JACQUELINE BOND

“Stop biting your nails,” said Aspen.
“Sorry,” Judie hid her freshly gnawed hand under the table. It was the skin she bit, not the nails, but she didn’t correct him. Beneath the red tablecloth, she paired her hand with a previously tenderised one between her thighs in a reassuring sandwich.
“Meat makes me nervous.”
“You worry too much. This one’s allowed in your books, anyway. Just relax and enjoy it.”
Judie nodded and tucked in her chair with a symbolic and therefore insignificant nudge. Her legs pivoted at right angles to her torso, crossed towards the door, angling for an escape but too tangled to ever make it. A nervous twinge from Judie’s lower vertebrae sped up her spinal cord but was snuffed out upon reaching her cerebral cortex. Her mind was far too busy suppressing its own thoughts to allow in extraneous messages. Instead, her neglected spine bided its time so that in a few hours it would invoke a series of abstract nightmares in Judie’s REM mode. Something about grinding machines and crunching marbles before Judie would wake up in a miserable mood with a number of new knots down her neck.
It had been a couple of weeks since she’d last spent real time with Aspen. He’d just come back from a self-coined louche weekend away with his friend who Judie had never met. Phil was some born-rich friend of Aspen’s who he had looked up to since school, in height as much as wealth. He now worked in private equity or venture capital or consultancy or maybe all three somehow. Judie didn’t care to ask in case it might reveal any latent ignorance or interest on the matter and today she had resolved to be compliant.
A nearby hanging light blotted out and both turned to face the cause of the indoor eclipse. Judie squinted up at a tanned, broad-shouldered figure sporting a black Ecce-branded T-shirt, stretched by a generous serving of muscular fat and emanating a lightly woody sweat. Instead of more traditional waiter attire, he had replaced a napkin-bearing arm with a sleeve of tattoos, including an alphanumeric series in a recognisable red font. His shaved head and eyebrow piercing finished the look. Categorisation complete, Judie instantly and impulsively imagined him in bed, knowing full well he was hers if wanted. These barely conscious milliseconds formed the best moment of her day, and upon catching herself smiling, she shut the thought down at once.
“Welcome to Ecce. My apologies for the delay. I see you’ve been given a menu already. Can I interest you both in some drinks to start?” His voice was clear, higher than expected, and included a light affectation of Cockney that made Judie cringe.
Though somewhat relieved by his voice, Judie stayed silent. She watched as Aspen took the lead.
“Absolutely. I’ve got a good idea about some wine, but I’d like to try a couple first if that’s ok.”
Clear, Judie swept her line of sight over to the other tables as her ears shut themselves off. Aspen would be a while now, and if her face had not given the game away, his own version of arrogance would mean he would barely register the more attractive man he was talking to. The low-ceilinged restaurant was blanketed from the cold with red velvet curtains, making the air inside thick and sticky with whatever the kitchen wafted out. A metallic steam piqued Judie’s nostrils enough to stimulate a sneeze. Unblessed, the wine decision battled on, and she vaguely acknowledged the waiter to and fro-ing with new bottles. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirrored wall nearby and was reminded that the bags under her eyes might be turning into a permanent fixture. Her head swerved away, instead to focus on an extended family of pickle jars that lined the walls with indiscernible bloated and bleached spheres and tubes, alongside an antique stethoscope and silver forceps leant against the mantlepiece of an ornamental fireplace.
Having read all the reviews, nothing was quite a total surprise. Ecce was by no means the first but most certainly the most famous restaurant of its kind. The fact they didn’t raise the prices with their reputation only added to its exclusivity. This had the unfortunate, or perhaps intended, consequence that celebrities were not infrequently found in corners looking bothered that other customers had been granted similar looking, if not identical, tables. Since legislation had passed, several knock-offs had sprung up with allegations of ‘farming’ and backhand deals with frustrated relatives, but that only meant opportunity for new certification companies to validate the best, and eventually the rest, if only at a higher rate.
Several couples scattered among the dozen tables struggled not to check their phones; an illusion of restraint which instantaneously shattered when one stood up for the bathroom. Four tall girls by the window smiled in suspended animation as a passing waiter eagerly reassigned himself to portrait photographer. She noticed it was a younger crowd than she would’ve assumed. Almost no one over fifty, or they didn’t look it.
