“Cora Mills,” I say, struggling to recall what I might have ordered.
He stretches out his arms, and on autopilot, I take the load. It’s heavy. And warm. Then, the delivery man turns and isgone before I register the logo on the boxes. It’s an upmarket restaurant where Anders often takes investors.
“Wait,” I call out. “These aren’t for me.” But like a snowflake on a warm car bonnet, he’s vanished.
What now? I put the boxes on the table and pick up my phone. The restaurant takes an age to answer.
“I’ve just had a delivery,” I explain.
“Is something wrong with it?” a smooth voice asks. This is not the sort of place that assumes the customer is an idiot.
“It’s somebody else’s. I didn’t order anything from you.” I’m anxious that someone is expecting their food – enough for a party judging by the weight – and isn’t going to get it.
“Let me check,” he says, unruffled, unlike me. “Perhaps you might give me your name?” His tone is respectful, as if he is asking for the ultimate intimate disclosure.
I give it, expecting the restaurant maître d’ to realise the restaurant’s mistake immediately. But he recites my address back to me.
“That’s my address,” I confirm dumbly.
“Then everything is in order.”
“But I didn’t order this!” A growing sense of desperation in my words. Then a cold shiver goes through me. Or what if this is someone’s idea of revenge? You see it in movies. I can’t afford this. “What’s the name on the payment card?” I whisper, terrified I’m going to lose my holiday fund on something so fleeting.
“Anders Anderson the Third.”
Relief is rapidly followed by anger. I’m going to dismember him. Okay. No, I’m not. Heismy boss. But I will have words. Which part of ‘No gifts’ did he misunderstand?
“Is everything in order, Ms Mills?”
“Um, yes.” What else can I say? There’s nothing he can do about this.
“Then I hope you enjoy your food. Good evening.” And the line drops, revealing the time on my phone. The boxes will have to wait until after Effie’s bath and bed.
Bath time with Effie is normally full of chatter as she tells me about her latest passion. But today’s is a sullen affair. Effie is still punishing me. I flip-flop between beating myself up, resenting being harshly judged for a rare infraction, and fuming at Anders's violation of my rules. If he thinks this will get me to accept his proposal, he’s so far wide of the mark he’s in the next county.
Effie declines my offer to read to her with a mute shake of her head. Then she hides her face in her reptile book. “Ten minutes only, and then sleep,” I say, leaving her to it.
Back in the kitchen, the boxes still sit unopened on the table. After looking at them for some time, trying to decide what to do, I fetch a knife and slit the tape holding the box shut. Might as well see what’s inside. The top raises, revealing a stack of cardboard bowls with clear plastic lids. I spot hummus with a swirl of golden liquid, labneh with a grey-green herby za’atar, bronze-blistered flatbread. There are more dishes I don’t recognise but it’s enough to feed a dozen people at least.
My hands drop to my sides. Mezze. Anders has sent mezze for my friends. I’m not insensitive to the thoughtfulness that underlies the gift, inappropriate as it is. The anger leaves my body in a breath.
The door buzzer sounds again. For one moment I hope the restaurant has discovered its mistake, but sense returns and I realise it’s only Dana and Fiona. They follow me into the kitchen, Fiona’s eyes alighting on the boxes.
“What are these?” she asks, her breathy tone a reflection of her admiration. She recognises the logo and, as a chef, she understands the significance.
I wince. “They’re from Anders. For tonight.”
Before they can interrogate me, I escape to check on Effie. She’s asleep, her book still propped open on the bed before her face. Her long lashes lie still on her cheek, so dark they look like they were drawn in brushstrokes of ink. Strands of her dead-straight dark hair hide her ears. With her light eyes covered, she’s almost a clone of me. But the physical resemblance is all there is. In character, she’s not at all like me. Parenting Effie is like trying to find buried treasure without a map. I hope to goodness I don’t screw it up.
I switch off her bedside lamp; a nightlight glows softly in the corner. Closing the door softly behind me, I make my way to the kitchen.
Fiona has unpacked the boxes for me. A plethora of tubs and three bottles of prosecco sit on the table. It’s a feast.
“Do you think he got a smidgen too much?” Dana comments as she surveys the spread. “This could feed a trio of rugby players. Who does he think we are?” I can only agree. Putting half a dozen tubs in the fridge hardly seems to make a dent in the amount of food. I shrug her comment off and start assembling plates and knives.
“What’s this?” Dana says. I have no idea, but I’m saved from answering as she dips her finger into the sauce before licking it. “Honey,” she announces. “But with something in it. It’s delish. What’s the lump?” She points to the block in the centre, white with golden patches.
“Halloumi,” Fiona tells her.
