Calm down. The soup looked fine. The salad was almost ready. The duck breasts were washed and seasoned. Rosie turned the heat down again under the stew and put the lid back on. But why
wasn’t Stephen back? He hadn’t even started the crumble. She had wanted him to be part of it, but really she should have just made the dessert she wanted herself.
Rosie took out a box of crackers and began arranging them on a plate, a dollop of black tapenade on each. It wasn’t part of the menu plan, but she found the repetitive motion soothing.
After two dozen crackers, she promised herself, she would start on the crumble.
‘Right then,’ Stephen said as he came back into the kitchen. ‘What have I got to do?’
‘Just make the crumble. I’ve left all the ingredients out.’ Rosie waved the olive-covered knife at the end of the worktop, where pears, blackcurrants, butter, flour and sugar
were laid out in the order specified by Nigel Slater.
‘OK, then.’ Stephen headed towards them.
Rosie noticed that he was holding a large glass of wine. She thought of saying something as he set it down next to the fruit, but he seemed to have cheered up and, with the guests about to
arrive, there wasn’t time for an argument. He should really have offered her a drink, but he would just say that she never wanted one when she was cooking. She didn’t, but that
wasn’t the point, was it?
Instead, she asked: ‘Is Jonathan asleep?’
‘He was,’ Stephen replied. ‘I’m sure he’ll doze off again.’
‘Oh Stephen . . .’
‘Look, I didn’t mean to wake him, but once he was up, well . . . you know. I don’t usually see him at all during the week.’
Rosie listened for a moment, but couldn’t hear crying. ‘Never mind. You seem a bit more cheerful anyway. Was work OK?’
Stephen grunted. Rosie watched his brow furrow down the middle as he chopped the pears in half. He hadn’t bothered to peel them. Was it too late to say anything? Probably. He filleted the
seedy cores and threw the fruits, roughly quartered, into a deep dish.
‘Thank you for making the crumble,’ Rosie said. ‘You always do it so well. I’m sure everyone will love it.’
‘Who’s actually coming tonight?’
‘Sarah and Marcus.’
‘Oh God.’
‘Sarah’s one of my oldest friends . . .’
‘There’s nothing wrong with Sarah.’ Stephen chopped two more pears in quick succession.
‘Marcus isn’t that bad.’
‘Yes he is. He’s a cock.’ Stephen chopped the next pear with particular force.
‘Well . . . Anyway there’s Barbara and Justin. She’s a friend of Sarah’s, a potter, very artistic. I don’t know much about him.’
‘Jesus, is there anyone I actually know and like coming to this thing?’
‘Yes – Matt.’
‘Oh – Matt.’
Rosie looked carefully at Stephen’s profile, but couldn’t gauge his reaction.
‘I thought you’d want to have Matt here. He’s your friend.’
‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’
‘Darling, I don’t know why you’re being weird about it.’
‘I’m not being weird about it.’
Rosie had run out of things to do and her fingers were twitching uselessly.
‘I thought you’d like to have one of your friends here.’
‘But you didn’t think of asking me?’
‘You’ve been so busy recently . . . and when we talked about doing this, you said that was fine as long as I arranged it all.’
‘I didn’t know that meant you’d be speaking to Matt, did I?’
‘Darling, please don’t make such a big deal out of it.’
‘I’m not making a big deal out of it.’
Stephen turned away to find the mixing bowl, rolling up his shirtsleeves very deliberately. Rosie noticed the cuffs were beginning to fray. She frowned to think he was going to the office like
that. Was that one of the ones she’d bought for him last Christmas? No point saying anything now. She made a mental note to buy him another couple of shirts next time she was in M&S.
‘Look, perhaps I should have asked Mike and Tony instead,’ Rosie said. ‘I was thinking of it. But then I thought there would be too many men. Is that homophobic? Oh God, it
might be. But I don’t think so; it’s just about balance, isn’t it?’
Stephen asked: ‘Is Matt bringing a girlfriend, then?’
‘No, that’s the other thing. I’ve asked Charlotte from work.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘Yes, Charlotte – she’s the accountant. I mean, you haven’t met, but I know I’ve mentioned her to you. I think she and Matt might get on really well. Don’t
you think?’
‘I’ve never met her.’
‘No. But I think they’re similar types.’
‘So now you’re trying to set Matt up as well.’
‘No . . . not exactly . . . I just thought they’d get on.’
