The Prince and the Pizza

‘You could at least look at me while you’re dumping me!’ Jason leaned across the table in the spacious pizzeria where Sarah had suggested they eat that evening. She’d thought it would be a big and impersonal enough venue for her to tell Jason she thought they should go their separate ways after six months of dating. Now she wished she’d just called him and done the deed over the phone, or at least somewhere private. She’d hoped doing it in public might lessen the chance of him creating a drama, but the plan seemed to have failed. Jason, a would-be actor, loved a drama.

Sarah still didn’t understand how she’d let herself become involved with him. She put it down to feeling a little lonely. She worked from home so didn’t have any colleagues to chat to during the day, and all of her close friends now lived outside of London. But surely she could have done better than Jason.

Jason was right, though, she had been looking at someone else — a man sitting two tables away. He was tall and broad-shouldered, jet-black hair falling across his high forehead. He was aged around forty, a few years older than Sarah, and was possibly the most handsome man she’d ever seen. As soon as he’d walked in, she’d noticed him and taken a surprised intake of breath. When he’d drawn closer and sat at the nearby table, her surprise had intensified. The cause of this was the ring he wore on his left hand, a gold band with a large green stone.

‘What’s the fascination with him anyway?’ demanded Jason, as if the man’s stunning looks weren’t reason enough to look at him.

‘You’ll think I’m mad if I tell you.’

‘Try me. I’m fascinated to know why you’d rather look at him than me as you stick a knife in my chest.’

Always so dramatic!

‘If you really want to know, he looks exactly like a character from a book my father wrote when I was a girl. He used to read it to me every night before I went to sleep. The man sitting at that table, eating a meat feast pizza is Prince Peter of Hillenvale.’

Jason stared at her, his expression a distorted mix of shock, disdain and even a little concern.

‘You’re right, I do think you’re mad. And I’ve heard enough.’

‘Well, obviously it can’t be him. But even the ring he’s wearing is the same as the ring Prince Peter in the book wore. At least I think he wore a ring like that. It has been a long time since I heard the story.’

‘I really don’t care anymore,’ said Jason.

‘Hello again!’ The chirpy waiter who had served them for the past hour was back. ‘Can I interest you in a dessert? I’m afraid the baked cheesecake is off.’

‘So am I,’ said Jason standing. His chair screeched against the tiled floor.

‘I can recommend the tiramisu,’ said the waiter.

‘Goodbye, Sarah,’ said Jason, and Sarah almost whispered the next line with him - the waiter’s mouth twitched at one corner as he wanted to join in. ‘Have a nice life.’

And he swept from the restaurant without a backward glance.

‘Any dessert for you, Madam?’ asked the waiter.

Sarah pondered this for a moment, chancing another look in the direction of the ridiculously good-looking man. His table was empty. She felt a genuine sense of loss.

‘No thank you,’ she replied. ‘I’ll just get the bill.’

Seeing the raven-haired man had made Sarah think of her late father and how much she missed him. He’d died six years earlier and she still felt the hole he’d left. If he’d been alive, she would never have ended up with someone like Jason. She’d have called her father and talked to him first and he’d have politely told her all the reasons why Jason was not the one for her. What she really needed was a true friend like her dad had been, someone to talk to every day and never have to worry about sounding silly.

***

Sarah’s mother had sounded suspicious when she’d called to say she wanted to visit. Sarah never came to the old family house. She always suggested meeting in the West End or somewhere midway between the London Suburb where her mother now lived alone, and her flat in Islington.

Her mother was wearing a white trouser suit, silver accessories and perfume that assaulted Sarah the second the front door opened.

‘Hello, Darling,’ she greeted. She sounded like a PR consultant.

In the living room, motes of dust swirled in the sunlight, rising in a nuclear explosion of specks as Sarah sank into a forlorn armchair.

‘I really must get a cleaner,’ said her mother, settling herself on the very edge of a fake leather sofa. ‘Would you like tea?’ She raised her buttocks an inch from her seat. She seemed surprised that no-one else had offered her guest refreshments as if a butler had missed his cue and she was filling in.

‘I’m okay thanks,’ replied Sarah. ‘How have you been?’

‘Me? I’m fine.’ Her mother lowered herself carefully back onto the sofa, long, thin-fingered hands splayed either side of her curvaceous hips, like bumble-bee wings. ‘Busy, as always.’

Sarah was never sure what it was she was always busy with.

‘How about you, darling — are you working?’

‘Still writing. I’m working on a stage play.’

‘But no actual job yet?’

‘That is my job, Mum.’

‘That’s what your father used to say. Tapping away all day. Used to drive me mad.’

‘I did actually get a book published, Mum. I earned quite a lot of money.’

‘And wasted it all.’

Sarah heaved herself out of the chair. ‘You said it was okay if I looked for dad’s old manuscript – the children’s novel he used to read to me?’

