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Tony

Harrison Linklater Abbott

    Emma first meets him in a coffeeshop. Through a friend. He has big black eyebrows and he’s quite hard to look at. So, it’s Emma and her friend Polly, and their other friend Martin – and Martin’s brought this chap along with him and his name is Tony. Anthony; he’s Italian.
    Throughout the little bobble of conversation at their table she’s wondering where he’s from because his accent is different. Then it comes up. Because Tony mentions that his Dad is experiencing the heatwave in Milan. And then Emma’s friend Polly goes, “Oh I thought you might be Italian or somewhere like that!” Then Polly points at Emma and goes, “Emma can speak Italian, can’t you hon? You did Italian at Uni.” And everybody looks at Emma at once, Tony too, and she blushes at being put on the spot as if she were nine rather than twenty nine. And they all see it and look elsewhere and she looks down herself and says “Yeah I do a little bit. Come stai, Tony?” And the group chuckle a little, and move on.
    The men depart a short while later after finishing their coffee, leaving Emma and Polly in the coffeshop. Polly grins at Emma when they’re alone together. And keeps grinning.
    “You fancy Anthony, don’t you?”
    “Shut your face, Polly.”
    “Hahaha. I can see you going red again.”
    “Hush up.”
    “What – there’s nothing wrong with it. And I could see him looking at you as well.”
    Emma can’t disguise a smile.
    “He’ll be at the party tomorrow night. You should totally go for him.”
    Yes, there’s a party tomorrow night. And then it’s tomorrow, and Emma hasn’t had a boyfriend in years and she thinks about Anthony all day, remembering his amazing face. She dresses up nice for him. And drinks some wine with Polly early evening and then they go to the party. And Anthony is already there. He’s with the other men and he recognises both girls and he kisses them on the cheeks with effortless European style and his lips leave a downy presence on her skin.... And more people arrive at the party with loud hellos. It’s fun. Glossy music playing. After she gets more wine in her Emma speaks to Tony as much as she can.
    That alluring magnetic thing when you’re with a person who is that attractive, and wondrously they’re speaking back to you, also interested... Emma does know Italian. She talks to him in his own tongue and Tony smiles; he’s half teasing her pronunciation, and half impressed because he says she speaks really good. It gets late. When he says he has to leave the party, her mood drops a metre in a girlish sadness. He has work in the morning and can’t stay out too long. But, but, but then he says to her, “Emma, do you want to maybe hook up in the week for a meal?” He knows this great restaurant: “want to come and have some dinner with me on Wednesday?” Emma giggles and says yes. 8 o’clock? “Yes, please, Tony, I’d like that.” He hugs her right at the end of the night and his arms are oak like and warm.
    As soon as he leaves Emma tells Polly what’s just happened. She’s actually been invited out on a date. My o my.
    The next few days Emma finds it tricky to concentrate on much. She has Tony’s number and wants to message him, but fears that if she does she might seem desperate. On Tuesday he messages her, asking if she’s still up for dinner at this place tomorrow night. And she leaves it a while before responding so as not to be ditsy. She even jumps when her phone pings.
    Wednesday evening. She gets ready all by herself because Polly’s at work. She’s looked up the restaurant online. Fancy place. A dress. Her finest shoes. She turns up to the joint early because she’d rather not wait so long. There’s a polite, taut man in a tuxedo waiting at the reception and she begins to feel out of her depth a bit: but when she says the reservation name he leads her to her table and the place is flowing with nice candlelight and it’s not so busy. Emma’s twenty minutes early and she feels this a decent statistic. She accepts the offer of some iced water as she waits....
    Huge clock on the wall the other side of the room. Watches the long hand slip closer and closer to eight o’clock. And simultaneously she watches the front doors of the restaurant for Tony to appear – she’s already gone through this image repeatedly in her mind, wondering what he’ll be wearing, how he’ll smell, whether he’ll be smiley and jokey on the date or serious but sexy in his chat.... And then the long hand gets to eight o’clock. And, goes past it. Gets to five minutes past and she begins to twitch and shuffle her feet. (Her finest shoes might look spectacular but they do bite her toes a great deal and this is doing nothing medicinal for her anxiety.) Ten minutes pass. And then fifteen and then twenty five and Emma realises that she keeps gulping a lot. That saliva’s collecting in her mouth, and she thinks about calling Tony’s number, in a friendly way, just to check in, see if he’s all right. There’s this horrible wrenching feeling in her stomach. In the reflection of her glass she can see her dolled up face. And she’s starting to feel stupid, with the lipstick and the eyeliner, things which she used to wear heavily in her teens but grew out of in her adult life. She’s a kid, still, she notices. Weak as a tot. Emma notices that the waiters and waitresses are looking at her anxiously, feeling bad. And yet they come over to her to see if she wants anything stronger to drink. Not just yet, she replies.... And then at minute 20:34, she gets a message from Tony. Her phone pings and she does not flinch this time. He uses the word “sorry” so many times in the text that it’s plain annoying. He’s gotten held up at work. And can’t make it. He is so super sorry. And hopes he can make it up to her another time? Next week? Emma does not text back. She puts her coat on instead. Urgh. Jesus Christ. I thought people only get stood up in TV shows. Never thought it would happen to me. Not that I’m anything special... She gets up and she just leaves the restaurant without a word to anybody and then she’s out in the street again.
    It’s a November night and very windy and the breeze whirls up her legs under her dress and goosebumps flume all across her thighs.
    There’s a wacky mood in her now. It’s natural to feel crazy sometimes. Important.
    (The traffic lights mosey in a witchy green orange and red, changing, spellcasting their colours as if they had their own minds.)
    Emma wanders down the street and discovers that she hasn’t quite picked a route to go yet. She should get to the metro. To go home. Then realises that she’s gone the wrong way and that the metro is the other direction. Her shoes are fucking annoying. Emma takes them off. She cannot recall the last time she wore shoes without any socks, and the concrete under her is pearly to her naked soles. Back the other way to the metro she goes, bare feet quietly slapping the pavement.

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