The response makes me smile, and my first inclination is to replace the grin with an expression of indifference or even annoyance so no one will misinterpret it as anything more than the purely platonic thing that it is.
But then I remember no one’s around to witness the smile except the spiders lurking in the cobwebby corners of Marlow House. SoI let it stay for a moment, just until I draw a bath and lower myself into the tub, and the stress from work takes over again.
I add some suds until the bath water turns foggy and foamy, hiding my body underneath because I like it better when I don’t have to see myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Working from home on Thanksgiving, I’m greeted with a slew of messages from my parents, brothers, and Blake, all wishing me Happy Thanksgiving and hoping I’m celebrating across the pond. Though I don’t like missing people, I very much enjoybeingmissed, and I reassure them all that I’m hosting a dinner with some new friends.
Any British men in attendance??Blake wants to know.Living vicariously through you!
No,I reply truthfully.I’m striking out in that department.
As I’m dialing into a meeting, Jules barges into my flat, balancing two pumpkin pies. One is sprinkled with sugared cranberries and the other has a veritable mountain of whipped cream.
“’Appy Thanksgiving, babes,” she greets, cheerfully clanking the pies onto the kitchen counter. “’Ow do they look? I’ll be back in just a mo’ with the other nosh …” Disappearing through the door, she returns again with overflowing Tesco grocery bags and amassive frozen turkey that looks like it could feed half the British army.
“What’s all this?” I ask, trying to sound appreciative but feeling more than a little stressed out at all the commotion. “I’m having everything delivered from Ottolenghi’s—thought I mentioned that. No need for us to slave away in the kitchen and propagate societal gender norms.”
Jules has a different take on it. “But Iliketo cook,” she says, preheating the oven and dumping out no fewer than two dozen sweet potatoes from the bag. “Why should I keep from doing something I enjoy just because it fits a stereotype, hey? New-age feminism is being free to do whatever the ’ell we please, even if that’s cooking in a frilly dress.” As if to emphasize the point, she whips out a retro embroidered apron and ties it around her waist.
“Fair enough,” I say, relenting, because it’s impossible to disagree with Jules’s confidence. “But would you perhaps want to useyourkitchen as the headquarters for this progressive culinary revolution?”
“Can’t do, I’m afraid,” she says, pulling her corkscrew hair out of her face with a pink scrunchie that clashes horribly with her hair. “Nina’s cream-crackered—knackered—from the night shift this week. That’s nurse life for you, and I don’t want ter be a bother. And anyway, reckon I’ll need some help translating the American recipes. Everything’s in Fahrenheit and cups, not Celsius and scales. It’s mad.”
“Isn’t that what Google is for?” I grumble. But catching a whiff of her good mood, I relent. “Go ahead and stay—just keep out of view when I’m on my video calls.”
“Will that pig ’Arold be on any of your Zooms?” Jules asks. “I’ll walk in the background ’olding the sharpest knife so ’e knowswhat’s coming for ’is town halls—balls—if ’e gives you trouble. ’Appy days.” She cackles gleefully.
It tickles my heart, in a vengeful sort of way. If Jules only knew what really happened that night at Annabel’s, she’d be poking the knife straight through the screen, into Harold’s filler-injected face. Or making her way down to Canary Wharf to duel him in person.
As I carry on at the computer, Jules sets to work, slicing and dicing, basting and banging like she’s auditioning to play percussion in a teenage rock band. I explain the background noise away to my colleagues as construction on my street.
“You know there are only four of us coming to dinner, right?” I hiss at Jules between meetings as she tries to jam additional casserole dishes into the oven beside the gargantuan turkey. “Not four hundred.”
“Bugger off, crotchety corporate Kat. This is my first Thanksgiving, and I’m going to do it right.”
Midway through my next call, Jules shrieks loudly. Hurriedly, I mute myself and switch my video off too. “What’s wrong?” I ask springing up from my chair, expecting to see a missing finger and puddle of blood.
“It’s all to pot!” Jules laments, just about yanking her hair out of her head. “I’ve forgotten the brown sugar in the bloody sweet potatoes.”
“That’sthe big crisis? But you’ve already added three layers of marshmallows,” I point out. “I’ll go out on a limb and say they’ll be sweet enough.”
“’Ope so,” Jules says, nervously sprinkling more sugar on top of the fluffy concoction. “Gonna run these back over to cook ’em in our oven since the turkey’s ’ogging all the room.”
The next time I look up from my screen, night has fallen. Jules is in the kitchen again, this time with Nina, who is the yin to Jules’s yang. Small and svelte, with a delicate heart-shaped face and black hair that’s cropped into a pixie cut, her mellow energy balances out Jules’s rambunctious spirit. Quiet and soft-spoken, she looks genuinely delighted to let Jules be the star of the show.
“Hey, girl, can I, like, pour you some pomegranate punch?” Jules asks me in what I gather is her attempt at an American accent. She offers up a pitcher of a ruby-red drink ornamented with orange slices and mint springs “It’s an American tradition—the blog said so.”
“Not right now,” I decline, politely abstaining from pointing out that I’ve never heard of pomegranate punch on Thanksgiving. “I’ve got to update this cost efficiency model.”
“Or the world stops turning, yeah?” Jules teases. “It’s nearly ’alf six. Rory’ll be here soon, won’t ’e? And don’t tell me your wearingthat.” She eyes my sweatpants-bottom-professional-blouse combo with overt disapproval.
“It’s an American tradition,” I say dryly. “Let it rest.”
“Go get changed,” she commands. “I’ll run the control center while you’re gone, fear not.”
The idea of Jules managing my work computer is nothing short of terrifying, but Nina steps in. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t touch anything,” she promises.
