When I clocked Sarah's beaming, self-satisfied face, and Damon's grinning mug, I swung my body back around to gauge Adam's reaction. His jaw was clenched tight, his hands had formed into fists where they lay on the tabletop, and his steely gaze was fixed on his wife and her date as they were shown to their table.
I silently cursed Leanne for the interfering cow she was when I realised she was seating Sarah and Damon at the table immediately behind ours.
"Thanks, Leanne," Sarah cooed, "this is perfect."
Perfect? Perfect for what? What was Sarah playing at? I was facing the newcomers now while Adam was sitting with his back to them. Or he would have been if he had remained as he was, but he couldn't help but track their movements and turn first his head and then his whole torso, twisting in his chair, to watch them settle into their seats.
"It's a little bit late, Adam," Sarah said in her sweetest voice, the slight curl of her upper lip the only clue that she was thoroughly enjoying herself, "to be staring at me now."
"Give him a break, Sarah," Damon chimed in, the glee in his voice clear, "after all, only one of us can be dining with the most gorgeous woman in the room."
Ouch! Not that Damon had uttered the words, but that Adam had made no come back in my defence. Amidst the combined laughter of Sarah and Damon that followed, Adam turned back to face me, his brow dark and furrowed, and leaned forward to hiss furiously, "She's doing this on purpose."
"Doing what on purpose?" I asked with a level of composure I did not feel, not wanting to understand or agree too easily for fear of winding Adam up even further.
"Coming here, shamelessly flaunting that… that criminal in front of me. Did you tell her we were coming here tonight?"
"No, I–"
"She's trying to make me jealous, that's what it is. Well, it won't work."
"Hey," I said, reaching out and touching his hand gently, pushing away the thought that it had already worked, "why don't you just ignore them and try to enjoy our evening."
"Ignore them?" He pulled away from my touch, flinging his hands in the air to emphasise his shock at my suggestion. "Just ignore them? Great advice, Carla, thank you very much."
"Fine. Do you want to leave then?"
"Why should we leave? We were here first."
My initial hope that Sarah and Damon had decided to leave when I noticed Sarah rise from their table was soon dashed when she made a beeline for the ladies room. As soon as she was out of sight, Damon took his chance and, shifting in his seat so that he was sat sideways on his chair, he leaned towards Adam until their heads were close, almost as if they were co-conspirators in a secret plot, and whispered something into his ear.
I didn't hear what Damon said, but I could instantly see the result. Adam leapt from his seat and grabbed Damon by his collar. Dragging his love rival to his feet, Adam growled, "You shut your mouth!"
Damon merely smiled, a wide grin of pleasure in the knowledge that his words had the effect he so obviously desired and that, in the eyes of everyone present, he was now the clear victim.
"Whoa!" Nick cried out. Always attentive to any trouble in his dining room, he had hurried to break up the two men the moment Adam had placed his hands on Damon. "Outside if you're gonna fight."
"Talk to your man here," Damon said, his hands in the air, a sign of his pacifist stance, "I ain't the one fighting."
Damon was right of course, Adam was the only one fighting, the only one who had reacted to Damon's little dig, whatever it was, the only one to act with aggression, to show weakness. His entire focus was the vitriol he felt towards Damon. I had been forgotten entirely. And I was not having that. So, without a word or a sign, I grabbed my bag and marched right out of that dining room, leaving Adam and the mess he had made behind.
I don't think Adam even noticed that I had walked out on him at first, he certainly didn't rush after me, begging for my forgiveness, as I shrugged on my coat that had been hanging in the foyer. And so I left, alone and depressed, trudging back down the street that I had walked up hand-in-hand with Adam with such confidence and hope not even an hour before.
"Alright Carla."
I smiled as a familiar figure fell into step next to me.
"Hiya, Si," I said, flashing Simon a genuine smile, "what are you up to tonight?"
"Dunno," he shrugged, "might head to the pub a bit later. You come from the bistro?"
"Yeah, I was meant to be having dinner."
"Meant to? Sounds like there's a story there."
He looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to tell my story of abandoned dinner plans when I realised that this was the perfect moment, the moment that I should tell him the truth. My steps faltered as I gathered the courage to speak. Taking his cue from me, Simon stopped walking and turned to face me, a quizzical look on his face.
"Listen, Si."
"Oh no."
"What?"
"I can tell by your tone, whatever you're about to tell me, it's something serious."
"Am I that transparent?"
"Let's just say I've heard that tone before. Mainly from me mum. Is it my dad?"
"Your–?" For a moment the mention of Peter threw me for a loop, and I struggled to go on, to find the right words to explain my new situation, my new relationship, to Simon. How do you tell your stepson that you're now dating their cousin? "No, no, it's not your dad, it's… the thing is, Si, I've been kind of, umm…"
"Yes?"
"I've been seeing someone."
"Okay." I wasn't sure what okay meant in this context and so waited for, hoped for, Simon to elaborate. Finally, he did, with a simple, "who?"
I knew direct honestly was the only option. "It's Adam."
"Adam? Adam Barlow? My cousin, Adam?"
"Yeah," I confirmed, bracing for impact as I watched the truth gradually dawn on him, "how do you feel about that?"
"How do you feel?" Simon flipped my question back onto me. "Is this how you felt all this time, ever since you cheated on dad with Adam? Were you just waiting for an excuse to get rid of dad so you and Adam could…?"
"No. No! I swear to you, Si, these feelings are a very recent thing. They happened after your dad left, months and months after. What happened before, that was a mistake, a horrible mistake. When I was with your dad, it was only him. My heart, it was his, all of it."
He was silent for a moment while he mulled over my words. And then he spoke his judgement. "Okay."
Again with the okay.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'm okay with you and Adam."
"Really? I, umm, I gotta say I'm kind of surprised."
"Why wouldn't I be okay? Dad's gone. Who knows when or if he'll ever be back. It's not fair to expect you to put your life on hold waiting for him. You could be waiting forever. And if Adam makes you happy, then," he shrugged, "go for it."
"Thank you, Si, you have no idea what this means to me. And Adam."
This was the conversation I had thought would be the hardest, with the person who I had believed would be most resistant to me and Adam. For him to be so accepting was not only a surprise but a source of sudden and overwhelming relief and happiness. I expressed it the only way I knew how; to pull Simon in for a hug and hold him tight.
"Okay. I'm gonna go to the pub, so I'll just…"
After Simon finally extricated himself from my hug and wandered off in the direction of the Rovers, I made my way home, alone, and trudged wearily up the stairs, holding off long enough to drop my bag on the floor, shrug off my coat and kick off my shoes – and of course pour myself a large glass of wine – before I sank into the welcoming cosiness of the plush sofa cushions.
I'd managed to down half of the wine in my glass when there was a knock on the door. Even though I had no desire to see or speak to anyone else that night, my visitor had already circumvented the downstairs intercom and make their way up the stairs, so I dragged my weary self off the sofa and over to the door.
It was Adam, a contrite look on his face, and a white plastic bag hanging heavily, its contents as yet unknown, in his hand.
"Peace offering," he said with a hopeful half smile, holding up the plastic bag, clearly an offering of repentance, "fish supper for two?"
"I already made dinner."
"Oh yeah? What did you have?"
"Wine."
"That's not dinner."
"It is if you drink enough of it."
He didn't argue the point. Instead he looked at me, his eyes fixed on mine. And I looked back, trying to read all of his thoughts and feelings without words, only with sight.
"I'm sorry."
That was all I needed to hear. He was sorry, I was forgiving. Or at least I would be after I fully grilled him on what had happened earlier at the bistro. But that would come in time. Until then, I poured him a glass of wine and topped up my own, while he unpacked our chippy dinner onto a pair of ceramic dinner plates and placed them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. It wasn't exactly the fancy restaurant dinner we had both been looking forward to that evening, but our improvised meal provided exactly what we needed: time and space to talk, to enjoy each other, to connect, to make our first official date truly memorable.
