Acts of Omission

The Punjab Hut was too brightly lit and stank of boiled rice and dirty mop water. Ivan shifted his weight on the plastic stool and ran a hand over his beard a few more times. In his day, Indian eateries, even fast-food holes in the wall like this one, smelled of the sub-continent and of late-night kebabs with the boys. But, of course, that was when shops were still on the high street and the food was prepared by people who’d grown up with it. He doubted the slop the two kids at the window counter next to him were shovelling from cardboard boxes resembled anything remotely Punjabi. He also doubted the redhead cook spooning pre-cut veggies out of catering containers was weaned on anything other than fish fingers and chocolate milk.

Over the passage at Enzo’s, the starters had just arrived, and Emma would have ordered the bruschetta. When Ivan was still the man who went with them to Enzo’s, one of his favourite moments was when Emma held out her plate.

‘Smell that.’ 

He’d smell it. 

‘No!’ she’d say, laughing. ‘Don’t sniff it, smell it. Do it like you mean it.’ 

He would take the plate from her and hold it in front of him, balanced on his palms like an offering. And lean over it. And take one of those long, loud inhales one sees at wine tasting events. He’d purse his lips, wink at Sally and caricature some foreign accent, usually French or Italian.

‘Ze varm notes of ciabatta toast. Ze pepperiness of ze olive oil. Ze right amount of garleec, zees ees important.’ Another exaggerated inhale, this time into the air, waggling his head. ‘And ze beeswax in zee air, because Enzo does not use zee ‘orrible battery candle on ze table.’ 

Emma would roll her eyes at him. ‘You’re a child,’ she’d say, but fondly, the way she still spoke to him back then.

He could still see the flicker of candlelight catching in the cutlery, Sally’s swingy legs under the table, Emma’s hand briefly resting on his forearm when she passed the pepper. Back then, playing at domestic bliss with his secret family had carried a weight he had not fully appreciated.

Ivan stabbed a plastic forkful of #27 with pilau rice from the container and swallowed it without really chewing. His stomach pressed uncomfortably against the table edge, a reminder that these sorts of meals weren’t doing him any favours. He was halfway down the container and was yet to encounter any lamb — or any flavour that might distinguish it from #16 with special fried rice at the Chinese takeaway two doors down.

Over the passage at Enzo’s, Emma held her plate of bruschetta over the table and the man leaned forward, sniffed, and pulled a face. He said something that looked like too much garlic and leaned over to offer Emma a forkful of the carpaccio Ivan also used to order for his own starter. Emma wrapped a hand around the man’s and closed her eyes while she chewed, slowly, like she meant it. Sally returned her gaze to her lap, her face lit up by whatever was on her phone screen.

Ivan pushed his food out of the way and willed his fingers to stop twitching for long enough to open the Roblox game on his phone. It was Sally’s favourite, and he knew she’d be playing it now, just like they used to play it together when he was still allowed in her life. He navigated to their shared virtual house: a small suburban home on a corner plot with a white fence and a basketball hoop above the garage door. He walked his avatar over to the table where they used to have their tea parties and placed the vase of sweet peas on the table. It was one of only two items he still had in his inventory and only he and Sally knew what it meant.

I am watching you.

Over the passage at Enzo’s, Sally looked up from her game and slowly scanned the restaurant before checking out the shoppers bustling along the passage. Then she looked into the Punjab Hut and Ivan stopped breathing for a few seconds when his daughter’s heavy-lidded hazel eyes found their mirror image in his. Neither smiled, nor waved, nor acknowledged each other in any way. Then Sally returned to her game and Ivan’s phone pinged. A small ginger cat had appeared next to the vase of flowers on the table in their secret house.

I love you too.

Before Ivan could deal with his trembling fingers and his emotions, the waiter arrived over the passage at Enzo’s and refilled two glasses with red wine. When Ivan was still the man at that table, he would swirl the glass and use a different silly voice to say something about bad ideas and poor decisions and Emma would laugh again.

They performed these rituals every time they came to Enzo’s, even in those final months when Emma was already shagging the Skoda salesman behind his back.