I swipe my phone screen, haven't I already chatted to everyone today, people are so needy.
VP: “Tharie, lets meet, I’m Daniels sister.” strange, Daniel giving her my number, he should know I don’t like it when people do that, don’t I have enough distraction and demands on my time?
TC: “OK, what’s this about Vanessa?” Do I really want to know?
VP: “Your tattoo” what! Only one person alive has seen my ink, and only one other knows about it, what’s going on?
TC: “What about it?” Defences are up now, I need more tea, clearly, and I can't seem to recall the correct way to ride a shoulder-in. The waitress appears to have disappeared for now. It's all spiralling out of my control.
VP: “I need to know what it looks like Tharie, I just got one too” bloody hell.
TC: “Let’s meet” but do I really want to?
I reach the meeting point on time, my Landrover is parked diagonally outside in the cracked concrete forecourt. I can see it deliberately from the seat I have chosen, well, you can't be too sure around here can you? I slide into a freshly wiped plastic covered bench seat in a booth, and order tea. Now I’m here though, it's got quite an odd ambiance, and I’d like a more substantial beverage, but they don't sell any alcohol.
My tea arrives, not nearly as dark as I’d requested, and that makes me cross, how hard can it be? Clearly she wasn't listening to my detailed instructions regarding water temp, the number of bags and the time to stew. Bloody hell.
It's delivered with a indifferent shove, part spilled into the saucer, that semi translucent white stuff you get in these places where the seams on the handles are uncomfortable to hold. The surface of the table is pastel pink and white gingham laminated, the dried marks of the cleaning cloth smeared across it. I hate waiting. I'm a slurp away from drumming my fingers on the table.
It’s a faux diner-type place, red, piped with cream plastic upholstery, mini juke boxes at every table, squeezy ketchup and brown sauce pots, refilled and wiped repeatedly alongside a plastic covered menu propped up the far end. Waitresses in candy-striped dresses and frilly aprons, American tan hosiery and comfy pumps shuffle uninspiringly across the mopped tile taking orders with little or no enthusiasm. The rolling stones play in the background, this fake 50’s Americana with a British band playing intrigues me, and tea is the very last thing on the menu which I naturally disprove of. The smell of pancakes and maple syrup reminds me carbs are key. And I check the boys on my phone, yep grazing in the sunshine, and the December sunshine is low and silvery.
Staring at my phone, I wonder what Vanessa will look like, and now I’m wondering why she selected this place to meet, seems an odd venue sitting as it does right on the A40. And now I’m here I’m wondering whether I should have told Daniel about this. Too much thinking, I’ll never learn.
Job one get here, tick. Next one will be trickier.
TC: “Hi Mum, I have a tattoo” I opt for the long, drawn-out approach, she'll appreciate that.
EC: “Me too” really? That's slightly distasteful.
TC: “Really?” Please say no.
EC: “Yes, your Dad and I both got them done on our honeymoon” I can’t believe I never knew that!
TC: “No!?” Please no!
EC: “For a designer Catharine, you're terribly old fashioned” that told me didn't it?
The waitress comes back over, her shadow passes over my phone as I end the text stream.
Her plastic name badge tells me she's a 'Betty', and invites me to: 'ask me about the specials'. A woman who looks less like a Betty I can't begin to imagine however, and my brain begins to hum. Perhaps they just have a selection of name badges in a little box at the back, old names from staff long gone, and you choose who you want to be for the day? Or they're a deliberate selection of 50's names and it's supposed to be fun, I’m not laughing, so likely not. An interesting idea though.
She hands me a folded piece of paper with an awkward smile on her thin lips, her lipstick is too dark for her complexion, oh Betty, I’m tempted to donate my Vogue to her right there and then. Her hands are older than her face and her nails chewed and painted dark red. I can always buy another one, her needs