‘Why do you care about Matt’s love life?’
‘I don’t . . . I mean . . . I think you’re reading too much into it.’
‘Am I?’
‘Stephen, for God’s sake . . .’
‘Can you turn on the taps, please?’
He had finished kneading the flour, butter and sugar, and held his white-dusted hands in front of him piously, like holy relics. Rosie obeyed, mixing the water to the right temperature. Stephen
washed his hands, dried them, and scattered the crumble mix over the pears.
‘Thank you,’ Rosie said. ‘Would you mind laying the table now?’
Stephen picked up his wine and left the kitchen without replying.
‘I’m sorry, madam, you’ll need to complete Approved Application Request No. 3742b.’
‘But you won’t send me the damn form!’ Barbara shouted into the telephone.
‘I’m sorry, madam . . .’
‘How do I get it?’
‘You will need to send a Certificate of Provisional Approval of Extension of Leave to Remain.’
‘And how do I get that?’ Barbara’s knuckles were white from clenching the phone. Justin wanted to reach out across the sofa and touch her, try to calm her down.
‘You need to apply for that from the Home Office, sending them Supplementary Information.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Such as a job offer or marriage visa.’
‘I don’t have those!’
‘I’m sorry, madam.’
Justin did reach out now. Barbara flicked his hand away.
‘There must be something else,’ she said.
‘You can complete Approved Application Request No. 3742b.’
‘Jesus!’ Barbara shouted even louder.
The woman’s voice on the end of the line was muffled, but Justin could still make out her words and tone of dogged neutrality. He felt sorry for her, really. It wasn’t her fault,
after all. She didn’t make the rules. She just had to sit there all day and listen to people like Barbara shout at her. Probably didn’t get much more than the minimum wage for it
either. Perhaps Barbara should tone it down a bit.
‘But don’t you realize how stupid that is?’
‘I’m sorry, madam. I’m just explaining the rules.’
‘You’re making me really fucking mad here, you know that?’
‘I’m sorry, madam, but if you continue to swear at me I will have to terminate the call.’
Justin reached out his hand again, but looked at Barbara’s face and thought better of touching her.
‘I’m not swearing at you, I’m . . . I ’m . . . All right, I’m sorry.’ Barbara closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Justin felt proud of her.
‘OK, to get the extension of leave to remain, never mind the approval form, what else do I need?’
‘First, you will need to complete a Financial Independence Declaration, including three recent bank statements proving you have funds beyond the required minimum.’
‘How much is that?’
‘Eight hundred pounds, madam.’
‘All right. Anything else?’
‘There is an application fee.’
‘And how much is that?’
‘Eight hundred pounds, madam.’
Barbara threw the phone across the room. Justin got up from the sofa and went to pick it up. He made sure it wasn’t broken before giving Barbara a comforting pat on the arm. She tensed but
didn’t pull away.
‘Don’t get upset, honey,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t her fault.’
‘Don’t get upset? I am upset! Your stupid fucking country and its stupid fucking bureaucracy!’
‘It’s the system. It’s all based on fear. There are some campaign groups fighting for a fairer way of doing things. We could join them.’
‘I don’t care about campaign groups! They’re going to kick me out.’
‘I’m sure they won’t. Just be grateful you’re not an asylum seeker.’
‘That’s really comforting, Justin. Jesus!’
Justin couldn’t see what he’d said wrong. He tried patting her arm again. She brushed him off and stood up.
‘Barbara, I’m sorry, just tell me what to do and I’ll—’
‘I think I’m going to go and lie down,’ she said, suddenly subdued.
‘All right. We can get a taxi tonight if you want.’
‘A taxi? Where?’
‘To your friend Rosie’s for dinner. Didn’t you see the menu?’
‘I can’t go to a stupid dinner tonight! I’m not in the mood.’
‘I think we really ought to. She’s doing a vegetarian thing specially.’
‘Can’t you tell her I’m not coming?’
‘She’s your friend – I’ve never met her.’
‘Jesus!’
Justin craned round on the sofa to watch Barbara stamp across the hall of their tiny flat. Maybe it was best to let her go for the time being.
‘I’ve got to send some e-mails about the Malawi project,’ he called after her. ‘I’ll come and get you after that.’
