Max, charming, hardworking, and everyone’s friend, had risen quickly from waiter to manager of a successful gastropub. In the moments when the couple weren’t working or dealing with the demands of raising twin toddlers—usually in the scant time between their heads hitting the pillows and sleep—they fantasized about opening their own place. They had a lot of shared dreams once.
Annie’s parents had died far too young. Although she had a family of her own, their deaths left Annie feeling like she’d been orphaned; she felt cheated by the lack of time she’d had with them. Her mum was only sixty-five when she died suddenly from an aneurysm, and her dad died soon after of a broken heart. Annie was more determined than ever to do her parents proud. She used her inheritance to buy the Pomegranate Seed building and poured her heart and her classical chef’s training into creating seasonal à la carte menus using fresh, locally sourced produce, which won Good Food Awards at the county and national level. They lived in the flat above and built up the restaurant below, with Max managing front of house and Annie running the kitchen and doing the lion’s share of the childcare.
There were times when she would cry from sheer fatigue, but then Max would steal her away to the stockroom and sweep her into a Hollywood embrace, and she would be restored. Max could do that; he could make her feel like she was his entire world and they were on an amazing adventure together. But Max’s powers worked in reverse too; just as easily as his words could build her up, so too they could knock her down, so that she felt small and worthless, and afraid of what she would be without him.
A restaurant critic for the Guardian had once described her and Max as “A Dream Team,” and in many ways they were. While Max schmoozed the patrons out front, Annie excited and delighted them on the plate. Glossy magazines ran features on them, and Annie was frequently asked to share recipes for special holiday issues. They had a lot going for them, far too much for Annie to throw it all away over a little thing like infidelity. Relationships are messy, she would tell herself. No marriage is perfect.
When the boys grew up and left home after university, Annie took on more work. They converted the upstairs rooms （their old flat） of the Pomegranate Seed into a coffee lounge. The restaurant opened for lunch and dinner, and the coffee lounge opened from breakfast till teatime. Annie was busier than ever, more successful than ever! She never had a moment to herself. All these things helped her swim against the current of self-doubt and kept her too tired to address the notion that her marriage had been failing almost from the time it began.
Annie breathed in and out, long slow to breaths to center herself, as she lay on the hotel bed, picking over the carcass of her marriage. Enough was enough. She’d spent too long running and going nowhere; she was jumping off this hamster wheel. There would be no more hiding, no more excuses, for her or Max. Her children had grown and flown, and there would be no better time to rebuild herself. Annie had ripped the blinkers off, and she was ready to face the music.
Chapter 4
Most of the tables in the hotel restaurant were occupied by families with young children; crayons and character backpacks littered the floor and the ignorable Muzak melodies were almost lost beneath their cacophony.
Annie sipped her wine. She was the only woman eating alone. She didn’t mind. Being by herself had been a rare treat when the boys were small. Since they’d grown up, being alone had become her state of being. A man in a cheap suit a few tables down, also eating solo, consistently tried to get Annie’s attention, raising his glass and winking at her every time she looked down that end of the restaurant. Annie smiled weakly and ignored him. As she scoured the dessert menu, another man approached her table and asked if she’d like some company. She politely declined, and the man shrugged and went back to propping up the bar. She was just scraping up the last of her triple chocolate delight when another man-shaped shadow fell across the table. Annie was about to insist that she really was more than happy to share a meal with herself when she caught sight of the shadow’s shoes: two-tone, well-worn brogues. Max’s shoes.
“Hello,” said Max.
His face was all angst. His big blue eyes looked down at her imploringly. Annie realized she had frozen with the fork halfway to her mouth. She laid it down, unable to eat the last mouthful of her pudding, which pained her slightly.
“May I sit?” asked Max.
Annie gesticulated toward the chair opposite hers and Max sat. He looked tired. Contrite. His blond hair, graying attractively at the temples, was fluffy and uncharacteristically wild. His beard was almost entirely gray with flecks of white at the sides and at the edges of his mustache. She resisted the urge to stick her dessert fork into his forehead but only just.