I can feel Quinn eyeing me thoughtfully beneath her too-long fringe. At least now, twenty years on, I can make lame jokes about my dad’s departure without feeling like the San Andreas fault is running straight through my heart, ready to crack at any moment.
Quinn shakes her head, serious again. “You’re not your dad,” she says. “You’ll be a great mother.” She fiddles with her spoon, looking wistful. “You might even love it. Some women are thrilled to stay home with a new baby. They feel . . . fulfilled.”
I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure I’m not one of them.”
A tight smile. “Me neither.” She drops her head, like she’s admitted something shameful. “That feels so ungrateful,” she whispers. “So disloyal to Abby.”
I roll my eyes. “It does not!” I say. “It sounds honest. Geez, Quinn, give yourself a break. It’s not like you want to trade Abby in or hop on the next one-way flight out. You just want some of your old life back. Some time to yourself again.”
My friend smiles. A real, Quinn smile, the kind that, just for a second, lights up the room. She sits up straighter. “I do,” she says. Her next words are more hesitant. “I was thinking of going back to work in a month or two, just part time . . .”
“Brilliant,” I say. “You’d be setting a great example for Abby.”
Again, that flash of a smile. Her shoulders, which have been up by her ears all night, relax a little. “I . . .” Whatever she was going to say next is interrupted by the arrival of our starters.
Plate after plate. Everything looks and smells delicious.
“Bon appétit,” I tell Quinn but she’s already chewing.
“Thank god,” she says, around a mouthful of French onion soup. “I am famished.”
My mussels in white wine sauce are so tasty I’m tempted to pick up the bowl and slurp. If I were home alone, I’d do it.
The food seems to perk Quinn up. Maybe she was feeling extra low on account of being hungry. Or maybe our conversation helped. This thought and the wine warm my belly.
While Quinn eats her second starter, I look around the room. The restaurant is filling up, almost every table now occupied by couples on dates: men self-consciously pulling out chairs for women in little black dresses, who pick at their food like Jane Austen characters. Strained smiles. Stilted laughter. Peppered between the nervous newbies are couples with obvious chemistry. Forkfuls passed back and forth. Heads bent close. Legs entwined under tables. Lustful glances over tenderly held wine glasses.
Looking at these romantic couples, it’s hard not to feel a little envious. I want to come back here, with Josh and Colin. God, I’m greedy. Surely, deep down I must know who’s better for me, or—better than that—right for me. Or is it neither?
As the evening progresses, I have to keep biting my tongue. Quinn can’t stop checking her phone, like she’s scared it’s stopped working. While Abby Rose isn’t physically present, she may as well be. Quinn’s obsessed. I can’t distract her for more than two minutes straight. She keeps yawning too. I know she’s exhausted but it’s hard not to take it personally, like I’ve become stupefyingly boring. Should I admit defeat and call it a night? My energy is also flagging.
“Some more wine?” I ask. Quinn looks up from her phone. Seeing my disapproving frown, she stashes it under her napkin. I know she’s both relieved and disappointed that Bruce hasn’t called. She’d expected a slew of desperate calls: Abby won’t stop crying. She won’t eat. She misses you too much. In fact, the baby and Bruce are fine. Quinn’s the only one suffering.
“I shouldn’t,” says Quinn. She looks torn. “I already had half a glass.”
“So pump and dump,” I say. In the past two months I’ve learned things I couldn’t have imagined. If Quinn doesn’t breastfeed regularly her breasts turn into hot, hard lumps—like giant, burning ten-day-old buns stuck to her chest. Even now, there’s a breast pump stashed in her bulging purse. Oh, the glamor.
I tilt the carafe enticingly.
“Maybe a tiny bit more,” she concedes.
Moments later, she’s checking her phone again.
I’m about to signal the waiter for a second carafe when I see a plump balding man emerge from a swinging door at the back. He starts talking to the skinny waiter. Clad in a white jacket, the pudgy man is obviously the chef. His hands wave as he talks. The waiter bobs his head.
When the chef turns, I feel a jolt of recognition. It’s Daphne Dane’s French son-in-law, Gerard. He said he was a chef. Is he the owner of L’Escargot D’Or?
“Excuse me,” I say to Quinn, whose head is bent over her phone, like it’s a baby monitor and she just might hear her daughter shrieking for her mommy. She doesn’t notice my departure.
Weaving between well-dressed couples on their best behavior, I feel like the only single person in the room. Or the universe, even. A little astronaut floating free, past planets of paired-up couples. I could be lonely, or lucky—bound for unforeseen adventures. Or maybe both, after talking to Quinn. A little lonely and lucky.
I’m about halfway across the room when Gerard turns and bustles off around a corner. Getting closer, I see it’s a hallway that leads to the restrooms. Gerard is now standing at the far end, beneath a framed copy of “Kiss by the Hotel de Ville.” He’s talking to a skinny man with mussed blond hair sticking out from a green beanie. Beneath faded Thai fishermen’s pants, this man’s legs are twig-thin and the color of raw french fries.
Gerard looks cross, his cheeks puffing with displeasure. “What is so urgent?” he says. “It is the dinner service. I am busy.”
When the blond guy answers, I step behind a potted plant. I know that voice—a low rasp. It’s Daphne’s son, Lukas.
“I need a favor,” says Lukas. “Just a little loan. Until Mom gets back. I have to fix my VW van . . .”
Gerard sighs. “Again? You think I am what, made of money? I have bills!” He throws up his small, stubby hands. “The rent for this place, you would not believe it. And electricity. Plus all the staff.” He shakes his large head dolefully. His jowls sway. “And Christmas is coming. Your sister, she is not one to economize . . .” He fingers the collar of his white jacket and looks sad but self-righteous. “Non. I’m very sorry Lukas but it is simply impossible.” This last word is pronounced the French way—im-poss-ee-bluh.
“Aw c’mon, Gerard,” says Lukas. He scratches under his ratty beanie. “It’s only for a few days. As soon as Mom’s back I can—”
Gerard’s small eyes narrow. “You need to stop relying on your mother,” he says. “She is fed up.” He puffs out his chest to deliver this lecture. “She told Isobel that you treat her like an ATM. It is time you live on your own. Get a job. You must learn to stand on your own two feet.”
Lukas’s head rears back. “That’s rich!” he says, “coming from Izzie. Who lent you guys the money to start this place, huh? What I borrow is peanuts! A few bucks here and there, just enough to tide me over, until my next exhibition . . .” His voice is an aggrieved whine. “She’s given you guys so much, and you can’t even lend me a couple hundred! I don’t even have money to eat, Gerard . . .” His voice wobbles. “I’m gonna to have to ask Izzie.”