Page 17 of People Skills

The kitchen itself is cute—especially the checked curtains I added to the window—but it’s very cramped. It’s narrow and lacks adequate bench space.

‘Nice,’ he says.

‘No dishwasher,’ I say. This fact weighs heavy on me every day.

‘I can wash dishes,’ he says, with the easy shrug of a man who probably never has.

I show him the spare room, which is neat and clean, thank goodness, except for the basket of laundry I quickly move to the side. I keep the room ready for visitors, but so far no one has come to visit. Not even now, in the peak of summer. I try not to dwell on this. Tash and Alice, my two best friends in Melbourne who I met at uni, both recently had babies, a situation that has opened up a gulf between us bigger than the physical distance of my move. Our little group of three became a group of two busy, brand-new mothers living in a city with a lot to discuss and me, alone, waving from my small town: hi, I’m over here, my life is interesting too, I did a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle the other weekend and got the Wordle puzzle in two guesses three days in a row. My childhood friend Greta moved to London, my twin brothers are in Berlin, and I avoid talking to all my old publishing friends. So I can think no one has come to visit! and feel very sorry for myself but, in truth, I haven’t invited anyone. I haven’t wanted anybody here. I’m starting over. I’m new Charlotte.

My job requires so much talking, so many phone calls and errands and meetings and chatting with Jamila and Kat, and Hillary—talking to Hillary all day—that when I come home, I love the idea that my quiet little house is waiting for me, with its roses out the front and the Japanese maple tree and lilies out the back, and my pretty couch and my cute teapot and all my books, silent and calm.

But, now, I have a visitor.

More than a visitor.

I go to my room and get dressed, and when I come out, I see he’s put his suitcases in the spare room. He’s already settling in. What have I done? I know nothing about him. Actually, that’s not true. I know everything, in the sense that I know him through Hillary’s eyes, Hillary’s stories, Hillary’s complaints, Hillary’s boasts. But that version of Xavier is a fictional character. The wandering soul, the sensitive poet, the bestselling author. This Xavier is a real person, with baggage and issues and annoying habits, I’m sure. He’s gone from cardboard cutout to real life. He’s tall and broad-shouldered; he doesn’t fit in this house, a cottage built for elderly spinsters and thirty-year-old women figuring out their lives.

He’s sitting at my little dining table with his laptop open when I walk back in. He nods at the coffee.

‘I asked the barista if he knew you and your order, and he said a strong latte. I hope that’s right.’

‘It is,’ I say. ‘So, how long are you thinking of staying?’

‘Just a few weeks. A month, at worst?’ he says.

At worst. Who is experiencing this worst, him or me?

‘A month is fine,’ I say.

‘Just let me know whatever half the rent and bills is, and I’ll transfer the money today,’ he says. His income, his working life, is a mystery to me, but also, it’s not a mystery. His father is a lawyer, his mother is Hillary, his first book sold well enough for him to live off its royalties for years, it still sells, he won major awards. He has safety nets under his safety nets.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Great.’ This is getting away from me. I should be the one setting the terms, telling him to transfer me the money.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not a slob. I clean,’ he says. ‘And cook.’

I don’t believe him. Hillary would have mentioned it if he was a good cook. I know the flaws and the talents of all her children. James, apparently, makes a lasagne to rival a professional chef’s, and Ettie has no cooking skills at all, and now she’s pregnant, Hillary is very worried what her future grandchild will be eating and is trying to think of ways to tactfully offer Ettie a voucher for cooking classes (just what a woman suffering from morning sickness wants from her mother, I’m sure). Xavier has never once come up in the cooking discussions.

‘What do you cook?’ I ask, all innocent interest.

He looks momentarily disarmed.

‘Well, I cook lots of things,’ he says.

I wait.

‘Eggs,’ he says. Then there’s a pause. ‘I can’t think of anything but eggs right at this second. Wait. Pasta. Steak. And, you know, everything. I bake.’

‘You bake?’ I say, the surprise evident in my voice. There is no way Hillary would not be boasting about her son baking muffins. I would have heard about it on day two.

‘Well, okay, I have baked. A cake. A few times,’ he says, as if this is truly impressive. He’s done something a few times and he’s basically put it on his resumé likes he’s an expert.

He’s looking at me a little worried now, like I’m going to kick him out two minutes after letting him in.

‘Okay, well, now I expect a fancy cake for my birthday,’ I say.

My birthday is many months away, so this won’t be happening, but why not put a bit of pressure on him.

‘I’ll bake you one,’ he says earnestly.