Rosie sniffed anxiously at the steam that billowed up when she took the lid off the rice. Was it fragrant? She thought not. The sweetness of the currants was just about there,
and a hint of allspice, perhaps, but overall it was more of a wet cloud than a delicate Middle-Eastern aroma.
With a wooden spoon, she fished out a couple of grains and bit them gingerly. They disintegrated at the first touch of her teeth, leaving a grainy paste smeared on her tongue. Rosie felt the
edge of coming panic. Massively overdone. Massively.
It’s OK, she told herself quickly. It’s only rice. She drained the pot thoroughly and flicked in a few more sultanas and wisps of dill before putting the lid back on. Maybe it would
solidify if she let it stand.
Too many dishes, that was the problem. She hadn’t kept her eye on the pilaf and now it was overcooked. The stew had been more difficult than she thought, and who knew cooking beetroot was
so complicated? Eight people was too many really, especially with the vegetarians . . . She should finish the salad now, before they came.
Wait, though – how was the stew doing? It sounded all right. Rumbling with slow, deep bubbles. When she stirred it, the stew moved reluctantly, the glistening chunks of aubergine moving
across the pot like dark icebergs through an oily sea. Much better.
But when she tasted it, the tang wasn’t as intense as she’d hoped. Not bad or anything, just . . . Where was the evidence of the hours of chopping, and frying, and stirring? What was
the point if the effort wasn’t, well, not on display exactly, but definitely implied? Rosie scraped out what was left of the pine honey and stirred it in. That should help.
It was almost twenty-five past seven now, and the table still wasn’t laid. What was Stephen doing? She wanted to call out to him, but she’d have to shout to be heard upstairs and
then he’d ask why she was screaming at him, and they’d probably have to argue about that until the guests arrived, and the table still wouldn’t be laid. Thank God Magdalena had
come that afternoon and the house was tidy.
As she went back to the bowl of lentils Rosie thought fondly of her new coffee table. Smooth, dust free, and with nothing on it yet but a vase of red tulips. She would go out and look at it in a
minute.
But first she had to stir the non-yuzu juice into the lentil and beetroot salad. She had bought two limes just in case. Not that she expected Stephen to forget, but . . . just in case. It was a
rare ingredient. She’d never tasted it, but the recipe said it was somewhere between lime and mandarin, so she squeezed a clementine over the lentils as well before stirring the salad
again.
It didn’t taste too bad, actually, but all the same it was definitely lime and orange. She’d been hoping for an unidentifiable zing, and imagined herself saying casually,
‘That? Oh, it’s just a splash of yuzu juice . . . Don’t you know it?’
With the gleaming purple chunks of beetroot poking out of the dark-green lentils, it certainly looked good. Lemon juice and maple syrup next. There was a lot of sugar in this meal, wasn’t
there? Oh well, she didn’t have to list her ingredients; they’d never know. Rosie stirred them all together until the salad looked suitably artless.
Damn. She had forgotten the onion. There was definitely a red onion around somewhere. It wasn’t in the fruit bowl, or in the veg tray. Perhaps in one of the cupboards? There were a few
onion-skin flakes by one of the big pots, but they were old and desiccated. Why were they still there? She would have to have a word with Magdalena. Rosie slammed the door on them and quickly
pulled open all the drawers along the side of the kitchen, closing each one more violently than the last as no onion was revealed.
Had she remembered to buy it? Yes, it was there on the list and she remembered picking up only one because she was sure there were already a few in the kitchen. But there weren’t. And now
she couldn’t find the one she’d bought.
Rosie breathed deeply and ran her hands through her hair, forgetting they were still covered in lemon juice. She winced, then retraced her steps from the morning: unpacking the shopping; putting
the ingredients away; trying to stuff the plastic bags in the ever-growing collection bursting out from under the sink; giving up; guiltily putting them in the bin because she didn’t want to
go out to the recycling . . .
She stared into the rubbish. Beneath a layer of beetroot skins and aubergine stalks she could see the orange glint of a Sainsbury’s bag. She looked at it for a moment. Then with her thumb
and forefinger she reached in and pinched the edge, pulling at it experimentally. She felt weight at the bottom of the bag. Slowly, she pulled the bag from under the damp vegetable peelings and
opened it, revealing a shiny red onion at the bottom.
Rosie looked at the onion for a few more seconds. It seemed fine. It had been wrapped in the plastic bag, mostly, so it was protected. There was nothing harmful in the rubbish. And no one was
watching.