by Chris Smyth
‘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 a
ll 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.
She cut up the onion quickly, and once she had scattered the slices into the salad and scraped the peel into the bin, covering up the plastic bag, the tension in her shoulders subsided.
With a teaspoon she tasted the salad. Good, but . . . well, it was mainly lentil, wasn’t it? Maybe a bit more maple syrup? She measured out two overflowing teaspoons and stirred them in.
Oh dear, now it was a bit sweet. Was there any lemon left? She squeezed what was left of it over the salad, picking out the pips by hand. Hmm, that was now a bit sharp. More syrup?
Rosie looked at the time. They were late, but so was she. Thank God she’d already got changed. As long as her hair had survived the lemon . . .
The Gruyère loaf that stood cooling on the side looked dense and misshapen. Rosie cut it into thick, irregular slices to serve with drinks. The chunks fell apart as she laid them out, even though she’d been so careful about the timing. Bloody thing. Why hadn’t she just got some nuts instead?
After hanging up her apron, Rosie set out the loaf alongside the crackers on the coffee table. The quiet tidiness of the living room immediately soothed her. Every time she looked at her Noguchi coffee table and Accent Wall with its fresh wallpaper, she felt a sense of contented calm.
It had taken two months of disruptive painting and dec orating work, twice as long as they’d said it would, but Rosie felt that room was worth it. She had been looking forward to having guests in here ever since it had been finished. Not that she wanted to show off, exactly, but she was certain that they’d be impressed.
She crossed the hall to the dining room. The table still wasn’t laid, but soon it would be beautifully arranged with plates designed by a younger member of the Conran family and cutlery made by a German modernist. Perhaps the evening would be a success.
Rosie started sharply at the firm ring of the doorbell. The tone was too insistent, she thought; it always made her jump. Perhaps she should try to find something softer. But never mind that now. She smoothed down the front of her dress and went to answer the door.
Two
Marcus watched Sarah and Rosie embrace warmly before saying hello to Rosie himself and engaging in a much more awkward kiss.
‘Sorry if we’re a bit late,’ Sarah said.
‘No, not at all. You’re the first ones here, actually.’
‘Oh I’m sorry . . .’
‘No, no, I was just starting to wonder where everyone was.’
Marcus tried to identify the jumble of smells coming from the kitchen as Rosie led them down the hall, but couldn’t get much beyond a vague, sweet spiciness. He did not think the aroma was intimidating.
‘Smells lovely,’ Sarah said.
‘Thank you. I hope you’ll like it. I’m just putting the last few things together. Let me get you something to drink.’
‘Oh, yes – we brought some wine,’ Sarah said, scrabbling around in her handbag. Marcus couldn’t understand how she carried it around with her like that, with all that useless stuff in it. She could never find anything, even a bottle of wine, for God’s sake.
Rosie took it without looking at the label.
‘Well, here it is,’ she said as they paused in the doorway of the living room. ‘Our sitting room is finally finished. What do you think?’
‘Oh it’s lovely,’ Sarah said, before stepping in.
Marcus experienced a moment of uncertainty when he saw the sofa, a sleek understated design that he didn’t recognize or dislike. He had not previously suspected Rosie of having good taste, and the adjustment was disconcerting.
But then he entered the room fully and saw the expanse of patterned paper on the opposite wall. She probably got the idea from a TV makeover show, he thought, and the idea relaxed him. The paper was beautifully made and obviously expensive, but the coloured floral pattern, he felt, was too loud and fussy. It felt like a pub that was trying too hard to be trendy. He smiled to himself as he sat down on the sofa.
‘How gorgeous!’ Sarah was saying. ‘It really brightens the place up.’
‘We’re very pleased with it,’ Rosie said. ‘I say “we” – I’m not sure Stephen’s even noticed.’
‘Where is Stephen?’
‘He’s probably just saying goodnight to Jonathan.’
‘How is Jonathan?’
‘Wonderful. We’re sure he’ll be talking any day now.’
