Frankie was on edge. Even though she was on a potent combination of Dexedrine, port, and a little bit of puff, she couldn't help the nervousness that bubbled up in the back of her throat. Fortunately the concoction took the edge off, soothed her nerves and was the only reason she was able to sit in the diner and not leap towards the nearest exit.
They had agreed to meet at Johnny's, her and Donny. It was an American-style diner they had both been fond of. The best part was that there were generally enough people around her that she felt safe (not that he was any real physical threat or anything but she had to be sure) but not too many that she feared their conversation would be eavesdropped. She didn't need anyone sticking their nose into her business, but more importantly, she didn't need Fred finding out.
She hadn't told him about this. Of course she fucking hadn't. She wouldn't hear the end of it if she did—not that Fred would have let her come in the first place. Which was probably her first clue telling her she shouldn't have come regardless. Fred always looked out for her, he always made decisions on what was best for her and Junior, even when his own selfishness came into play. He was always thinking about her, and so knowing he wouldn't approve, she also knew this was a bad decision.
But perhaps it was because of the guilt of all those years she'd mistreated Donny that she actually had rung him, and agreed to meet with him. But they were just going to talk, that's all. She didn't need any complications. They were going to catch up, have themselves a hot meal, and go their separate ways. And if she was lucky, he wouldn't try to contact her or Junior any more.
She'd never been very lucky.
She checked her cubic zirconia-encrusted watch and noted the time—she was still a bit early. While Frankie was known for being fashionably late, she made certain to get there with a good amount of time ahead of her so she had enough time to calm her nerves and let the pills kick in. She needed to be composed for Donny, she needed to look good. She didn't want to dress sexy though, that was out of the question. She'd pulled her hair back, wore tasteful but expensive jewellery (she always knew how to spend on herself), and tried to go for something modest to wear. Unfortunately, she was forced to spend much of the evening trying to cover her ample cleavage, which always seemed to spill out no matter what she did. Normally, this was a good thing. Not today. Not for Donny.
Each chime on the door signalling the arrival of a new guest startled her, and she almost considered doubling up on the pills to keep herself sated. Fortunately, the wait was over soon enough as Donny O'Reilly strode into the diner like he owned the place.
He had always had this great big air about him, something that drew in women of all sorts, Frankie included. She was reminded of when they'd first met at the disco as teenagers. He had the sort of smile that drew you in, a real Hollywood smile, that's what she called it. The way he talked, walked, even the way he looked, all commanded attention, like a celebrity. It was a trait he shared with Freddie, did Donny, which she supposed was why she'd been so infatuated with him in the beginning.
He still looked good, even then—well-dressed, like he had money, with that black Irish hair of his slicked-back, clean-shaven and all. She suddenly felt self-conscious, looking down at her tacky dress and clunky gold jewellery, felt the way the drugs coursed through her system and made everything feel wavy and disorganised. She felt completely inadequate right then, could feel the cheapness of her make-up on her face and her self esteem slowly sinking into the pit of her stomach.
They met gazes, and immediately Donny strode over to her, grinning for England. 'Well, Frankie Evans, look at you.'
'Yeah,' she said, weaker than she wanted to sound, before suddenly clearing her throat and assuming that boldness she was known for. 'It's nice to see you again, Donny.'
It was a bold-faced lie. It wasn't nice to see him, but she wanted to get this over with. So she'd swallow her knob and deal with it, and that was the end of it.
Smiling as convincingly as she could, she sat back down in the plush red booth and watched as Donny assumed a spot across from her. Before either of them could make any sort of small talk, the waitress, dressed in mock-50s fashion, approached them with a professional smile that was about as genuine as Franks'.
'Drinks?'
'You don't have any of the hard stuff, do you?' asked Frankie with feigned humour. The waitress was a shrewd woman though, she caught on quickly and could see in Frankie's eyes that the poor woman needed it.
'Lager is the best I can do, love.'
'Then I'll take a pint of whatever you've got.'
'Bottle OK?'
'Sure, whatever.'
Donny smiled awkwardly at the exchange and offered confidently and politely to the red-headed waitress, 'The same for me.'
Once the woman had left, the two of them were left to their own devices and watched one another awkwardly. Frankie was looking at him like he'd just told her he was from planet Mars. Everything about him was so different; he'd cleaned up, spoke politely and all. There was a certain roughness to him that had always been there and that was impossible to hide—hell, they all came from the same estate, they were from the same people—but it seemed like he had come across a good amount of money. The one thing she knew, however, is that it wasn't fucking legitimate.
'You've done well for yourself,' she started, breaking the silence.
Donny was proud of himself and was eager to respond. 'That I have. But by the look of it, so have you girl. Fuck me, it's like looking at royalty.'