I guess it gets all a bit too real when you’re older, she would’ve said if anyone was listening.
“Judie, I’ll just order for us, shall I?”
She mhm’d not before Aspen launched headfirst into the menu. His face half-concealed, the waiter leaned to join him behind the black leather screen as a meal was conspired. Briskly, but finessed as to not be rude, the menu was snatched away and the waiter spun off, only for Judie to spy a penknife drop from the waiter’s back pocket. Judie couldn’t help but call out to him and picked it up. Panicked at the sudden physical transaction, she didn’t notice a broken blade had popped out the other end and he recoiled as she unwittingly sliced across his palm. He yelped in pain, before quickly quelling it by professional instinct, and thanked her twice, and a third time, before rushing off, clutching his injured hand with the other, and nodding in acknowledgement to any shocked onlookers. Steady drops of blood fell like breadcrumbs on his path back to the kitchen and absorbed onto the blue velvet carpeted floor.
Judie’s attention came back onto the table to be reacquainted with a wide-eyed, wide-mouthed Aspen, too comic to be earnest.
“Jesus Judie. Did you stab him?”
“I don’t know.” Judie’s eyes averted his and darted down to find a freshly-placed flute of champagne. She immediately seized the convenient apparition, and with an oversized gulp, she wished the bubbles would choke her, before realising it was rude not to have cheersed first.
“They better not spit in our food now.”
“Sorry. Yeah, I suppose it would mix the flavours a bit.”
“Anyway, hopefully I’ve saved it. I mentioned I know Armin who is apparently here this evening. If you haven’t killed off the waiter, they might be bringing us something special. Benefit of Tuesday nights I suppose. I’m excited.” Aspen raised his glass. “Cheers.”
Recovering from mild shock, Judie duly reciprocated, all the while hearing, memorising and then catching up with what Aspen was saying just in case it involved any questions.
“Wow, this champagne. It’s all vegan here, Armin’s pretty serious about that, but he knows what he’s choosing,” Aspen swilled the fizz out of the champagne from cheek to cheek. Cheery again, he stared at Judie, only to instant disappointment. “You look exhausted. How about if you relax, and I tell you how my holiday was?”
Judie relaxed as told, relieved of duty to speak yet again. She often attributed this to why their relationship had lasted so long; unlike any of the others she actually talked to. Aspen proceeded to give the barely consensual retelling of his five days in Zurich, including many effusive details of Phil being so generous, only getting the best Barolo wine and the juiciness of their steak, which he attributed to the clarity of the air.
“You should go sometime; it would be good for you.”
Judie’s remaining alcohol busied her throat, and she suspended the empty glass at her mouth, while her eyes begged for help. Help arrived. A new waiter, female, ambiguously foreign and frail, emerged carrying a bone China platter of cold cuts, as Aspen often americanized it. She had a similar red numbered tattoo, and Judie wondered if she and the other waiter were fucking. He soon emerged in tow, his tan faded and head lightly beaded with sweat. His right hand was wrapped in a white bandage and clenched into a fist, and in his left, a bottle of red.
By this point the waiter settled all possible interactions by prior understanding; close-lip smiling to assuage Judie, and shifting towards Aspen for the tasting. Judie watched in guilty silence as the waiter failed to unscrew the bottle with his good hand and compelled his wound to meet its maker. On the tasting ritual, Aspen proceeded to pulp two rouge sips with his proudly acrobatic tongue. With a pregnant pause, staring cross-eyed into his own brain, he accepted the acquisition with a stream of adulatory adjectives, as if addressing the wine itself. Judie swayed away from the waiter as he poured her hers.
Judie and Aspen each peeled back a layer of meat from the platter. She took a large breath in and out before finding its silky texture melt into her mouth, and let it slide down with a generous gulp of red. Getting into the motions, Aspen rolled up his sleeves and the sight of his furry forearms comforted her. Without realising it, she lifted her hand to stroke his exposed golden fur.