Her mother shrugged. ‘I didn’t actually throw any of his junk away. Most of it went in the loft. But if you go up there, make sure you don’t traipse loads of dirt down with you.’

***

She’d found her father’s old manuscripts in a large plastic crate like a giant lunchbox. The lid of the container was covered in dirt and soft grey feathers.

The children’s book had been buried deep in the container; the title page frayed around the edges, the ink of the title itself – The Enchanted Forest – faded, but still legible.

As she read the opening pages on the train home, she pictured her father’s earnest face and heard his voice flitting between characters.

She discovered the first description of Prince Peter, as he rode his white stallion towards the royal palace. She had remembered him correctly — jet black hair, strikingly handsome features and, most interestingly, the ring with the green stone. The ring had been a present from his mentor, the great magician Ragalef, and the stone had magical properties, yet to be revealed in the story.

She began to feel silly now. Apart from the ring, the description of Peter could have described any number of men. He was a classic romantic hero, as described in thousands of fairy tales and novels. Still, she couldn’t help but think about the man in the restaurant.

***

Despite her rational side telling her she was being ridiculous, Sarah found herself back in the pizzeria the following afternoon, her gaze frequently flitting towards the door in the hope her handsome prince would return.

‘You’re back!’ The same overly familiar waiter was standing by the table.

‘Yes. The pizza is very good.’

The waiter looked unconvinced.

Sarah decided to throw caution to the wind. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course, Madam.’ The waiter sat in the chair opposite Sarah, staring at her expectantly.

‘When I was here the other day, there was a man sitting just over there.’ She indicated the relevant table. “Very handsome, black hair…’

‘You mean James?’

‘Is that his name?’

The waiter nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes. He is a regular. He has an antiques shop just around the corner from here. He often comes in on his own with a book. Very nice man.’

‘I think I may know him,’ said Sarah, not wanting the waiter to think she was some kind of stalker. ‘Where did you say the shop was?’

***

Sarah paused outside the shop, Aladdin’s Cave Antiques. Through the glass in the door she could make out James sitting behind the counter. There was no harm in going in and pretending to be interested in one of the items for sale, see if she felt anything.

What did she actually think was happening here? That Prince Peter had somehow stepped out of a book and bought a shop in Islington? Or that her father was trying to send her a message, that this was the man for her?

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. A bell rang to announce her arrival and James — Prince Peter, as she still thought of him — looked up and smiled.

Sarah smiled back and pretended to peruse some of the pieces displayed around the shop.

Speak to him then! Why did you bother coming here if you’re not going to speak to him!

“Darling, I’m heading over to Camden to see Dave.’

Another man, also handsome but nowhere near as striking as James, emerged from a room behind the counter. He planted a kiss on James’s cheek as he headed towards the door.

Sarah couldn’t hide her disappointment. There was no doubt that James and this other man were a couple. Everything about their body language made it obvious.

She signed and leaned against a nearby pillar.

‘Are you okay?’ asked James coming out from behind the counter and hurrying over to her.

‘Oh yes, I’m fine. I’ve just been a total idiot.’ Sarah couldn’t believe she was being so honest, but something about James made her want to open up to him.

‘Really?’ he gave her a quizzical look. ‘Do you want to sit down for a minute?’

Sarah allowed herself to be led around the counter, where she saw there were two chairs.

‘Have a seat,’ said James, waiting for her to take a chair before sitting himself.

‘So, what have you done that’s so stupid? Unless you’d rather not talk about it.’

‘You’ll think I’m mad,’ said Sarah.

***

‘How fascinating!’ James had listened intently as Sarah had disclosed the reason for her being in his shop. She’d expected him to politely usher her out onto the pavement once she’d finished, but instead he offered her a coffee.

‘So, you don’t think I’m losing the plot?’

‘Well, maybe a little, but I’m very excited to be in a book. Who’d have thought my great aunt Alice’s old engagement ring would have caused so much excitement.’ He played with the large green stone as he spoke. ‘I had to get the size altered, obviously.’

‘The ring was the thing that really swung it for me,’ said Sarah.

‘Do you have the manuscript?’ asked James, switching on a kettle set on a shelf just inside a small room behind the counter.

‘Yes, but it's at my flat?’

‘Oh, go and get it,’ enthused James. ‘Barry will be gone for hours, and no-one ever comes in here on a Monday afternoon. And let’s forget the coffee, I’ll open a bottle of wine. I don’t know anyone around here — I moved into the flat upstairs with Barry a couple of months ago. I was living in Windsor before that.’

Sarah stood, smiling. “Okay, if you’re sure.’

‘Definitely. I can’t wait to read about myself. Although I’m sorry not to be your Prince Peter. I must be such a disappointment to you.’

Sarah’s smile turned into a full-on grin. ‘You’re definitely not that.’

Sarah was still smiling as she reached her flat, and thinking that after all these years, her father was still looking after her.