Free The Last Goodbye by Caroline Finnerty

finally starting to go. Our Polish waitress had taken our order and I had decided on the Full English while Ben had gone for waffles with fresh berries. He had asked her to leave off the whipped cream.
After we had eaten our breakfast, we ordered coffees – decaf for me, a macchiato for Ben. I always felt a bit pretentious ordering specialty coffees – I could imagine Dad’s voice saying, ‘It was far from macchiatos you were raised!’ And it was – coffee was unheard of in our house when I was growing up – coffee was for other people. Tea was what we drank and if you came to our house you were only offered tea – there was no choice in the matter.
Ben had the newspaper stretched wide between his toned arms and I was flicking through the magazines, which were my favourite part. We had been at a gig in the Old Vic Tunnels the night before and my ears were still ringing from the sound that had bounced around inside the old barrel vaults.
“See, you can get flights to Dublin for only £9 plus taxes each way,” Ben said as he read aloud from the paper.
I knew he was waiting for me to say something so I pretended that I couldn’t hear him and continued to read a review of some play in the Culture section. He just wouldn’t quit.
“ Oh shit! ” Nat said that evening as she rushed back into her kitchen. A cloud of grey smoke rushed out to meet us. She had invited Ben and me over for dinner that evening. She was really pushing the whole ‘get-to-know-Will’ thing – I had to resist the urge to tell her that we had already got to know him, and we still thought he was a dick. I knew Ben was dreading it as much as I was.
She was in a flurry as she slid her hands into a pair of oven gloves and removed the offending dish from the oven. She stood fanning the smoke with the gloves.
“I’m so bad at timings – this is the first and last time that I will be having a dinner party.”
Her hair was parted in the centre and plaited elegantly in two French plaits, which were gathered up loosely on the back of her head. She was wearing black peg-leg trousers and a long-sleeved silk blouse with delicate pearls sewn along the neckline.
“Need a hand?”
“Brill – Kate, could you stir that sauce for me, please? Oh and Ben, would you mind opening this bottle of red? I could do with a glass.”
“Sure.” He took the bottle off the worktop and started rooting in a drawer for a corkscrew. He uncorked it and poured them both a generous glass.
Nat sat on a stool and took a sip. “I needed that, I’m parched.”
“Where’s Will?” I asked.
“Well, I’m not sure – he should be here soon though.” She glanced up at the clock.
Suddenly she bolted up from the stool.
“Crap! I forgot to put on the potatoes!” she wailed. “Fuckedy fuck!”
We made ourselves useful while Nat busied herself peeling potatoes. I could see the worry lines knitted between her eyebrows. I knew she was wondering where Will was. It was nearly eight thirty and I was starting to wonder if he was going to show. I suppose that was one of the hazards of dating a married man – you never really knew if he would be able to make it to events you had planned together – his wife might blow him out of it at the last minute, asking questions about where he was going, or his kid might get sick. You probably could never fully relax.
At eight forty-five, Nat had to take the meat out of the oven.
“Damn it!” she said. The pork belly that she had been slowly cooking was now nicely charred on top.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We can just cut that bit off.”
“I’ll just try and ring him again . . .”
Ben and I pretended to be deep in conversation while Nat phoned Will.
“There’s no answer . . . I hope nothing has happened . . .” She bit down on her bottom lip nervously.
“Don’t worry – I’m sure he’s on his way.” I rubbed her arm. She had gone to a lot of trouble for this evening – I hoped he wasn’t going to let her down. The table was