, she’s brilliant, I worry about her, though.’ She didn’t know why she’d said that but she felt as if she could say things to Nick. ‘Tara,’ she continued, ‘is a storyline editor for National Hospital. She’s brilliant too. They just won an award at the television and radio awards.’

‘They sound wonderful. Are you a close family?’

‘Very. We’re like this tight unit. Mum, Dad, me, Holly, Tara, and now Amelia. The Miller clan. It’s all down to Mum, really,’ Stella added. ‘She’s an incredible person, very warm and strong. Mum has no time for family squabbles or long-running arguments. She taught us how important family is.’

Nick was quiet.

‘What about your family?’

‘I’ve a younger brother, Howard, and an older sister, Paula, and of course my mother. Paula lives in the same village as my mother near Wicklow town and she’s looked after her for years. They want to sell both their houses so they can move to a bungalow, which would be easier for my mother to get around. Paula’s artistic – she paints – and she hates sorting out legal matters, so my brother and his wife, Clarisse, have always done that side of things. Clarisse feels that now I’m back in the country, I can take over.’ His slightly wry smile revealed more than he was saying.

‘Clarisse feels put-upon and wants you to shoulder some of the burden?’ Stella offered.

‘You are intuitive,’ said Nick, impressed.

Through the meal, they talked about their jobs, places they’d worked and more about their families. Clarisse sounded vaguely like Aunt Adele, Stella reflected. By dessert, they had discussed every relative except their children – and their exes; a glaring omission.

‘Tell me about Amelia,’ Nick urged.

Stella produced a photo from her wallet. It had been taken the previous summer in Kinvarra, when her parents had held a barbecue for friends and family. Stella’s father had hung a low swing from a sycamore tree, and, in the picture, Amelia was sitting on it, colourful in pink and white shorts and T-shirt, laughing into the camera and with her hair swinging in two jaunty pigtails.