Summer Lies Bleeding (8 page)

‘… and here's Henry with the guest list,' says Yasmine, with more than a hint of cynicism in her voice.

‘Guest list? I don't know about any guest list!'

They look up and see Henry Walker, the supposedly ‘silent' partner of the restaurant venture, walking towards them with his usual air of largeness. Despite being short and rather portly, his voice, his manner, his whole demeanour makes him seem much bigger. As he approaches the table like a giant, a mythical warrior king come to pay a visit to his minions, he slaps his large hand onto Yasmine's shoulder and laughs.

‘I'm just kidding you, darling. Everything's under control.' He wedges himself into the chair next to Seb. ‘Charles Campion's coming,
Time Out
,
Observer Food Monthly
 – I think they're sending Jay Rayner, I like him, he's a good bloke – oh and bloody
Adrian Gill
. What else? Oh yeah we've got a great band – Becky's new bloke found them believe it or not – real, authentic North African vibe, I've got the CD back at the office, I'll bring it tomorrow and let you hear it, they've just signed to Universal. Oh, and Lauren, our new PR, has compiled the very best VIP list: the elite of London will be ripping open their invitations as we speak.' He rubs his hands together and grins broadly at Yasmine, waiting on her response.

‘Lauren?' she says, her eyes serious, all of a sudden. ‘Lauren, from Honey Vision? Oh God, Henry, she'll have invited all her mates and I told you I don't want any glamour models or reality TV stars. They just turn up to get their photo in the
paper. I want foodies, people who are going to really get what we're doing here.'

‘Don't worry, darling,' says Henry, his smile fading. ‘I gave Lauren your list of people and those invites have been sent out too. There's no harm in a few high-profile celebs, the more publicity we can get the better …'

Seb has drifted away from the conversation. He is looking round at the deep crimson walls, the gold lanterns and thick church candles. Against this background, the drawing just looks odd, out of place; it is bothering him but he doesn't raise it with Yasmine. He will just have to concede on this one.

Otherwise the room is really shaping up: clusters of tables of all shapes and sizes are dotted about; the long ones line both sides of the room and are accompanied by church pews scattered with sumptuous gold, red and green velvet cushions. The smaller tables are situated about the middle of the room and all are draped in embroidered tablecloths in shades of green, turquoise and red. Yasmine had been adamant that the restaurant would reflect her memories of visiting her grandparent's house in Tangier: there had to be lots of colour, lots of textures and a feeling of informality with just a hint of decadence; lovers would want to come here for a first date amid the soft candlelight but families would feel just as comfortable coming to share a platter of mezze at lunchtime. Yasmine had made several trips to Tangier over the last few months coming back with bags full of fabrics and pots and dishes. Cosima has
helped too: giving up her afternoons to sit with Yasmine and put little rose plants into the tiny terracotta pots that will serve as the table centrepieces.

‘It looks wonderful,' says Seb, turning back to Yasmine and Henry. ‘It really does.'

Henry's phone beeps and he sits up straight and grins. ‘That'll be Poppy,' he says, his eyes twinkling.

‘Poppy?' says Yasmine. ‘What happened to Lydia?'

‘Didn't work out,' says Henry, elusively, as he reads the message on his phone. ‘Ah, super, she's here, she's outside.' He stands up and straightens his jacket. ‘We're having supper at Scotts; I said I'd be here. She's dying to meet you both. Half a sec …' He rushes towards the door.

‘Great,' mutters Yasmine, rolling her eyes. Seb shrugs. He knows Henry all too well. The idea of a long-term relationship is anathema to him; his attention span is short and he has no patience with needy women or women who want to commit. Still, his girlfriends all come out of the same mould: Skinny, posh and not too bright.

‘Oh, wow, this place looks awesome!'

They look up to see a tall, red-haired woman dressed in a black leather pencil skirt and low-cut purple silk blouse. She is standing underneath the arched ceiling near the front desk, a large black handbag hanging from her wrist.

Yasmine gets up from her seat wearily and brushes a hand through her short, dark hair. Seb looks up at her as
she stands. She is exquisite. He knows she's tired, he knows that she feels rather self-conscious in her jeans, T-shirt and trainers next to another one of Henry's leggy models, but to Seb she is timeless; her beauty exists outside of fashion and faddishness. He would like to draw her tonight, in this light, with her hair all messy and tousled, then he would like to make love to her slowly and deeply, do all the things that she loves … He stops himself, feeling the blood rush to his groin. The last thing he needs is to greet this Poppy woman with a hard on.