Frankie almost rolled her eyes. She didn't need him getting so familiar. That wasn't what this was about. Grabbing her menu, she flipped it open and said casually, 'Still scheming, then?'
Donny always had little plots and schemes, as long as she'd known him. He was always up to something, and every job was the next big one, the next thing to get them in the green. But every "big one" failed just like all the rest behind it and they mostly ended up wasting what little money they had on these stupid enterprises. It had been one source of frustration for them when they'd actually been together, something they fought about frequently, and yet another reason for Franks to compare him to her brother. Freddie was a good businessman. Donny was not. End of.
'Well,' he said, his embarrassment laced with offence as he peeled open his own menu in order to distract himself. 'I wouldn't call it scheming.'
Frankie had the natural instinct to fight in her—she was an Evans after all—and so she said nastily, 'What would you call it then, Donald?'
'Being entrepreneurial,' he responded smartly, to which she raised her brows in mock-impression without passing him so much as a spare glance.
'Big word for a little man, innit.'
The tension was cut by the return of the waitress with their perspiring green glass bottles of lager, each of which the two of them grabbed and quickly took pulls from. Frankie was already starting to feel the effects settling in, mixing with the booze, pills, and puff she'd had earlier, but it wasn't a good high. She was feeling unsettled and woozy.
'Have you two decided on what you're having tonight?' asked the red-head.
Frankie realised she hadn't even looked at the menu and her mouth quickly flew agape, but Donny spoke up before she could and so she let it hang open.
'I'll have the burger with the works, she'll have a burger too, no cheese, no onion, and a side of mayo for her chips. Oh, and a cherry milkshake for her; chocolate for meself.'
The waitress took the menus with a perky smile, and Franks pressed her lips together into a firm line, annoyed that she was impressed with him. Donny O'Reilly, that Irish sleaze.
'Well, you remembered,' she admitted tautly in a statement, reluctant to give him the praise she knew he was expecting. But Donny's expression was anything but gloating; instead, there was something poignant in his gaze.
'Of course I do,' he said, softly. 'I remember everytin' about ya.'
A moment of silence passed between them, the tension dissipating, and Frankie watched her husband, and he still was her husband, a moment before returning her attention to her lager.
Donny looked down at the table and then scoffed, seeming to want to say something, but holding back. Much to her surprise, she wasn't annoyed, and instead asked genuinely: 'What?'
'Nothing,' he said softly, before running a hand over his face. 'I just feel like a bit of a mug thinking you would have worn it.'
Frankie looked at him with furrowed brows. 'Worn what?' She followed his eyes, then, as he glanced down at her hand, and she realised he meant her wedding ring.
Suddenly, she felt a certain sickness wash over her, the feeling she got before coming down with the flu. Pushing forward her lager, she opened her mouth as if to say something, though the words paused on her tongue before actually slipping out.
'Donny... This isn't... Don't put that on me, this isn't what this is. I don't know what you think, but I'm not getting back together with you.'
'No, no, I...'
Frankie raised her hand. 'Listen to me. We broke it off, what, thirteen-and-a-half years ago now? Do you really think just because it isn't the Catholic way to get divorced that means I wanna get back together with you? Because you are fucking mistaken, Donny O'Reilly. Not after how that ended, I don't want nowt to do with you. Do you understand me?'
Donny was silent, and so she went on tensely, '...Now, do you have something to talk to me about, because I didn't bring you out here for any of that old fanny.'
This seemed to confuse the man, and his brows knitted. 'Franks, I was perfectly content living out the rest of me feckin' life without drudging up this horse's shit. I only come down here because your mum rung me, said you wanted to talk. Said it was important.'
Frankie's mouth suddenly went dry at that piece of knowledge. Of course Donny hadn't come down here for nothing, but it wasn't because he was scheming again—it was because of her own fucking mother! The embarrassment slapped her right in the face and she felt a lump form in the back of her throat. She'd been made the fool out of, and her mum was the culprit.
'I have to go,' she said suddenly, standing. Donny stood too, looking from her to a few of the patrons that were now hiding their stares, but curious at the scene the couple was causing.
'Franks, what do you mean, you have to go? Sit down, woman, and just enjoy our supper, eh?'
Frankie couldn't hear it. Raising a hand to him, she dismissed him and began stumbling off in her heels. But suddenly, and without warning, anger flashed through her system as it often did and she whipped around to face her husband, jabbing an acrylic nail in his direction. 'And just so you know, I sold the bloody ring. And I hardly got fifty quid for the poxy thing!'
She knew it was pointless then, but at least she'd felt like she'd had the last word. The satisfaction was only temporary, however, as she stormed out of the diner, her fists clenched at her sides so fiercely her knuckles were blanching. She was seeing red, like an angry bull, and her mum was the one raising the flag and stabbing her in the fucking back.