Tea for Three

Tea for Three

It had almost been too perfect a present, coming when it did. Jack's
surprise late-Christmas gift of a weekend break in London, combined
with tickets for 'Miss Saigon', was just what the doctor ordered.
Our small hotel in Southampton Row was just minutes walk away from 'Le
Caf? du Jardin' where we spent the hour before the show sauntering our
way through a deliciously sumptuous cous-cous, lovingly washed down
with a bottle of Nuit St. Georges. Although the meal was wonderful and
the atmosphere full of pre-theatre excitement, we were engrossed in our
own separate world which had become tinged with an element of sadness
and near despair. You see, we had everything that a 'thirty something'
couple could have in the early '90's - secure jobs, our own home with a
manageable mortgage, enough spare cash to go on holiday when and where
we pleased.... everything, except children.
'I'm sure there's no need to give up hope yet, Laura,' said Jack, who,
as ever, would never get pessimistic about any situation, 'Doctor Leo
said that the initial results were inconclusive and that more tests
were needed to confirm your fertility.'
'Or our infertility!' I responded, annoyed.
'Well, that's something we'll have to face at the time, and it's
something that we have to face together.'
I knew he was right, of course. We still had some hope but I felt deep
down inside, the way only a woman can, that I could just never have a
baby. After all, it was my body wasn't it? Surely I should have some
idea about what was going on inside of me, or not, as I feared was
probably the case.

As anticipated, the show was more than wonderful and the handy pack of
Kleenex a necessity for the emotional finale. We strolled slowly back
to our hotel wrapped up in the enjoyment of the evening and the pure
excitement of being in London and just being able to put some distance
between ourselves and our predicament, if only temporarily.
'Fancy a drink?'
'Yeah, OK,' I replied, knowing that a nightcap was just what I needed
to ensure sleep in an unknown bed.
However, when we got back to the hotel, sleep was the last thing on
Jack's mind. Despite my nightcap, or double nightcap as it turned out,
I really wanted Jack that night. Maybe it was the excitement of
everything, maybe that I was as horny as hell, but I was not going to
waste this, recently, too infrequent desire for pure lust by turning
over and going to sleep!

Sunday morning broke in a crisp January fashion with only a hint of
sleet or snow in the air. Having gorged our way through a more than
substantial full English breakfast, we decided on our action plan for
the day - wander leisurely around Camden Lock, taking care not to be
too extravagant in our bargain hunting, having lunch in a nearby pub.
Then, back on the tube to Covent Garden and home for early evening, as
long as the M11 and A11 were not blighted by the seemingly interminable
roadworks that appeared to constantly affect the route back home to
Norfolk.
The day went as planned, apart from my more than unnecessary purchase
of a Chinese rug or two at Camden.
'Where are we going to put those?' Jack enquired, as he nonetheless
pulled his Switch card from his pocket and begrudgingly dipped into the
bottomless pit of our joint account, or do I mean pitiless
bottom?
'In your study.'
'But I haven't got a study.'
'Well, you'll just have to get one built then.'
Jack knew he was on a hiding to nothing when the matter of home
furnishings was being discussed. To say that I am an impulsive buyer is
an understatement, rather like calling Pavarotti a little on the plump
side! Anyway, I was sure that I would be able to find some suitable
resting-place for the rugs, even if one had to go beneath the dog
basket under the stairs!

Our Covent Garden exploration proved less fruitful and the growing
clamour of people there for the sightseeing, the shopping, or just to
be seen, made us seek out a quiet oasis. Somewhere we could just sit
down, have a cup of tea and collect our thoughts before contemplating
the journey home.
The small tea-room we found was almost opposite the restaurant where
we had eaten the previous evening. As we entered, we were immediately
struck by the character of the place, which was more reminiscent of a
village tea 'shoppe' than something that one would expect in the
capital. The timber floors sloped in all directions, rural scenes from
Monet and Constable decorated the walls and the only anomaly appeared
to be an adjoining lower floor of the building, which doubled up as an
exclusive ballgown hire business. The two old ladies, who were taking
orders and serving, and the one gentleman, who was clearing up the
tables, were of the red-faced and jovial variety and clearly enjoying
their jobs.
'Have you seen her, over there,' Jack whispered nodding towards the
table nearest the door. As the only other table that was occupied,
apart from ours, was the one nearest the door, it was difficult not to
notice the incumbent. A rather large lady possibly American in origin,
but difficult to tell without hearing her speak, was deeply into the
pages of something by Balzac. This in itself was not extraordinary, but
the numbers of plates and the brave, if somewhat foolhardy, attempt to
sample every cake, scone and a gateau in the place was obvious to see.
After a couple of minutes, she requested the location of the ladies'
room, got up and, struggling, disappeared through the small door frame,
linking through to the corridor where the toilets were located. The man
cleaning the tables could see our undisguised amusement.
'American widow,' he said. 'You can tell 'em a mile off. Think they're
still ordering for two and then feel obliged to eat everything in
sight.' He pulled a chair up and started talking as if we were all in
on some great conspiracy.
'Don't usually get too many Brits in 'ere on a Sunday,' he commented.
'You two aren't local, are you? Bet you've just escaped for the
weekend, 'ave you?'
We told him what we had been doing, where we came from and how
wonderful we thought his quirky little establishment was.
'Oh, it ain't mine. We're just helping some relatives out whilst
they're on holiday. I couldn't stand working in the Smoke full time;
gave all that up when I retired a few years back.'
By the time half an hour had passed, I'm sure that we'd listened to
his life history, had had his opinion on most of the major issues of
the day, and still had time to sample at least two different examples
of fine home made cake, along with an excellent pot of Assam. And the
American widow had yet to emerge from the toilet. Regrettably, we took
our leave without knowing whether or not the large framed visitor had
managed to squeeze back through the tight portal. Thoughts of 'two old
ladies stuck in the lavatory' sprang to mind.
Our amiable host saw us to the door and as we walked away up the
street called after us.
'If you're ever this way again, call in and see us and next time bring
the children!'
We thought this a somewhat strange remark but we knew that he couldn't
mean anything by it. We just presumed that he'd made the assumption
that our weekend escape involved escaping from the children as well as
our day to day lives. After all, we hadn't given away any secrets about
our private lives and we just took it as a sign of his natural
familiarity.

Almost one year later, we found ourselves venturing through the same
doorway only to be disappointed at what we found inside. The d?cor had
become 'nouveau theatre', the tea had become cappuccino and the owners
had become pony-tailed trendies. We asked one of the staff how long the
place had been under new management. He looked at us as though we were
either mad, stupid or both and said that he had owned the caf? for the
last five years.
'How are your relatives?', Jack asked, 'the ones that were looking
after the place when you were on holiday this time last year.'
'I'm sorry,' replied Mr Pony Tail, still thinking us clinically
insane, 'I haven't got a clue what you're talking about. We haven't
been able to get away for a holiday since we took over this place. It's
an all year round job, much worse than even running a pub.' With that,
he dismissed us disdainfully and returned to his espresso
machine.
We looked at one another, both knowing what was going through each
other's mind. We didn't finish our coffee. Deciding to leave that
instant, we got our things together, and gainfully struggled to lift
the twins' double buggy out over the threshold and onto the light
snow-covered pavement, the afternoon chill only distantly noticeable in
comparison to the chill that shivered its way through my entire
body.