Braised chickpeas for dinner, passing comment about how she won’t be coming to the party, you don’t mind, do you darl, in case something happens next door, because Josie won’t come, can’t leave the house, as we all know, best not. And Nora nods with the chickpeas mushed in her mouth and says sure, even though Freya goes to work at the hospice every day – some nights, even, when she’s working the late shift – and Josie is just fine, whichactuallymeans Freya doesn’t want to mark her engagement, and that’s fine, too, but still Nora feels something small and sharp lodged inside her, like the grit that got stuck under her palm when she fell off her bike, once, in the driveway. Feels it, still, as she gets into her childhood bed that night, the wall still plastered with art postcards, Rothko, Kahlo and Sheila Hicks,colour is in my blood.
A dreamcatcher, in the window.
And her final thought, before she drifts off, is of knocking on the wall to see if Bren would knock back, and when she wakes for a moment she is sixteen and her first thought is to wonder if he’s awake, too, on the other side. But then she is actually awake and thirty-one years old, and Robin has messaged her, overnight. Said he’s home. Said he misses her. Said can she pick up some ginger ale, for the cocktails, on her way home?
Sure, she says. Dresses for work, checks her emails on the train.
Still no reply from Bren.
_
A week later, and she’s wearing a satin dress and embroidered waistcoat. Something she’d made at art school as a wannabe textile artist, darned with abstract shapes and large pockets. Applies eyeliner, though she rarely wears make-up, blusher not needed, when she’s naturally rosy-cheeked. Some occasions call for a little effort, though, and agreeing to marry your partner of nine years, she thinks, is one of them.
Nora has decorated the flat with fairy lights. Robin has made a playlist. They have revised the pizza order three times and she’s panic-bought more crisps and made an installation of Polaroid photographs; memories, captured, with all of the friends who have RSVP’d for tonight – a surprisingly large number – pegged onto a stretch of string in the living room, for people to take home after the party.
WEDDING CHEESE, Shay said, when Nora had mentioned the idea. This is a strong Cheddar, on the cheese scale. I’ll let you know when you reach ripe levels of Camembert.
But Nora didn’t mind. Has always been partial to a cheeseboard.
It looks marvellous, Robin says now, wrapping his hands around Nora’s waist from behind and resting his chin on her shoulder. It is an hour before the party starts and he has shaved and smells good, of oakmoss and sandalwood, the cold night air, where he’s had the bathroom window open. They straighten cushions, drape more lights, have to stop themselves eating all the olives, and then the doorbell chimes an hour early.
Who on earth, Nora says.
Probably my cousin Pete, says Robin. Never been to a party in his life.
That’s so sad, Nora says.
You’ll feel less sad when you meet him, Robin says, but when he opens the door it is Freya, laden with cotton tote bags. I’m not staying, she says. I’ve just brought some essentials, for the Bloody Marys.
The Bloody Marys? Robin says, following her into the kitchen as she rustles past him in the hallway.
You can’t have a party without Bloody Marys, she says, unpacking her home-grown tomatoes onto the kitchen side. Remember to add more Tabasco than you think, she says over her shoulder, like I showed you. Don’t skimp.
Stay for one, won’t you, Freya? Robin says, but she waves her hands and says she has to get back, she’s making a beetroot stew, said she’d have Josie over, for tea. She sends her love, and some shortbread, by the way; Robin says score.
Her mother has high spots of pink on her cheeks, just like Nora, as she hands over the box. Then she bundles her emptied bags into the pocket of her wax jacket and troops back to the front door, says well now, have a good night, but before she can leave Nora says her name, catches her hand in her own.
Thank you, she says to her mother.
Tabasco, Freya says, squeezing her hand. And then she’s gone, and Nora turns to Robin who shrugs, says she’s unpredictable, we’ll give her that. He turns up the music while Nora blends the tomatoes in the kitchen, a pre-party drink for the two of them, and he kisses her after a single sip, spice on their lips, long and slow and tingling, when the doorbell rings once more and then there are people in their living room.
_
Robbbbiiiiiiin, again, and again. His friends, his family. Mutual friends, too. High fives, brief hugs, she’s finally making an honest man of him, all the things she knew were coming but has nothing to say to, and as the flat fills up she is more and more aware that her own people are missing. Jon, dead: Josie, housebound: Freya, disapproving. Her own grandparents and father unaware of her existence, even, not that this bothers her, just comes up, like this, when she least expects it; and her oldest friend, herbestfriend she thinks, still – stupid, really – silent over email, despite the invite, but then Shay arrives with a bottle of red and a fiery-peach flower crown. There! she says, adjusting it on Nora’s head. You’re not a proper bride-to-be unless you’re wearing ranunculus. And before you say it, this is like, really mild on the cheese scale.
Is it ranunculus or ranunculi, Nora asks, tilting one of the stems out of her eyes, and Shay says who cares, you look hot, in a sort of whimsical, fairy queen kind of way. Like what’s-her-name.
Titania?
No, the one with the rabbit heart. Frozen in the headlights.
You mean Florence?
I have no idea, Shay says, but real talk, Nora,whenis the pizza getting here? I’m starved. And I’ll be taking leftovers for Horace, by the way, who is distraught that he’s not here. I left him gazing out of the window, pining, and I plan to get wildly pissed to block out the pain.
Be my guest, Nora says, gesturing to the drinks table.
People pour in and mingle. Graze on the crisps, fawn over the snacks that Nora prepared herself. Olives with anchovies and green chillies; tomato and onion crostini cracked with black pepper. Wine, full-bodied and dusky, one glass, two, another bottle opened then another, it’s only half seven andshe’s four drinks in. Dancing, too, because they’d pushed back the furniture. Shots! someone suggests, because they’re in their thirties and clawing back at their youth and it is loud and warm despite the cold outside and there are a lot of hugs and cheek kisses and Nora needs some air after too many drinks, face hot and flushed, her heart full and somewhat panicky. She’s always been a lightweight.
