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6
Izzy
“She’s late.” Izzy checked the soufflé. It had been her mother’s dinner party showpiece and it was Molly’s favorite, but it wasn’t a dish that forgave late arrivals. Why had she picked something so complicated? Because hopefully soufflé was something the saintly Flora couldn’t cook. Intimidation by soufflé. “What time did you tell her?”
“Midday. And she has today off, so I’m sure she’ll be here any minute. Smells delicious, Izz. What can I do to help?”
Break up with her and focus on the family.
She glanced at her father. “You could call her. Check what time she’ll be here? Maybe she’s one of those people who is relaxed about timing.” And she knew her father liked people to be where they said they were going to be, when they said they’d be there.
“Call her, Dad.” Make her feel bad.
“Good idea.” He pulled out his phone and dialed, and Izzy tried not to mind that he didn’t even have to search for the number.
She turned away and pulled oil and vinegar out of the cupboard to mix a dressing for the salad.
“Flora? Is everything okay?” Her dad’s voice had an edge of sharpness. “We were expecting you at twelve.”
And you’re late, Izzy thought happily. You are so, so late and my dad is going to hate that.
You are probably already in his rearview mirror.
Goodbye, Flora.
She wore her best martyred expression as she pulled the soufflé out of the oven. Maybe she’d mention that she would never have chosen to make that if she’d known Flora wouldn’t be on time. Her dad would feel guilty and annoyed. Flora would be flustered and embarrassed, and Izzy would be forgiving and generous.
Her plan was blown apart by her father’s next words.
“You’re kidding! When? How?” His tone hardened. “Did you call your landlord?”
Izzy rarely saw her dad angry. He was always even tempered and calm and he never reacted with emotion. But he was showing emotion now.
“Dad?”
His knuckles were white on the phone. “Give me his number—” There was a pause while he listened. “Yes, I know you can handle it yourself, but—” Another pause and Izzy saw her dad pull in a deep breath. “Okay, okay. I won’t interfere, but—” He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose the way he only ever did when he was stressed. “I know I’m being overprotective.”
Since when had her dad been overprotective? He was a great believer in equality. He claimed to be a feminist, although Izzy wasn’t convinced.
But something about Flora’s current predicament seemed to have triggered his most basic instincts.
Izzy wondered what excuse Flora had come up with. Whatever it was, it was a good one, and clearly lunch wasn’t going to be consumed anytime soon.
Accepting the imminent death of her soufflé, she poured vinegar into the oil. They didn’t mix. It made her think of her family. They were the oil, and Flora was the vinegar. Right now she was sitting in the middle of them, turning everything acid.
“That’s terrible. You should stay here,” her father was saying. “We have plenty of room.”
Oil and vinegar forgotten, Izzy felt a lurch of panic. “Dad?”
He threw her a reassuring smile, but Izzy wasn’t reassured. She didn’t like the tone of her father’s voice. Gentle. Caring. It was a voice you used with someone you loved, not a casual friend in trouble. “What’s happening?”
Her father lifted his hand to stop her talking, and turned back to his conversation. “Flora, I insist. You need somewhere to live until it’s fixed.”
Live? Live?
What the—
This sounded like so much more than a lunch invitation.
