Page 6 of Playing for Keeps

She lit up like a small torch. “Ah! Well. After what could only be called months of experimentation…”

“It could be called that,” Dad cut in. “It could also be called ‘your father eating rice three times a week and pretending to identify subtle differences between brands of paprika.’”

“It’s smoked paprika, George,” Mum said, affectionate and exasperated at the same time. “And I nailed it yesterday. Nailed it. The rice was perfect. And the socarrat…”

“The what now?”

“The crispy bit at the bottom,” she said, pleased I’d asked. “I got it just right. Your father actually applauded.”

“I was clapping for the end of the paella odyssey,” Dad said. “I’m happy to report that your mother has reached perfection and can now move on.”

“To what?” I asked.

Mum looked thoughtfully at the ceiling, as if inspiration might be hiding up there by the lampshade. “I don’t know. I might go… Asian. I might do yoga or try origami. Something calm and precise, you know, like folding little flowers and cranes until they look just right.”

Dad groaned in an exaggerated way. “Brilliant. So the dining table will be buried under paper instead of rice.”

“You’ll live,” Mum told him, then squinted at the screen. “Em, are you eating enough? You look a bit peaky.”

Crap, I’d hoped my flushed cheeks from the unpacking would have reassured her. “It’s the laptop camera,” I said. “Everyone looks like that on Zoom. I promise I’m fine.”

“Good,” Dad said, then smiled. “We are proud of you, you know.”

“Oh, don’t,” I said, feeling the heat rise up my neck. “You’ll make me cry. Anyway, do you want the tour?”

“Yes!” Mum said, clapping.

I carefully picked up the laptop and started the tour in the living room. “So this is the main part. The sofa will be here next week, but for now I have a borrowed armchair and a huge coffee table. Books will go there.” I pointed to a low shelf against the wall. “I’m thinking about getting a rug to make it a bit more cosy; maybe I’ll add a lamp in that corner for the evenings. I know I’m only going to be here for a year, but I still want the house to feel a bit homely.”

“It’s bright,” Mum said. “You’ve made a good choice.”

“I like that window,” Dad said. “That will let you see the snow.”

I told them not to rush the snow and swung them around to the plants. “These are Doyle and…” I stopped myself. “The plants,” I said, and Mum’s eyes twinkled, and I knew she’d guessed I’d named them, like I always did.

Dad nosed closer to his camera as if that would bring him closer to mine. “Where will you write?”

“At the table,” I said, nudging to the small wooden one by the window. “Or the sofa. Or a coffee shop that I haven’t found yet. I plan to wander around a lot in the first few weeks, getting acquainted with the area, soaking up the atmosphere, and jotting down ideas.”

“Do you have any thoughts on the new book yet?” Dad asked, and I could hear the hope in it.

“I have no idea, which is fine. Don’t worry, I’ll get there.”

“I hate that bit,” Mum said, even though she didn’t write books. “The waiting.”

“I don’t mind it. This part is like stretching. It feels pointless until you start running and realise you didn’t pull something.”

“All right, poet,” Dad said. “And have you found a bookshop?”

“Oh yes,” I said, smiling. “I was just there yesterday. It’s a few streets away. Wooden floors, a table with staff picks and a cat that didn’t move when I said hello. I just know I’ll be going there a lot. I want to try a couple of Canadian authors.”

“Any recommendations?” Dad asked.

“I picked up a Margaret Atwood book I’d somehow missed and a book by Emily St John Mandel, which someone in the shop was raving about. I’ll report back. I also saw a shelf of local publications that made me want to touch the covers like a weirdo, so that’s promising.”

Dad looked satisfied. “As long as you’ve got a bookshop, you’ll be fine.”

“Bathroom now,” I said, and took them up the stairs. “Get ready.”