Page 6 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘Apart from when it’s Squirrel Lady’s paintings,’ I remind him, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Because right now it’s feeling a little stilted. Or maybe that’s just me?

‘I, um… I have a regular customer who paints squirrels,’ Sam tells Dom in a tone that says, but I don’t really want to go into this now.

‘Oh, really?’ Dom’s eyes widen. They are intensely blue; the blue of a crayon a child would use for sky.

‘Yeah, they’re, erm…’ Sam clears his throat, as if reluctant to be mean about anyone’s artistic output. ‘A bit… y’know.’

A pause hovers. Dom seems to be studying him across the table.

‘Not the greatest wildlife paintings you’ve ever seen,’ I chip in, by way of assistance.

‘Really?’ Dom frowns, and I wonder what I was even thinking, bringing this up.

‘It’s just, she’s also done so many,’ Sam explains, ‘I honestly can’t imagine where she hangs them all. But if that’s what she wants to paint, then who am I to judge⁠—’

‘I actually think you’re talking about my mum,’ Dom announces, frowning.

My heart seems to drop. ‘Sorry?’ Sam says, looking startled.

‘My mum,’ Dom reiterates. ‘That’s her thing – to paint squirrels. You know how people have their one animal? Like collecting cats or frogs or whatever, and it spirals out of control? I guess it’s a kind of obsession…’ With a set face, Dom seems to be studying Sam, as if expecting him to start back-pedalling madly. ‘She was telling me she’d taken another one to the framer’s the other week,’ he continues. ‘I don’t profess to know anything about art, but personally I think they’re technically very good.’

‘Oh no, they are,’ Sam says quickly. ‘So incredibly lifelike⁠—’

‘—as if they could leap right off the canvas!’ Dom interjects loudly.

‘Exactly. Yes.’ My God, poor Sam. I can sense the stress radiating off him and yearn to squeeze his hand, to say sorry and also, Can you believe this? What are the chances? Instead, I take a big gulp of wine and try to make eye contact with Eva who’s sitting there all glowy and adoring – virtually a heart-eyes emoji – as if drunk, although she can’t be, not yet. Drunk on love? Could it be that? Then Dom’s mouth starts to quiver, as if he is trying to trap in a laugh. It bursts out of him, finally: a hearty guffaw that causes Tara to look over in surprise.

‘Only kidding,’ Dom announces, still chortling. Sam and I stare at him. ‘Mum doesn’t even paint,’ Dom clarifies. ‘But I guess that’s an occupational hazard, isn’t it? Having to frame bad art? Sorry, Sam. Couldn’t resist that.’

‘Ha, no, that’s okay.’ Sam still looks rather stunned, as if this newcomer has just vomited under the table and we’re all pretending it hasn’t happened.

‘Dom!’ Eva scolds him good-naturedly. ‘That was too much.’

‘Sorry, darling.’ Dom pats her hand and turns to me. ‘So, what about you, Andie? What’s your line of work?’ I start to tell him about our charity, and the clubs and outings we organise for kids, hoping that this will swerve things in a more normal direction. Because right now, it’s as if someone has sprayed an aerosol marked ‘weird atmosphere!’ above our table. ‘That sounds great,’ Dom says, obviously fascinated as, a millisecond later, he announces, ‘I love it that restaurants like this are still hanging on in there, stuck in a time warp with their pink tablecloths and little dried flower arrangements stuck to the walls. Bet they still do huge trays of oily moussaka!’

I glance at Sam in alarm, as outraged as if Dom had insulted my dead mother. ‘They do, actually,’ Eva says, and if she’s embarrassed, it’s undetectable.

‘And it’s really good,’ Sam adds loyally. Across the restaurant, Niko is lighting candles and setting tables. Rightly, he’s extremely proud of his restaurant, ingrained as it is with graft and memories and life.

‘It’s always been our special place,’ I tell Dom in what I hope is a level tone. ‘From when we first worked at⁠—’

‘Oh yes, at the knitwear shop. I’ve heard all about that.’

‘Have you?’ I ask in surprise. In fact, we only worked together for a relatively brief spell. Less than a year – although, like a scorching summer from childhood, it has expanded into some mythical, endlessly stretching thing: The Jumper Era.

‘Dom knows pretty much everything from my murky past,’ Eva says with a smile.

‘No secrets between us,’ Dom says, chuckling.

‘Well, we weren’t really cut out for that kind of work,’ Sam adds amiably, seeming to have recovered himself.

‘So I’ve heard.’ Dom beams. ‘And you were first to get the push, Eva,’ he reminds her. ‘For falling asleep one too many times in the stockroom…’

‘Yes! What a disgrace.’ She laughs and a sharp twinge of guilt shoots through me for not being wholly delighted – with Dom, their grand love affair, or any of this. He’s just a bit awkward, I tell myself. That’s why he’s being so full-on. He’ll relax once he gets to know us and feels more comfortable.

‘And you were next, Andie?’ he prompts me.

‘Erm, yes!’ I smile. ‘That was for⁠—’