He looked up at her as if his raison d’être had come into focus and grabbed her arm back, replacing his on top of hers and digging his actually-bit nails into her skin. Judie was rather taken aback, though a perceivable twang in her loins resonated with his statement. This time she took a gulp without any wine.
A crash of plates and a woman’s cry interrupted any further proceedings, and their arms broke contact, darting every gaze in the room to the kitchen doors. A lack of subsequent motion dissipated the commotion, and a few shrugs sent every table back to conversation as usual.
“Wow. Armin says it’s hell back there sometimes. I’d love to see it. 11th Hour, his last place, was incredible. Open kitchen. Did I tell you about it? Su-per expensive, fixed price, whatever you got, as they could never predict what they got. Crazy concept. Got a lot of attention ‘cos everything was amazing. Hilton bought it and now he'd loaded. Armin only works now because he loves it. What an experience. I got you the vegan, by the way. Apparently all organic, which is rare,” Aspen paused. “Hey, do you think I’ve put on weight? You look like you’ve lost it.”
“Not intentionally.”
Aspen leant back and sucked in to inspect his physique in the mirror. Judie gasped and swung to her left before understanding why.
“Surprise, surprise! Aspen, my guy! Fantastic to see you here. What a treat. You’re in for a treat. And great to finally meet you, Jodie! Sorry, guys. Wish I could catch up buddy, it’s been too long. Listen, I’ll be back. It’s not going as smoothly as we wanted today but we’re sorting it out, we’ve had worse. Anyway, like I say, when the going gets tough, the tough needs a good pounding. We got a delivery at the wrong time, you know how it is. All will be well. Gotta have faith! I’ll sort you guys out anyway, you’re my bro.” He punched his chest at Aspen. “I’ll be back. Aspen, you’ll love it, I got you.”
“You got me!” Aspen shouted semi-confidently into the direction Armin was already heading as Judie contemplated Jodie.
A familiar scent floated past. A fragrance she associated with men, but this time not accompanied by one. Her nose traced the smell to the dying ebb of the swinging kitchen doors. Judie stared as they were pressed back open by a server heading to wipe off two options on an adjacent chalkboard. While Aspen was elatedly finishing off their starter, she craned her neck further to peep in. A silver table next to the doors extended long past the full opening of the swing, with plates piled on the nearest corner. In one etch of her retina, she caught busy chefs in white overalls, flinging spatulas mid-air, steamy colanders spouting waterfalls and a wok that ignited in a transient ceiling-tickling flame. And as the triangle of her view sliced into nothing, she saw a chef with his back to the door, lay down a silver ring on a wooden chopping board.
Armin swung the door out so hard it hit the fireplace and smacked back after him. Swaying his hips he rushed with a soft legged motion towards their table, teeth bearing into the widest of smiles. With an exaggerated show of precarity, he balanced a plate on the tips of his fingers and presented it down to their table.
“Don’t tell the other customers you’re my favourite. Here’s something on the house. Just taste it. Divine. I got my best guy on it.”
Armin, swivelling back to the kitchen already, left them to the plate. Aspen stretched his neck forward, nose up, to inhale the fumes piling from the thick steak, which flopped forward on itself, slice upon slice. Lightly seared, the rareness of the meat was truly ‘blue’, and a layer of crackled fatty skin framed it on one side. He punctured a chunk with his fork and it compressed like a sponge as ruby juice soaked out onto its clinically white plate.
As Aspen peeled the meat off the plate, the singed skin was turned to face her, and Judie read off two charred capital letters.
Realising all too much at once and inhibitions currently dissolved, Judie lurched forward and tried to grab the fork off of Aspen. Her body, suddenly diagonal, tipped the table, toppling the bottle of wine to the floor. The thick liquid gurgled out into a dark puddle next to her. To stabilise herself, she plummeted her palm straight onto the steak, fingers squishing through its warm and buttery tissue. Aspen reflexively tilted his chair back and deftly avoided any of Judie’s gravitational casualties. He leant back with fork in hand, looking in abject horror at Judie, stained in blood and wine.
Seeing her stare at the meat on his fork, he was reminded to take his bite, and shouted with his mouth full,
“Judie, what the hell’s got into you?”