For a moment I had forgotten. And as I stand here wiping down the tables in my cafe, I admonish myself for it, still.
It was a date that I always remembered. After all, Hayley had been very insistent that I did.
I pause as I attempt to scrub out a particularly stuck on piece of red sauce off of one of the tables, as I remember her. If I were to close my eyes I would be able to see her face perfectly: the pursed mouth, the furrowed brow, the crestfallen look in her eyes...
Yes, If my wife was still alive, I'd feel she'd be very disappointed in me, indeed.
If I was the type of person who made excuses, I would argue that it wasn't surprising that I'd forgotten given all that had happened this year. That it was a date that simply came too quickly upon the heels of other tragedies and near misses. Yes, I would argue all those points.
And yet, the moment I saw Carla carrying her small suitcase out into the sitting area of my flat yesterday evening - the flat that, much to my sincere contentment, she'd lovingly began to refer to as her home - the moment it suddenly came back to me what yesterday was, I felt the years come rushing back.
And it stung, anew.
She had been honest with me about why she had chosen to book a hotel room for the next couple of nights. I had tried to convince her that she needn't bother; that despite her worries that she wouldn't disturb me. That I was happy to sit up with her if that's what she needed. I tried to convince her to come home when I spoke to her last night on the phone.
But her mind had been well and truly made up. Despite how close we'd become over the years, she still felt uncomfortable showing her deep-rooted vulnerability to anyone, even to me; one of the privileged few to ever see the real Carla that lay beneath the designer clothes, the glib sarcasm, and the smile that she plastered on to the world.
But it wasn't just her vulnerability that she was uncomfortable with. No, it was more than that; she felt she would be a burden - and she simply hated feeling like a burden. In that way we are more alike than it often appears to those around here.
I know what they say about us. I know they think it weird that Carla Connor lives with me, Royston Cropper, in a flat above the cafe I own.
Odd couple, they call us. And they would be right. Carla herself had joked about us being two lost souls who should 'shack up' back in December of 2014, and give folk something to talk about. It took a while before I really got used to her humour, and I feel more comfortable returning her sarcasm with my own now. And even though outwardly I despise banter, I honestly have a fondness for it but only when it comes to Carla. She joked about us getting married after she collapsed in the street earlier this year from her kidney disease. I told her I couldn't think of anything more disturbing, and she laughed.
I knew she would.
She laughed because she thinks about me the way I feel about her. Only she had jokingly voiced it to the nurse, when she called me 'her dad'.
I, on the other hand, have yet to say it out loud that I see her as a daughter to me. I do not know when I will ever get up the nerve to do so. I've never been one to outwardly embrace sentimentality.
But she knows how I feel about her.
She knows it in the way I am able to hug her without needing to be asked first.
She knows it in the way I accept her kisses without flinching away the way I used to, unless she catches me by surprise of course.
She knows it because I told her that I loved her. That I would not stand around while someone else I loved died.
She knows it because she found out I was tested to be a donor when I discovered she needed a transplant.
She knows it because I called her six times last night until she begged me, through the tears that I could hear her shedding but trying hard to conceal from me, to go to bed. I knew she would feel guilty for my staying up and worrying about her, so I told her that as long as she promised to pop into the cafe first thing this morning, I would stop calling.
She agreed.
And she floated in this morning for a coffee and a bacon butty with that glorious Carla Connor smile and a disposition that said it was business as usual, that didn't fool me for one second.
She had managed to fool others though and that didn't surprise me. She was very good at that facade she put on. But I was caught off guard that she had actually managed to fool the one person I did not expect: the man that had just wandered into my cafe...
"Hiya Roy," he says to me as he looks around rather awkwardly, and I turn to face him, holding my spray bottle and my dishtowel, "I know you're closing up, but I wondered if you wouldn't mind if I bobbed up to see madam for a minute."
"Ordinarily I wouldn't, but she is not in." I respond honestly and he genuinely looks shocked.
"Oh," for a moment he sounds quite crestfallen, "I don't understand. I left her in the pub to make a phone call, and saw her head off in this direction a bit later. She said she was off home..."
