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“Okay, I get it, you’re a perfectionist like me. But it would be great if I could have your notebooks before the lecture. After all, weareyour university. It would be nice to have this information before you present it. Like a scoop.” She chuckles at her own wit.
“Of course. I’m on it.”
She gives me a small nod, like she doesn’t really believe me. “So how about Friday then?”
I can’t think of anything so I tell her Friday is good. I’ll have to think of something before then. I’m already exhausted thinking of all the excuses I’ll need to drum up before she leaves me alone.
“All sorted then,” I lie.
Over lunch June and I dissect the Isabelle situation. “I think it’s an excellent idea to have her over for dinner. Make sure she sees how happy you and Luis are.”
Friday comes around, and I’m walking out of a class trying to avoid the students piling out into the corridor as I turn my phone back on. There’s a message from Isabelle and for a moment I think she’s going to cancel on me, that she’s got cold feet, and I’m already annoyed because I spent all week designing the menu: baked oysters and cheese puffs for entrées; venison Wellington with scalloped potatoes and cremini mushrooms in a cream and rosemary sauce; chocolate brownies which I stayed up until midnight last night to bake, to be served with mascarpone cream plus a dash of Grand Marnier for the adults; and I left work early yesterday so I could shop for it all and still have time to cook dinner for my family.
I call her back, the phone wedged in the crook of my neck, one hand holding my satchel open, the other shoving a bunch of papers inside.
“We’re still on for dinner tonight?” she asks. She sounds so sweet, so eager.
A bell rings and students pour into the corridor from various directions, out of one class and into another.Sorry Mrs. S, they mutter as they bump into me.
I picture the necklace and feel my pulse quicken. I decide to sound forgetful, because I can’t help myself. “Dinner. Tonight.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Oh, yes. Of course I do.”
There’s a pause. “Anna, it’s okay if you want to change plans…” Suddenly I think maybe I was too convincing, while another part of me—I am made of many parts—is thinking,Yes, please. I’m so tired. How about we do it another day and I’ll just go home and put everything in the freezer and curl up in bed and tell Luis I’m sick, and can he please deal with the kids and empty the dishwasher.
But I rally.
“No, of course not! There’s a lot going on here and my brain is like a sieve. I’m really looking forward to it.” I reel off the address and she says Luis already gave it to her, and can she bring something?
“Nothing at all, just you,” I say.
“Okay, I’ll bring some wine then. I’ll see you tonight.”
The upside of this, is that when Mila turns up to my office, tapping her watch, telling me she’s been waiting for me and did I bring my notes? I get to apologize profusely and tell her I’d completely forgotten.
“Brain like a sieve, I swear.”
I buy flowers on the way home, a bunch of cellophane-wrapped white lilies to cheer myself up. I’m so tired my feet are shuffling instead of walking. It’s going to be a long night.
Twenty-Two
I’ve put the flowers in a vase and I’m running an eye over the living room, checking every detail like a forensic scientist at a murder scene. I want everything to look perfect. I want everything to lookhappy. This is a happy home, I tell myself as I plump up cushions and wipe a wine stain from the glass coffee table. In the kitchen the surfaces are gleaming and still I run a cloth over them. Sometimes I go to other people’s houses and the first thing I see is the dirt crusted in the corners of the window frames or spots of tomato sauce onthe splash-back behind the stove, and I have to fight the urge to pick up a sponge and scrub the place.
I’ve already made the cheese puffs, so they just need to be warmed up. The venison is cooking gently on one shelf in the oven, and I’m getting the potatoes and mushroom dish ready to put on the other oven shelf when the doorbell rings. Isabelle isn’t due for another forty minutes so it can’t be her, which is just as well because I am not ready. I’ve done my hair but I still have to do my make-up. I bought a contouring kit—completely unlike me, my make-up kit consists of one tube of mascara and one tube of lipstick. It goes without saying I’ve never used a kit before, but I checked out a couple YouTube videos on how to make your cheekbones higher and your eyes wider and your chin more defined, and your face more desirable, generally speaking.
I wipe my hands on the tea-towel, and for a crazy moment I think maybe it’s Geoff, that he has come to my house to…no. I’m going insane. Of course it’s not Geoff. Still, when Carla bounds down the stairs I put my arm out to stop her while I peer around the blinds.
But it is Isabelle after all, and I’m strangely disappointed. I would almost have preferred if it was Geoff, or Ryan even; anyone but Isabelle, because I am absolutely not ready for her.
“Hello!”
She stands there, a bottle of wine in one hand and a white box with a pretty pink ribbon in the other.
“I know I’m early,” she says, biting her bottom lip daintily. She looks stunning in her white coat and light blue woolen dress—even the snow crystals scattered throughout her thick blonde hair look magical, like she’s just glided over from the set ofFrozen. Now I’m really nervous. I wish Luis was home but he chose this very day to help his dad trim a tree that was in the way of the TV aerial. When I pointed out there was a lot to prepare for this evening, he insisted—conveniently, I thought—that it had to be today. He won’t be back for a while, maybe even another hour. And I’ve already drunk half a bottle of wine, which was possibly a mistake.
“I slightly underestimated how far you live. Is that okay? I could wait in the car if you prefer and come back later. I was going to do that but I then I thought the wine should be in the refrigerator, so I here I am. And this is pecan caramel cheesecake, by the way. And I didn’t make it, in case you’re wondering.”
