Page 50 of The Good Sister

‘Reservation for Wally,’ Wally says.

I snort.

The waitress leads us to a table set with a white tablecloth and bright blue chairs. As we sit down, the waitress hands each of us a laminated menu and fills our water glasses from a porcelain jug. The restaurant smells of garlic and meat.

‘Are you okay?’ Wally says.

I nod. ‘It’s lovely.’

Wally looks so funny in his goggles, I let out another snort.

‘What?’ Wally says.

‘Nothing.’

The waitress brings over pita bread and tzatziki and tells us she’ll be back in a minute to take our order. I dive into the bread before it’s even hit the table. This pregnancy hunger is no joke. I feel like I could eat every carbohydrate in the place.

‘Did you miss lunch?’ Wally asks, as I dip my second piece of pita.

I am grateful to have a mouthful, so I can just smile and shrug. I can’t tell him, of course, that I missed neither lunch nor afternoon tea. I can’t tell him, because then he might ask more questions and find out that I’m pregnant.

As I swallow my next mouthful, I become aware of sounds drifting down the stairs – soft music, chairs scraping, intermittent laughter. It’s not overwhelming, but I can hear it even with my earphones on. I’m about to ask Wally if he knows what is happening up there when the waitress appears to take our order.

Wally and I remove our headphones long enough to order a lamb souvlaki (for Wally) and baked Greek fries with meatballs (for me). We also order bread and hummus, olives and water. Music starts up above, slightly louder than before. I replace my headphones.

‘So . . .’ I say to Wally. ‘Was there a particular purpose to this evening or was it just . . .’ I stumble on the juvenile-sounding word, ‘. . . a date?’

‘As a matter of fact, there was a purpose. A celebration. I’ve created an ad hoc version of FollowUp.’

Ad hoc version. I fear I ought to understand this reference. Over the past few weeks, Wally has explained the process of creating and launching an app, but each time, despite the clarity and simplicity of his explanations, I invariably found myself tuning out after a minute or two. And the constant nausea has done nothing to assist my concentration.

‘It means the app is ready for testing,’ Wally explains. ‘I’ve spent the last few weeks coding and I think it’s going to work! With Shout!, it took us five times as long to get to this point, but I’ve been so motivated, and a lot of that is to do with you being in my life. And, so, I wanted to do something special for you.’

Wally smiles at me and, in that instant, it is entirely undeniably clear that I cannot break up with Wally. The fact that I thought I could feels like mere madness.

‘Fern,’ Wally says. ‘What is it?’

‘I have to tell you something,’ I say.

‘Damn,’ Wally says, removing his headphones. ‘I can’t hear you. I think my battery ran out.’

I take off my own headphones and place them on the table. The music upstairs is louder now, and I can hear stomping on the ceiling above.

‘I said . . . I have to tell you something.’

Wally leans forward, his face a mask of concern. ‘What is it?’

I open my mouth. And a bomb goes off, right there in the restaurant.

I drop to the floor. The noise is ear-splitting. I clamber under the table, covering my head with my hands. I’ve barely recovered from the first explosion before there is another. And another. Bizarrely, music continues to play. I search for Wally under the table, gripping his hands as I hear another explosion. I wrap my arms around myself and rock back and forth, waiting for it to end.

‘I’m sorry,’ Wally says, once he’s bundled me outside. ‘I had no idea it was a wedding upstairs.’

I am still shaking so much I can’t stand up straight. The terrifying, smashing noise reverberates in my head.

‘They were smashing plates. It’s customary at Greek weddings. I didn’t think of it.’

Plates. That’s what that deafening noise was? People smashing plates?