‘I don’t get why they’ve put up that plastic tree at the bottom of Bridge Street this year. I’m really annoyed about it. Stratford’s always had real trees. It’s not the same, is it?’
‘What?’ You frowned at me. ‘What are you talking about? I was enlightening you with the specifics of my new anticipated role. Why would I be looking at a tree?’
‘Sorry. It’s just, did you notice, they’ve used a plastic tree rather than the real one.’
You regarded me, a little flummoxed, holding your open hands out. ‘I don’t know, Eve. It’s probably more economical. Anyway, who cares? It’s a tree!’ Clearly, I’d interrupted your flow with my trivialities.
‘It’s not just a tree! It’s a Christmas tree. We’ve always had real trees in town. That’s an ugly artificial eyesore! Where is your soul, Mr Austin?’
‘It is merely a tree, Eve.’ You squeezed my hand. ‘I, on the other hand, have important news about a new appointment opportunity.’ You studied me. ‘Okay, if it’s so important to you, I’ll write a letter to the mayor. Or whichever other blithering idiot I need to, on the council. Tonight. Okay?’
‘Okay. Can you also convey that half the Christmas lantern lights on Sheep Street are out, and the Santa they employed this year was super skinny and wearing a pair of Reebok trainers.’ I confused you. As you gazed down Sheep Street, your expression communicated, so what?
‘Why don’t you put a list together? All the reasons you think the council have ruined Stratford at Christmas. Just in case I miss something?’ You winked at me.
‘I’ll do that, yes, good idea. Change isn’t always for the best. This used to be a beautiful medieval town with sweeping willow trees lining the river! Now look at it. It was always about Shakespeare and Tudor buildings. Now, it’s about betting shops, numerous flipping fudge shops, mobile phone and charity shops.’
‘Eve, you are such an idealist. Come on, one man’s progress is another man’s nightmare. Not all of us are dreamers. Life’s about moving, changing, always looking for the next step.’ One look at my disagreeing face, and you laughed. ‘Let’s return to our conversation, shall we?’
You were particularly jovial; your annual assessment with the company partners had been fruitful. Rewarded with a huge bonus, with promises of great things to come. Apparently senior partnership looming. The long hours, commitment and networking were acknowledged. You were animated with plans and hopes for the future. At just twenty-eight, everything in the bag. No room for ifs and buts. At twenty-three I was still finding my way. I’d completed my undergraduate course at Warwick University with many further years of post-graduate learning and placements to consider. You talked of our future together, another done deal. You didn’t ask me. A mixture of happiness and being marginally overwhelmed fused inside. How were you so certain of where our relationship was going without talking to me about it? We’d only been together a matter of months. We strolled on to the end of the street to view the billboards advertising forthcoming performances at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. You nudged me. ‘We’ve spare tickets hanging around the office, if you fancy it? A Midsummer Night’s Dream springs to mind.’
‘Lovely, of course.’ I began to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’
I wondered whether to share; sometimes our humour was so different. ‘Nothing really.’ You raised your eyebrow. ‘I was just remembering a time, in a bar, earlier this year, someone asked Sam what her favourite Shakespeare play was. She said, Robin Hood.’
‘Sorry, I’m not with you?’
The look of sheer bewilderment scrawled across your face made me laugh all the more. ‘It’s just, we’d seen it here at the end of last year. She got… a bit confused.’
‘I see,’ you said.
We drifted left, heading towards the Italian restaurant on the opposite side of the River Avon. It was a cold night and as you articulated your grand notions, I blew steam from my mouth. With no plans as such. Just to wander until we were hungry enough to eat. We’d end up at the popular bistro pub at the top of town. You knew the owners and, without exaggerating, at least fifty per cent of its patrons too.
I salivated as a waft of warm garlic smacked me across the face as we reached the large glass doors of the Italian. You pushed at my hand, directing me through the doorway. Odd? The Italian belonged to a well-known restaurant chain; it wasn’t one of your approved-to-be-seen-in establishments. It smelt so scrumptious; the atmosphere buzzed with a casual warmth. The entrance adorned with boxes beautifully wrapped with metallic papers and iridescent bows. Italians are fine craftsmen at creating atmosphere.
‘Lovely! We’re eating here? Do you think we’ll manage to get a table, or have you booked?’ It was rammed.
You sniffed. ‘Of course we’re not eating here! Just something I need to do. It won’t take long, then we’ll be on our way.’
Your hand, firm around mine, pulled me through the bustling, raucous pre-theatre diners. Walking at the speed of a man on a mission, passing through somewhere unpleasant, making me stumble over my own feet a couple of times. Bumping into unsuspecting guests; kicking a couple of handbags along the way. No grace at all, just a clumsy elephant charging through.
‘Who are we meeting?’ I asked. But either I was drowned out or you chose to ignore me. Not that it mattered; clearly, I was going to meet them regardless. You impatiently scanned the room before eventually stopping at a table with two diners, I guessed in their seventies; both with white hair and fixed, stern faces. Hers, a little more so than his. They eyed you but didn’t utter a word. The man continued with his meal almost gingerly; the woman glared at you, then looked at me, then back to you with a look of revulsion. Why were we loitering here? Clearly you didn’t know each other. You hovered, mute. How awkward.
Finally, you broke the silence. ‘Why are you dining here? How many times have I told you where to eat in town? The food’s abysmal; why waste your money? My money?’
I was stunned by your rude outburst. Hardly a polite way to start a conversation and with no introductions. I couldn’t help but feel a lot embarrassed. Remarkably the woman didn’t bat an eyelid. She continued to chew on a piece of meat, eyeballing you. My eyes rolled from her to you. The hoary-haired woman slowly supped from her glass, still observing you, then picked at something lodged in her tooth.
Eventually she retaliated. ‘Oh, shut up! What is it to you? Your father likes it here.’
Jesus, the penny dropped. Your parents? Surely not. I’d never have spoken to my parents in this manner, or anyone else. Why did, or how could, you? An unfamiliar expression of vulnerability flashed through your eyes as you twitched. I lurked on the sideline trying to decipher how best to act in such cringeworthy circumstances. Your parents; surely, I needed to make a good impression. Surely, they were intrigued as to who I was?
I squeezed your hand. Ignoring her remark, you shoved my hand rather gauchely in the direction of their table, in the manner of a sacrificial offering. ‘This is Eve.’ Your father smiled sheepishly in my direction, swiftly turning away before I could return his gesture. Your mother continued to glare, then made a deliberate point of noticing my red shoes. Sniffed, before returning her attention to her plate without so much as a nod. Another wasted smile on my part. I couldn’t give up; they were your parents.
I offered my hand towards your mother. ‘Hi, lovely to meet you both.’ Another sniff followed. I withdrew my awkwardly dangling hand. ‘Sorry, we’re interrupting your meal. It’s lovely in here, isn’t it, the ambience?’