My turn to speak.
‘Oh hey, it’s me. Just seeing how the patient’s doing. I’m guessing he’s still alive or you’d have called. Um . . . that was it really. Say hi to Finn and Ash. I’ll try you again at some point. Love you. Bye, bye, bye . . .’
Job done. Interest registered. I may not be a good daughter, or sister, but I’m an adequate one. Just about scraping a grade C.
The restaurant isn’t what I expected. With Aiden in a flap about this visit for weeks – an Aiden flap, anyhow, which means he’s been fractionally less Zen – I’d assumed a hammering of the company credit card. Low lighting and high prices. Sommeliers and smug waiters making endless interruptions to pour the wine and glorify the food. However, bustling L’ingordo is the blessed opposite. Rowdy and harshly lit, and in the corner, a large group are singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to an old man while the waiters mark the occasion by wrapping a raw pizza base around his head.
I relax instantly, making my way over to Aiden’s crew – three men and one woman.
‘Ah, here she is, Miss Marple.’ Aiden’s smile is goofy, his eyes a little drowsy. Pre-dinner drinks clearly started at lunch.
I roll my eyes at the others. ‘Charming, isn’t it? That’s how he sees me – an elderly spinster in a tweed suit.’
‘Yeah, Aiden.’ The woman, tattooed and lightly tanned, with coarse curly hair tied up in a paisley scarf, leans across and swipes his head with a huge napkin. ‘You could have said Christine Cagney. Or – or . . . Veronica Mars.’ To me, ‘Did you guys get that show over here?’
‘Yeah, but she was a PI.’ I sit down between Aiden and an older guy in a polo shirt, who I’m guessing is Jack Denton, the CEO. Jack’s an Oz-like figure, according to Aiden. A giant floating brain usually sequestered behind a bank of screens and Starbucks litter. ‘Veronica Mars hid in bushes rather than smashing down doors. Not that I’ve smashed down many doors – or any, come to think of it. Anyway, hi, I’m Cat. You probably gathered.’ I’m conscious I’m babbling.
‘I ordered for you, babe.’ Aiden only calls me babe when he’s tipsy. ‘Bruschetta and penne something. But there’s a half an hour wait, they reckon, so load up on these.’ He drums two breadsticks on my forehead.
‘Carbs followed by carbs, followed by carbs. Excellent choice, sir.’
‘It’s penne alla vodka,’ says the woman. ‘My suggestion. I hope you like it.’
‘I like anything “alla vodka”. Even “vodka alla vodka”.’
‘Girl after my own heart.’ We share a limp high-five in front of Aiden’s face. ‘I’m Rosella, by the way. General Counsel.’ I nod – knowledgably, I think, but she obviously sees through me. ‘General Fun Blocker. Chief Legal Bore,’ she explains. ‘If you’ve heard Aiden bitching about someone at head office, it’s probably me.’
‘We just bitch about her love life,’ says a black guy in preppy glasses, drizzling oil on a piece of bread. ‘Work this one out, Cat. Rosella just broke up with someone because he ate an apple with a knife.’
‘A knife and fork.’ Rosella’s face is pure exasperation. ‘Stop leaving out the fork, Zach. It makes me look picky.’
‘You are picky.’ That’s the third guy; thirties, beige, unremarkable in every way except for an impressively straight side-parting.
Rosella’s still gunning for Zach. ‘And you need to get your facts right. I haven’t broken up with him, I’m doing the slow fade.’ She looks at me. ‘You know, taking longer to reply to texts, dodging concrete plans, that sort of thing. I figured it’s kinder than dumping him . . .’
‘No way is it kinder,’ says Zach. ‘It’s cruel. It gives the illusion of hope.’
Rosella cringes. ‘I know, I know, but I just can’t face “the conversation”. He’s so sensitive, he might cry.’ Her gaze back on me again. ‘Honestly, Cat, I don’t know whether to fuck him or breastfeed him half the time – you know the type, right?’
I know I need wine and plenty of it. I’d been expecting small talk, a bit of shop talk, probably an inevitable stumble into politics at some point. I hadn’t expected to walk straight onto the set of Sex and the City.
But I like it. I like them. Their abrasiveness is pure theatre.
‘Anyway, I’ll tell you who’s picky.’ Rosella points at Side-Parting while telepathically filling my wine glass to the brim. ‘Kyle broke up with a guy because he called him the most brilliant man he’d ever met.’ She flops back in an exaggerated huff. ‘That’s picky, Cat. When you can get dumped for giving a compliment, all bets are off, right?’
Kyle and his side-parting are unrepentant. ‘That’s not a compliment, it’s hero worship. And I don’t want to be brilliant. I don’t want to be fucking Iron Man. I just want to be me. Tell me that’s not weird, Cat?’
Me again, Cat, Cat, Cat, Cat, as though everyone else’s opinions have been canvassed then discounted.
‘Not weird at all.’ I take a large gulp of wine then turn the spotlight on Aiden. ‘Hey, you’ve never told me I’m the most brilliant woman you’ve ever met.’
‘See, your time-keeping lets you down.’ His goofy grin cracks wider. ‘And remembering to switch plugs off. And talking through films. And leaving orange peel on the sofa.’
Rosella brandishes her attack-napkin. ‘Just say the word, Cat.’
‘So are you an East Londoner too?’ asks the older guy, who by the process of elimination is definitely CEO Jack. ‘Aiden says it’s the place to be.’
‘Aiden’s been in London for two years and thinks he’s an expert.’ A fond grin towards my London Oracle. ‘And sorry, to answer your question, no. I’m from North London and I live in South London. A place called Tooting – categorically not “the place to be” but the rents are less eye-watering.’
‘Oh right, I thought you guys lived together?’
‘As good as,’ says Aiden.
‘He lives closer to town. It’s a handy pied à terre.’
That gets me a laugh from Jack and a prod with a breadstick from Aiden.
‘And you’re a cop?’
‘Yeah, I think we established that with the Miss Marple thing.’ Zach’s smirk dilutes the sharp tone.
‘Zach gets antsy at the word “cop” because he’s got a criminal record,’ says Rosella.
‘Aha, Perry Mason, I think you need to get your facts right.’ Zach pulls her headscarf down. Her curls spring up, electrocution style. ‘I got fired for shoplifting a pair of Calvin Kleins when I worked at Macy’s,’ he explains to me. ‘But they didn’t call the cops. They even paid me for the shift.’
Jack pulls the conversation back. ‘A cop, though. That’s a real vocation. Did you always want to help people?’
Kyle groans. ‘Jesus, Jack, she’s not Miss Alabama 1993!’
Aiden roars. A sound that justifies every mistake I’ve ever made.
‘Nah, it was the taser that sold me, Jack. Seriously, the power of taking someone down with that bad boy. Can’t beat it.’