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I’ve applied. Actually I’ve applied twice this year already and no one responds to my phone calls,’ Emma answered.
    She was sick of being given the run around by Geoffrey Martin’s secretary. She didn’t need an abacus to count how many messages she’d left for the councillor to call her.
    ‘You tell him, Em,’ Chris encouraged, refilling his wine glass.
    ‘Well, I expect matters are in hand,’ Geoffrey mumbled into his napkin.
    ‘Maybe I could make a donation, to the school,’ Guy spoke up.
    ‘Oh no, Mr. Duval, you don’t need to do that. That wasn’t what I was trying to do, I was just…well the council should have provision,’ Emma replied, her cheeks reddening.
    ‘Not so hasty, Em! Who cares where the money comes from? You said you’re in danger of having to perform
West Side Story
again this year! Believe me there’s only so much ‘la, la, la, la America’ I can take. Hummed it for over a week,’ Chris informed.
    ‘How much would be OK? Twenty five thousand? Thirty?’ Guy inquired.
    He looked like he was going to reach for his wallet.
    ‘Good God, son! They must be paying you a small fortune at that football club,’ Geoffrey remarked. Others at the table sucked in their breath.
    ‘No, really, you don’t have to do that,’ Emma said. Her heart was hammering against her rib cage.
    ‘Maybe I want to,’ Guy replied. He kept his eyes on hers.
    ‘Christ, Em! Take the guy’s money! If you don’t take it for the school he’ll just spend it on women and wine. Isn’t that right, Guy?’ Chris said. His fork clattered onto his plate.
    ‘I would like to help. Perhaps we could talk, make arrangements,’ Guy said, still only looking at her.
    This was killing her. Just having him in the same room was killing her. She hated him. But why did she have to remind herself of that? He hurt her. But the sound of his voice and those green eyes were playing havoc with her insides. Her stomach was telling her she should vomit, while her heart was telling her if she didn’t get a grip on herself it was going to bounce right out of her chest and land on Councillor Martin’s plate.
    ‘Isn’t that wonderful news? No more
West Side Story
. Perhaps something lavish this year? I’ve always been fond of a bit of
Copacabana
myself,’ Geoffrey said, wine spilling down his chin.
    ‘Now you’re talking! Feathers, fruit, skimpy sequined costumes for the ladies. I could invite some of the lads from the rank!’ Chris said.
    He sounded more enthusiastic now than when he’d got tickets for an AC\DC tribute band.
    Emma wasn’t listening to either of them. She was looking across the linen tablecloth at Guy and he was gazing back at her. She couldn’t see the person who’d hurt her anymore. All she could see was the boy she’d fallen so in love with.
     
    Her starter was whipped away barely touched and now in its place sat a large slice of beef wellington. She could hear Chris’ lips smacking together as he devoured it like a bear feasting on a lone camper. To the other side of her, Geoffrey Martin was raucously blowing at his nose and then wiping the same napkin over his gravy-stained lips.
    ‘Lovely grub, isn’t it?’ Chris said. He nudged Emma with his elbow.
    ‘Yes, lovely,’ she answered, turning the corners of her mouth up in an unauthentic smile.
    ‘You two are married?’ Guy questioned.
    Emma stabbed at her main course, hit a pea and it rolled off the plate onto Geoffrey’s lap. He didn’t notice. It seemed he was trying to attract the attention of a waiter because the wine had run out.
    ‘Almost. Aren’t we, Em?’ Chris answered. As if to emphasis his point, he draped an arm around her shoulders and very nearly pulled her off the chair in his attempt at a boa constrictor style hug.
    ‘Almost? You are…how you say … engaged?’ Guy inquired further.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Yes.’
    Emma looked at Chris and he looked back at her. She wanted the gong to sound to announce the end of this nightmare