AllFreeNovel
Share Us
As I settled into the monotony of scrubbing the dishes and utensils in soapy water, my mind strayed to that phrase. Ladies’ room. It had always made me uncomfortable, and I didn’t know why.
Before I could really think about it, however, Petra came back, and I immediately started coughing.
“That was quick. Bloody hell. Did you take a shower in perfume, or something?” I spluttered when I caught my breath again.
“I only spritzed a bit on my wrists while I was in the bedroom,” she said. “I suddenly realised that I probably stink. This’ll tide me over until I can get a proper wash in the bath. I thought you liked my perfume.”
“I do, I love your perfume. But… not by the bottle.”
“Noted,” she said with a half-hearted laugh, and assumed her position to my right, drying up the dishes on the rack. The strength of her perfume would have made my eyes water if we hadn’t been standing by an open window, but it was definitely an improvement from the metallic school-y scent with which she’d first arrived home. Spending more or less sixty hours in the building this week had left a mark on her already – even if it was only an olfactory one.
“Go and have your bath,” I said once I’d washed all the dishes. “I’ll finish up here.”
“Thanks,” she said, handing me the cloth and disappearing in a cloud of Jicky. It was her signature scent, and I hadn’t been lying when I said I normally loved it, but somehow it smelt wrong tonight.
Although to be fair, the whole evening had felt off. I looked at the calendar by the door.
One week down. God knows how many more to go.
Chapter Thirteen
The next evening, it was my turn to arrive home to a freshly cooked dinner by my wife. I had been on a middle shift, finishing at six, so by the time I got home twenty minutes later I was feeling peckish, and had picked up a chocolate brownie dessert that had been calling my name from the shelves all day.
The scent of onions and garlic hit me as soon as I opened the door, accompanied by a top note of… grass? Sweet hay? Then it pinged in my mind. Saffron.
Petra’s saffron orzotto was something her mother had made. I had never met Maria Andino, as Petra had been no-contact with her since before she met me, and her recipes were the only things relating to her family that Petra allowed in her life. She rarely cooked it any more, but she knew that like the shrimps à la spetsiota she’d made the other week, I loved the saffron orzotto. Food was a love language we both shared, and I smiled to know that even though one of our other primary ones – physical touch – was taking a break right now, others still remained.
“I thought you were having a rest day,” I said as I entered the kitchen, where Petra was stirring a pot on the stove.
“Oh, hello,” she said, but not before I missed the flicker of sadness on her face. “No rest for the wicked, as they say.”
“You’re not wicked,” I reproached.
“Well, according to my parents, I am, so I thought making this dinner would be fitting.” She shrugged, and smiled, but I immediately pinpointed this as the source of her despondency. She had down days now and again, normally on meaningful days, but today I found myself racking my brain.
“I suddenly remembered I’d missed May Day last Sunday,” she said, staring into the frying pan. “What with all the upheaval, it went out of my mind.”
The first day of May – Protomaya – was a much bigger celebration in Greece than it was here, and one that Petra’s family had always gone all-out in celebrating. Her dad, Georgio Sr, had always bought her mother flowers for Protomaya, and Petra had carried on the tradition with me.
“I don’t mind about the flowers, honestly,” I said, discomfort squirrelling in my gut. Truth be told, I didn’t particularly like receiving flowers. I knew Petra did, and I bought them for her now and again, but they’d always seemed rather an extravagance to me. Mostly it was my stereotypical parsimonious Scottishness, but I’d also disliked how innately feminine they were.
Not that I’d ever told Petra this.
“I know, but I do,” Petra said mournfully. “I know how much they mean to you. Papa never failed to deliver his flowers to Mama, and here I am forgetting.”
“There’s a world of difference between me and your Mama, Petra,” I tried to say comfortingly, but she shook her head.
“No, but you’re both women.”
The innocuous statement was like a punch to the stomach, and I had to force myself to keep listening to what she was saying.
“Women like flowers. I like flowers. They’re a token of love and appreciation, and God knows I don’t tell you enough that I appreciate you. That’s why I’m making this. I know you like this dish, and I thought it might… make up for it.”
She finally met my eye and stopped stirring, her expression one of abject misery. For my part, I knew I looked utterly flabbergasted. I felt flabbergasted. Not because of her outburst, but because of that simple, innocent statement she’d made. You’re both women.
“Jean?” Petra’s voice trembled. “Say something.”
“I…”
