The Truth About Numbnuts and Chubbs(4)

In Paris she was already a new person because no one there knew the old Bryony. She slowed down a lot, learned to taste flavors and enjoy smaller portions. On a tight budget, she certainly stuck to eating only at mealtimes. She lost a little weight, gained a lot of style and confidence, learned a new language, discovered a surprising love of fashion. Most of all she stopped worrying what other people saw when they looked at her. With an entire new wardrobe, she'd learned how to be comfortable in her own skin and it was a far better feeling than the fragile excitement of starving to fit a size someone else decided she ought to be. This feeling was one that lasted.

Back in New York she got a new apartment, a new job. But she wasn't ready for a new boyfriend yet. That was a whole other set of potential bugs for Bry 2.0 to work out. For now she was focused on her job, aiming one day for a corner office, even "partner" on her business cards.

All things considered, life was looking up for Bry. She was finally in charge, finally had a grip.

Until her alarm clock failed to go off that morning, she couldn't get hot water in her shower, she lost the power cord for her laptop, the smoke detector went off because she burned the toast, and then her heel got stuck in the tarmac. Finally, Numbnuts tripped over her as she scrabbled about in the gutter. She sincerely hoped this wasn't the start of her descent into another maelstrom.

Her phone rattled across the desk, vibrating with the rhythm of calypso drums.

"Hello? Bryony Mull—"

"Can you meet for lunch?" It was her cousin Helena, speaking in a tearful half-whisper, "I have to get out of here."

She looked at the piles surrounding her. "What time? I'm kinda—"

"Twelve. I don't care where. It's an emergency." Helena had a tendency to be dramatic. A broken finger nail or a lost earring could constitute an emergency. In all likelihood, by the time noon rolled around she would have gotten over it.

"Ok. Hey, do you know Leonato's? Midtown west?"

Silence.

"Hell's Kitchen," she added hastily. "Theatre district."

Helena sniveled into the phone. "I guess I can find it."

"I'll be here." That would save her from traveling across town, she figured. Let Helena come to her for a change. Another sign of the newer, more confident Bry.

Clearly, her cousin was upset about something or she would have suggested a ritzier place on the Upper East side—somewhere she was more accustomed to and somewhere Bry couldn't afford. Helena wasn't the sort to go out of her comfort zone. Usually.

But today there was no debate. Odd.

"See you then." She hung up.

Damn computer was slow, working on a half dead battery and no power cord. With a sigh she flipped open her briefcase and fumbled for a legal bad, a biro and a calculator. Back to basics.



* * * *



He strode through the doors, tucking his phone away inside his jacket. The restaurant was already filling up with the lunch crowd and it was barely half twelve. The air was thick with basil and garlic, a low murmur of contented diners music to his ears. Probably ought to be the beep of the cash register that brought a smile to his face. But right now it wasn't. He was starting to feel good about bringing pleasure to other people. It was weird. The satisfaction of seeing that little restaurant packed to the walls was like a shot of adrenaline directly into his veins.

Then he saw Bryony in a corner booth, poring over the menu. At once he felt a sly punch deep in his gut—maybe it was more of a kick this time.

Like the bubbles in a glass of champagne.

What song was that from? Couldn't think.

About to walk over to her, he stopped. No way would she welcome him at her table. He should know better by now.

Go over, you fool, his grandmother whispered inside his head. You coward. What are you? A little girl?

Nah. But he wasn't looking for a slapped face either.

Chubbs would probably flay him alive with her tongue if she saw him right now.

So he slipped by, hiding behind the coat stand and making a dash for the office behind the bar. Ben Petruska had climbed Everest, dived off a cliff in Acapulco, run with bulls in Pamplona, but for some reason Bryony Mulligan, all grown up, scared the pants off him.

He skidded to a halt, like Bugs Bunny at the cliff edge, teetering forward at an impossible angle, ears folded back, toes clenched.

Had he walked into the wrong back room?

The bookshelves—formerly tilting hazardously—were now in neat order, binders labeled. The desk was cleaned off, but for a phone, a blotter and a stack of restaurant supply catalogs. Beside the fax machine there was a big box marked Receipts and another marked Invoices. A large staff roster, which had been rolled up behind the door, was now taped to the wall. Along with an invoice for her work that day.