‘Not yet,’ Seb said.
‘Yet?’ Clara replied.
It was just a moment, and the moment passed. But once everyone else had tucked into the cake, Cam snooped eagerly on the small argument that followed.
‘It’s just that you’ve never asked me,’ Clara said, to Seb.
Seb didn’t say much at all. He simply stormed outside for a smoke. How could a failing actor give her what she needed? It was no secret that he still hadn’t popped the question. He’d just landed his first lead role, a troubled musician in a brooding teen romance, and even this he couldn’t crack a smile about. He didn’t want to be typecast, or pigeon-holed, or made to look a fool. He kept his beard longer now, his dark hair hidden beneath a beanie hat. Cam wondered, with a thrill, if Seb was going bald.
Not long after her birthday, Clara shaved one side of her white-blond hair into what Maisie called an undercut, keeping the rest relatively short and lethally straight. Maisie was talking about ‘making a change’ herself, but Cam wouldn’t humour the conversation. She turned to Clara instead.
‘Who’s stopping you?’ Clara said.
Cam was pretty sure that Maisie had been texting someone else, someone who wasn’t Clara. She denied this, but then, she denied everything. That’s why he opened the letter, the one addressed to her, as soon as it arrived. He’d seen the name of the institution on the envelope. She wouldn’t keep this a secret from him.
‘What have you done?’ Cam stammered, when Maisie walked back into the kitchen after the resulting row.
She placed the kitchen scissors on the counter, calmly washed her hands. Her hair, always mousy brown and reassuringly normal, was now sheared above her shoulders and dyed a bright box-dye red.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, the following day, when Maisie had told him they needed to talk. ‘This is all because you want to go back to school?’
‘Not school,’ Maisie said. ‘I’m going to do a master’s. Then, if all goes well, a PhD.’
It was exactly five years since Seb and Clara had moved in next door, and Cam sat on the sofa as Maisie stood calmly in front of him, reciting from a script she’d clearly prepared in her head. On the other side of the fence, he could just about see Jasper, staring with those scuffed-button eyes.
‘And I’m just supposed to come with you?’ Cam said.
‘No,’ Maisie replied, steadily. ‘You aren’t.’
When he spoke again, Cam was aware that his voice sounded whiny. But if there was ever a time to be whiny, this was it.
‘You can’t just break up with me,’ he said. ‘What will I tell my parents?’
Now, as another van pulls up outside to start collecting Cam’s belongings, he realises that the exact moment doesn’t matter. Maisie has broken up with him, and he’ll always blame the couple next door.
the maître d’
Cee is the head chef, and everything behind the kitchen doors is her domain. Emily is her maître d’, and together they’re navigating a new world. Things have changed in the last five years. Before, the most innovative thing for foodies was the advent of the gourmet burger. Now, street food has run roughshod over all, punters tripping over one another for a chance to pay fifteen pounds for a bowl of deep-fried slop served from a hatch in a converted fire truck. In restaurants like theirs, the plates have got smaller, the dishes more unassuming, the ingredients more hyper-local. Everyone wants to try eel, or offal. Everyone wants everything elevated. Emily leaves that up to Cee. Her domain is out here, and it’s her job to know everything there is to know about the diners. Their dietary preferences. Their deepest secrets. Tonight is a friends and family evening ahead of the launch, so digging up the necessary dirt hasn’t been too hard. Cee likes to talk after a shift, after a couple of glasses of wine.
Emily welcomes Cee’s family and leads them to a pride-of-place table, knowing instinctively who each of them is. There’s Harry, Cee’s jolly husband, a red-meat-lover whom Emily has met several times before. There’s Raff, her rambunctiousone-year-old, partial to a purée. The androgynous-looking young man in the silk shirt must be the brother, Augie, a pescatarian with sunken cheeks and a dreamy half-smile. There’s Clara, the sister, who’ll eat anything. And her partner. Seb. Mister tall, dark and handsome. An actor, apparently. Emily doesn’t know a thing about him.
‘How are we tonight?’ Emily says, glancing at the two empty seats.
‘We’re very well,’ says Augie, a glint in his eye. ‘It’s just us.’
Cee had said it was a long shot, to expect her parents. Her mother is still getting better. Her father can never be counted on for anything. Emily knows that, since her mum’s illness, since Raff, Cee has grown closer with her siblings. She’s also heard the war stories, and so she knows that for the Cowans, this is as normal as they can hope to get.
‘Pork cheek with celeriac purée,’ says Cee, arriving at the table, because she insists on bringing out the meals herself. ‘I’m sweating like a pig.’ She points at Harry, clicks her fingers. ‘I need you. These edible flowers won’t arrange themselves.’
Harry stares wistfully down at his plate. Then he sighs, smiles, and heads for the kitchen, leaving Raff in the trusted hands of his seatmate, Seb.
‘It’s OK,’ says Seb, as the child’s lip begins to wobble. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Listen to this.’
He holds up a thumb, abruptly enough to stop the child from crying. Seb licks the thumb, brandishes a wine glass like a magician. He runs his thumb around the edge of the glass, and a reverberating, sonorous sound has the child held rapt.
‘Voilà,’ Seb says. ‘Music.’
Raff is hypnotised. Then his gleeful giggles fill the surroundings. Emily heads off to deal with another table. When she returns later to clear their plates, Seb is feeding the baby the last of his own purée, and Augie is leaning into his sister to say that her partner is a wizard, and Clara is watching on with an expression Emily finds hard to parse.
