Page 41 of The Happiness Blueprint
“Italian, from the Puglia region, which is less known for their vineyards than other areas. You should try to visit sometime. The landscape is something else.”
“Hmm, interesting.”
“Did you notice my choice of water?” he asks. I hadn’t. Other than that he asked for sparkling. I compliantly look at the green San Pellegrino bottle.
“Water is a lot like wine, actually. It has to be matched to the food. There is so much to learn—the level of sodium, the intensity of the fizz. San Pellegrino is made in Bergamo and has a salt content that should go well with both meat and fish. Anything like a pasta or risotto and I would opt for less salt—say, a Perrier.” Gosh. I don’t tell him that the only water tasting I do is of the chlorine levels of tap water. The sharper tang of Soho taps would go well with, well,nothing.
“How’s life in London? What do you do in your spare time?” Tom asks next, as if he’s following up on my CV.
“Sit. Sleep. Talk to Google a lot. Find comfort in ’90s rap and in hot drinks of any sort. Cake. That about covers it,” I say, and Tom laughs as if I’ve told a funny joke. I smile. I am going for a frequency of my earrings dangling every twenty seconds as this is a veryinformalsetting. My cheeks are already slightly sore.
The menus arrive. I have already downloaded it as a pdf from the restaurant’s website and made my choice but pretend to be eyeing my options as that is what people do in a restaurant with a menu in hand. I abstain from ordering spaghetti, because I’m a lady, and go for the creamy truffle penne. Tom chooses a steak, which he asks for well-done. The waiter must struggle with hearing as he says “Excuse me?” To which Tom has to repeat his preference. Food says a lot about us. I look at Tom. A well-done steak would equal comfortable character not prone to risk-taking or biting into a challenge. He wriggles on his chair under my gaze, and I take my eyes off him, sparing him my intensity.
“So what’s new with you? Did you finish your law degree?” I say.
“Yes. Great fun that was. I did it here in Lund. It’s one of the best schools in the country as I’m sure you know. It was crazy sometimes. The students are so close, and the partying insane. There was this one time—”
“At band camp.” Tom looks at me sternly, ’90s movie references clearly not his cup of tea. I want to be people’s cup of tea desperately. I stay quiet and sip my wine.
“Well, uh... How about you? You moved to London to do that architecture degree. Did it work out?” he asks, expecting it to not have. He is right. I confirm his suspicions.
“No.”
“I guess not everyone is cut out for higher education. Building work is so important. Always a demand. These are the jobs society can’t do without. Builders, drivers, factory workers, cleaners. Money or prestige isn’t everything. Well done to you.”
I feel a sense of embarrassment now but am not able to identify the exact source of it. Rudeness masked as a compliment is the worst kind. I simply smile.
But there’s a backstory here. I got accepted to UCL to study architecture, the highest-ranking course in the UK, probably Europe, possibly the world? Saga was already in London, a year into studying history. Now I had a reason to move too.
“God, I wished someone had told me that in England the first year doesn’t even count! All this studying for nothing when I could have partied like the rest of the students. That’ll teach me to always read the small print,” Saga had moaned. She had found the perfect flat for us, a studio on Dalston Road, East London. We had a queen-size bed, and that was enough.
“You’re here another three weeks. I’m sure you will have plenty of time to pack, darling,” Mum told me as rows of neatly folded clothing piles were laid out across my bedroom floor after the space on drawers and chairs had run out.
Then I had received an email which caused unidentifiable feelings in my tummy.
Dear Klara Nilsson, the result of your IELTS English-language proficiency test, at which you must receive a total score of 7.00 or above as previously stated, is still outstanding. Please send it to us at your earliest convenience so that the offer you currently hold will not be withdrawn.
Kind regards,
The Admissions Team
This was still not a problem. I had attempted the test once and received a mean average of 5.6. “Your English is amazing, don’t worry!” Saga had encouraged me. “You must have made some silly mistake, K,” Dad had said. Mum had given me a hug and told me to rebook it.
After I failed my second test, UCL’s emails requesting the IELTS 7.00 started to feel like those from an aggressive debt collector. When August came around, the tone was one of urgency, and a threat of removal from the course was made.
They all came through my inbox, and I never responded.
“There is always next year,” Dad said. Mum hugged me a lot. Saga was determined that I still move to London. I could practice my English and apply the following year, and if I didn’t turn up, she would be required to flat-and bed-share with a complete stranger off Gumtree. I wanted my spot in Saga’s queen-size bed very badly, to be close to her, like when we were children before my diabetes.
At least I still had my boyfriend. I arranged to meet Tom for coffee after his summer job finished. He was sorting out the files at his dad’s firm, and it seemed to take a considerable amount of his energy as he had bailed most nights we had arranged to meet, leading to a total of only two dates that month, August.
I wore a graphic T-shirt, jeans and fun sneakers following the advice of Google’s top article choice, “15 Coffee Date Outfits to Try This Weekend.” He brushed his lips against mine, but they didn’t pause.
“Let’s get drinks.”
“Yes, let’s,” I said and we stood alongside each other in the queue. I reached for his hand. It was hard to find.
“You go get a table and I’ll come over. Same as always, Klara?”