‘What a shame we missed him!’ Sarah sat down next to Marcus. ‘What’s this?’
Marcus had already inspected the bready nibbles lying on the coffee table – Noguchi! Did people still buy those? – and was quietly confident that it would be bland and doughy.
‘It’s Rosemary and Gruyère Loaf. Dig in. I’ll get you some drinks.’
Sarah picked at a piece of loaf while Rosie went to the kitchen.
‘Try it, Marcus, it’s very good!’ she said through a mouthful of sticky crumbs.
Marcus studied a chunk. The consistency was better than he had expected. He had put it to his nose to sniff for rosemary when Rosie returned with two small glasses.
‘I thought we’d start with some sherry. I know it’s a bit old-fashioned, but I think it goes really well with the loaf.’
‘What a good idea,’ Marcus said, surprised to find he meant it. The bread wasn’t as heavy as he had anticipated and the fresh tang of the cheese was topped off with the warmth of the rosemary. He sipped his drink and found the dryness of the sherry cut nicely through the cheesiness.
‘Very good,’ he conceded.
‘I’m so glad you like it! How’s the sherry? I’ve really got into it recently – I think it’s due for a comeback, don’t you?’
‘It’s good,’ Marcus accepted.
Rosie had not sat down. ‘Look, I know it’s rude, but do you mind if I leave you alone for a couple of minutes? I’ve just got to finish the starter and get Stephen down here.’
‘We’ve got everything we need,’ Sarah replied, sherry in one hand and loaf in the other.
Once Rosie had left the room, Marcus opened his notebook.
Sarah looked at him in horror. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What?’
‘Bullet points? Don’t you think that’s going a bit overboard? What are you writing?’
‘I’m reminding myself to mark them highly for the loaf, actually; it’s nicely done.’
‘You’ve put more than that.’
‘I’m going to have to deduct points for leaving us like this. Less than perfect hosting.’
Sarah let out a disappointed sigh.
Marcus resented her for it. What right did she have to pity him in that martyred way? He retaliated by marking Rosie down on the redecoration.
Sarah had always said he should be less judgemental about other people’s taste – but she hadn’t always been so disapproving about it. When had that started? Her thin lips were pinched tight beneath a hard frown that accentuated the creases at the corners of her mouth. She seemed to be losing her sense of fun. Even if she had always complained he was too snide, at least she used to enjoy it. What had gone wrong with her?
‘OK, I’ve finished. Happy now?’ Marcus stuffed the pad into his back pocket.
‘Just promise me you won’t get it out at the table.’
‘What, you want me to sneak off to the toilet to make notes in secret?’
‘Why do you have to do it at all?’
‘If it’s that important to you—’ Marcus began, ready for an argument. But he stopped when the metallic bark of the doorbell cut through the room.
They listened for a long time, but heard no one go to answer it.
‘Do you think we should go?’ Sarah asked.
‘I think that might come across as rude.’
They waited in silence for a few moments more, before the doorbell sounded again. This time footsteps in the hall followed and Marcus heard two male voices greet each other undemonstratively. He stood up as the living-room door opened.
‘Hello, Stephen, we haven’t seen you yet tonight.’
‘Hello, Marcus,’ Stephen said without audible enthusiasm. ‘Do you know Matt?’
Marcus looked at the tall, broad-shouldered man he had brought in. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Marcus and Sarah, this is Matt.’
‘We ’ve met,’ Matt said to Sarah.
‘God, it’s been years, hasn’t it?’
‘Yes, a long time,’ Matt said with a faint smile. Marcus smiled inwardly at his broad northern accent. Lancashire, was it?
After Stephen had got sherry for Matt and himself, he restarted the conversation abruptly. Marcus thought he sounded like he was doing a foreign language role play.
‘So, Matt, how are you?’ Stephen asked.
‘All right, thanks.’
‘How’s work?’
‘Pretty good. Quite busy.’
‘Did you get that big case you were trying for?’