‘Guys,' says Henry, guiding the woman towards the table with his hand placed on the small of her back, ‘this is Poppy Lawton-Fields.'

‘It's so good to meet you,' says Poppy. Her smile is wide and fixed. She reminds Seb of a gelding and she is very young, twenty-five at the most. Next to her, Henry suddenly looks old, frumpy even, in his navy blazer and crisp blue jeans.

‘So you're off to Scotts?' says Yasmine, cutting into the rather awkward silence that is hanging heavily in the air. ‘Make sure you try the oysters, they're amazing.'

‘Oooh, I love oysters,' says Poppy. She looks at Henry rather pleadingly, like a child waiting to be taken out for a treat. ‘Although, I'd better not have too many, I've put on so much weight lately.' She pats her stomach and giggles.

‘You're joking, Pops,' says Henry hugging her towards him. ‘I've seen more fat on a chip, and anyway oysters are hardly
calorific. I'm going to order you a nice, juicy steak, fatten you up a bit.'

‘Oh, you are so naughty,' shrieks Poppy. She taps a long, pale pink fingernail on the edge of Henry's nose in admonishment.

Seb tries not to meet Yasmine's eye. If he does, they will both lose it; best to save the laughs for later.

‘Would it be okay to have a look at the garden?' asks Poppy, her eyes wide and excited. ‘Henry said it's utterly divine.'

‘Of course,' says Yasmine, nudging Seb. ‘Follow me.'

They walk in a procession up the wooden stairs; past the first floor dining room and up another flight of steps to the second floor bar; a mirror-image of the other two floors, but with more of an after-hours club vibe; the kind of space where people drop in for a quick drink, then get so relaxed they end up staying for dinner. Tucked away in the far corner is a discreet set of French windows, almost obscured by a thin strip of cream lace. Yasmine tries the handle – the doors are unlocked – and they step out into Arcadia.

Poppy gasps. ‘Oh, my God, this is amazing.'

Yasmine's touch is everywhere
, thinks Seb, as he follows them out. The lanterns, the colours – her favourite combination of red and gold – the hexagonal pattern on the tables, the green glass bottles that, come Wednesday evening, will be filled with sweet peas and eucalyptus; it is Yasmine's meticulous re-creation of the hidden corner, the magical garden they encountered on their honeymoon in Marrakesh. They had
stumbled on it, like all life-changing moments, by taking a wrong turn, both tired and short-tempered in the heat of the noon-day sun. Yasmine had walked ahead of him and he heard her gasp as she turned the corner. ‘Come on Seb, you have to see this.' They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on deep green velvet cushions sipping mint tea in the shade of a fig tree, while flecks of sunlight trickled through tiny holes in the hand-shaped leaves and wondered how such a sumptuous, bountiful place could exist just moments away from the crowded dusty heart of the marketplace. It was here that the seed was planted in Yasmine's mind; Seb had watched her as they sat there, her eyes bright with excitement and longing, drinking in every last detail of the enchanted world that had opened up in front of them. When they returned to their hotel that evening, she had laid out her plans for a restaurant cast in the mould of the garden; it might take years, she said, but she would recreate that corner one day, and allow others to feel the way she and Seb had felt for those idle few hours.

The four of them stand motionless looking out over the railings at the darkening red sky.

‘My God, you can see the whole of London from here,' shrieks Poppy, as she leans over the railing. ‘Who needs Primrose Hill?'

‘Careful, Pops,' says Henry, holding her arm and guiding her gently away from the edge. ‘It's a long way down if you lose your balance.'

Seb shudders. The air has grown colder and the skin on his bare arms prickles in the breeze.

‘Come on then,' says Henry, looking at his watch. ‘I've got the table booked for 8:30. We might just have time for a cheeky cocktail first.'