I feel my eyes dart about of their own accord as I realize I've put my foot in it. She did not want anyone knowing where she was and to be honest, neither of us thought we'd be put in the position where I had to lie. After all, as she has lovingly pointed out, I am a terrible liar...
"Uhh, yes, she ummm..." I start to feel my neck start to itch, and I begin absentmindedly scratching it, "she has decided to stay in town this evening, as she has ummm an early morning meeting."
He stands there with his hands on his hips and a perplexed look on his face, "what meeting?" he asks, and I simply want to be anywhere but in this conversation, "there's nothing in the diary..."
"Uhh, per-perhaps she forgot to mark it down?" I take myself behind the counter and feel him follow me to it
"Is your neck alright, Roy?"
"Uh, yes, why- why wouldn't it be?" I question rather flippantly
"Because it looks like you've got a rash starting there, it's gone quite red..."
"Oh, it's just a mild reaction to umm the detergent I've been using."
"Okay," I can tell he doesn't believe me, but he drops it as he picks back up on the conversation at hand, "anyways, this is Carla we're talking about. Mrs. Type A, Workaholic herself. When has she ever forgotten to write anything down?"
"I'm sure it was just an oversight," I try, desperately attempting to cease the itch that kept climbing ever higher up my neck
"No, I know what this is," he states as he leans on the glass at my counter and I have a sneaking suspicion that he hasn't a clue in the slightest, "she's deliberately hiding meetings with clients from me now."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I was right. He hasn't a clue... "Why would she do that?"
"Because Roy, she's been trying to force me out of that place since day one!" He says angrily, his voice rising slightly, "You know, I thought we were getting somewhere. Back to being friends, and business partners, but oh no! Not Carla! She needs to be the one constantly calling the shots. She'll do whatever it takes to get what she wants."
"That's preposterous!" I can feel myself starting to get defensive of her as he lashes out, but keep myself restrained by wiping down the grill...
"Yeah? Well, she were more than happy to take my money to get what she wanted. To get her hands on that precious factory of hers!" At my lack of response, he pushes himself away from the counter, seemingly about to leave before spinning back to me once more, "You know, I were right what I said to her all them months ago. She uses people-"
"That is enough!" I raise my voice as I throw the dishtowel down on the counter and face him. I can tell he's taken aback by my outburst. It's not often that I raise my voice. "I will not have you stand there and insult Carla like that; not after everything she's ever done for you in the past, and especially not today!"
"What do you mean, 'especially not today'?" he asks, taking a step forward, his curiousity piqued, and I admonish myself for getting so agitated. "Roy?" he says my name a bit more firmly, and I can't help but meet his questioning gaze. "What do you mean, 'especially not today?'"
"It's not my place to say..." I answer quietly, "but I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out if you consult your calendar..."
He still has a confused and irritated expression upon his face as he whips out his phone and I continue with cleaning the grill, my eyes constantly darting back to him as he checks his mobile. I watch as the colour drains from his face as he most likely sees the date on his screen: September 20th, 2018. I watch as his eyes close and he brings his fingers up to rub his eyes.
"Yesterday...I can't believe it," he whispers, "I can't believe I forgot..."
"You weren't the only one," I say offering him some comfort, "I too had forgotten myself..."
"I was so angry at her yesterday," he says, "angry about the whole Vicky situation, and today I acted like a spoiled kid, I didn't even notice if she was okay," he exhaled and I could see he was trying to hold it together, "is she okay?"
"Well, you know Carla," I responded kindly, "even if she wasn't she wouldn't say."
"The things I said to her..." he looks like he's about to be sick, and I wonder just what happened between them, "Where is she Roy?" he asks, "what hotel?"
"I-I don't know if I should divulge that, Peter." And I really do mean it, until I look into his worried eyes, and I feel myself weakening as I give him the hotel name and room number.
I fully expect her to unleash on me tomorrow when she returns. But I know I can talk her round. I always do.
As much as she may deny it, I know she needs him right now...