This fucking soup, Kate thinks.
Jake, satisfied that Marisa’s boots have been dealt with, gives Kate a peck on the lips and ushers her towards the table. It is as though Jake is parenting them both, absent-mindedly treating them like toddlers he must get to sit down on time. She takes her usual seat, which is the only one that doesn’t match the rest of the furniture – it is an old dining chair, the seat padded with cracked leather, whereas all the others are stripped pine. When Annabelle first allotted Kate the chair, she made a big fuss of how it was ‘the throne’ and reserved for ‘very special guests’. If that were actually true, Kate thinks now, then surely it should be given to Marisa?
‘Are we not waiting for Dad?’ Jake asks.
Annabelle rolls her eyes.
‘He was meant to be back half an hour ago and I’m not waiting any longer. I can heat some up when he finally makes an appearance.’
‘This smells so good, Annabelle,’ Marisa says. Her voice is softer than Kate remembers it, more whispering. She turns to Jake. ‘How was the drive?’
It’s a meaningless question, one of those politely offered prompts in conversation that no one really cares to answer.
‘Fine, fine. Uneventful.’ He smiles at her.
‘Good,’ she says, taking a slice of bread and buttering it slowly. ‘And how is work, Kate?’
‘Work? Um. Yeah. Good.’
‘Good.’
Annabelle is still rushing around the kitchen asking if they have everything they need and fetching the salt and pepper and wondering if anyone wants a glass of wine. No one does. They wait for her to sit and, when she does so, she exhales loudly to show this has been an extraordinary imposition on her time but she’s not one to complain. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand.
‘Start, start,’ Annabelle says, flapping her hands.
Marisa seems distant, her gaze vague. Kate imagines it must be the drugs giving her this air of studied tranquility. It is as though she is sitting on the other side of a perspex screen and cannot be reached. Again and again Kate tries to engage her in conversation. Is she feeling tired? How is her appetite? Can she feel the baby kicking? Has she been watching any TV? Is she sleeping well? Marisa smiles and gives monosyllabic answers, inviting no further discussion.
‘Goodness, Kate,’ Annabelle says, her spoon hovering. ‘So many questions! Let Marisa eat her lunch before it gets cold.’
Kate, stung, pushes her bowl away. She has eaten half of it. The soup, after all the attention paid to it, tasted like stale dishwater. She cannot stand up to Annabelle without creating a scene, and she can’t push Marisa further without being accused of ‘unsettling’ her and being banned from visits for weeks. She glares at Jake, wanting him to step in and say something, but he doesn’t.
‘Marisa’s been doing some painting, haven’t you, Marisa?’ Annabelle says.
Marisa’s face lights up.
‘Yeah, I’ve been loving it.’ She nods her head gratefully at Annabelle. ‘It’s so nice to be doing something creative again without it being a work commission, you know?’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Kate says. ‘What kind of thing?’
‘Still lifes of flowers, mostly.’
‘Is it still lifes or still lives?’ Jake asks. ‘I’ve always wondered.’
Marisa laughs, as animated as she has been since she arrived.
‘That’s so funny,’ she says, eyes twinkling. ‘I don’t know. But, honestly, they’re nothing special. Just getting my hand in again.’
‘Yes, I’m sure the work commissions are piling up,’ Kate says.
‘Nonsense,’ Annabelle pipes up, ignoring the fact that Kate has spoken. ‘They’re gorgeous.’ To Jake she adds, ‘I’m going to get one framed and hang it in the hallway. It’ll look perfect there. Just above the umbrella stand.’
‘You mustn’t feel obliged to hang my art in your house, Annabelle!’ Marisa says. ‘You’ve been so generous already.’
At this point, Annabelle reaches across the table and pats Marisa’s arm. Kate, disbelieving, has to double-check whether she’s seeing things but no, there is Annabelle’s hand, the semi-arthritic fingers sporting familiar thick gold and jewelled rings, resting on top of Marisa’s sleeve. Marisa pats Annabelle’s hand with her own.
‘I want your picture on our wall because I happen to think it’s fantastic – no other reason,’ Annabelle says.
‘I’d love to see it,’ Jake says finally. ‘We both would.’