‘Sounds good,' says Poppy, linking her arm into his. ‘Guys, it was so nice to meet you both,' she says, turning to Yasmine and Seb. ‘I am ridiculously excited about the launch, it's going to be awesome. I've told all my girlfriends about it. We have
so
needed a new supper venue in town. Oh, I meant to tell you Henry, my oldest, oldest friend Ollie just started working for Decadence. He's going to mention you to Freddie Montague.' As she says this name, her eyes widen and she looks at each of them in turn, waiting for a response.

Henry chuckles. ‘We've already got Decadence on board, darling. Seb and I were at school with Freddie; I was best man at his wedding.'

‘Wow,' says Poppy, looking up at Henry in awe. She turns to Yasmine and places her hand firmly on her arm as if about to impart the secrets of the universe. ‘That is amazing; you've got the elite of the elite of concierge services recommending you. That's your clientele sorted.' She clicks her fingers, a little too close to Yasmine's face for comfort.

Yasmine smiles but Seb can tell that her teeth are well and truly gritted.

‘Well it was good to meet you, Poppy,' she says, ushering
Seb inside. Poppy and Henry follow them back down the stairs.

As they open the front door, the noise of Soho hits them like a sharp gust of wind. Seb stands behind Yasmine, his hands resting on her shoulders, as they wave goodbye to the departing figures – short, stocky Henry and his tall, leggy date – disappearing up the street. The rain has left little silky strands of water on the road and the lights of The Dog and Duck next door are reflected in them like opalescent pools. The air is still and warm.

‘The calm before the storm,' says Yasmine, as they stand on the threshold looking out onto the busy street. Soho is open for business: the restaurants are full, people are spilling out onto the street over at The Carlyle on Bateman Street, huddling together as they smoke cigarettes. It's funny how the landscape stays the same while the clientele evolve, thinks Seb; those smokers over there look so young; or is it just him growing old? Yet some things don't change and though restaurants can open and close within the space of a few months, a few endure, the chosen ones that survive through the decades, as though in possession of some sort of magic, some Soho gold dust that protects them from the fluctuations of the city. Maybe, just maybe, The Rose Garden can be one of those places.

They are about to go back inside when a young couple cross the street and come towards them. They stand with their arms linked, looking in at the darkened windows. Seb reckons they are on their second, maybe third date; they still have that look
of wonder in their eyes, a certain disbelief at being together. It's the period in a relationship before meals on the sofa, before fighting over dirty socks left on the bedroom floor and crying silent tears as you curl up to sleep back to back. These are the days of longing looks over candlelit tables; of being curious about every tiny detail of the other person's story; this is sex with the lights on and talking until dawn.

‘Are you open?' asks the young man, tentatively.

‘Not yet, but we have our press launch on Wednesday night,' says Yasmine, smiling. ‘Why don't you both come along? There'll be champagne and delicious mezze, live music. It's going to be a great night.' She rifles in her pocket and pulls out a creased invitation.

Seb looks at his wife as she hands it to the young man. She looks radiant, her eyes sparkling with excitement. If he were religious he would say a silent prayer right now, ask God to make this restaurant a success. Not for the money or the acclaim but just so that Yasmine will always be as happy as she is now.

‘Sounds good,' says the young man. He shows the invitation to his companion and she nods enthusiastically.

‘Excellent,' he says, his voice firmer than before, perhaps attempting to sound more mature, more controlled. ‘We'll come along.'

They say goodbye and Yasmine heads back inside. As Seb closes the door he sees the young couple walk across the road,
holding hands. As they reach the other side they stop and share a long, lingering kiss. Something inside Seb chills; it's like he is looking at two ghosts; holograms from his past, from a time and an age he will never know again. ‘Freedom,' a voice inside his head whispers and then again: ‘freedom.' He feels a warm pair of hands slide around his waist and he turns to see Yasmine. She has her coat on and her large satchel is strapped across her front. He smiles. She's still the same person he met seven years ago; life has weathered them, certainly, but it's made them stronger. He still has his freedom; it's just a different kind.

‘Come on then,' he says, taking her hand in his. ‘Let's go and find Cosima.'

Yasmine locks up and they walk hand in hand down Frith Street. A beautiful, straw-coloured moon lights their way and bathes the street in its glow. As they walk, Seb shivers. ‘Are you okay?' asks Yasmine, rubbing his arm with her free hand. ‘I'm fine,' he whispers, though his heart suddenly feels heavy.