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‘Erm, don’t suppose you’d like a coffee?’ I ask.
‘No.’ Charlotte doesn’t elaborate, and if I felt awkward before, now is positively painful.
Charlotte places a plate of shrivelled fajitas in the microwave. A flash of lightning strikes and illuminates the whole garden for a split second and the kitchen lights flicker as if shivering with fear.
‘Oh God, I hope the power doesn’t go out,’ Charlotte says, turning on the microwave as if she’s racing time. ‘Molly is terrified of the dark.’
‘Do you usually lose power in a storm?’ I ask, trying to sound casual while panicking inside about how on earth I’m going to bake a couple of dozen brownies and muffins without an oven.
‘Depends how bad the storm is.’ Charlotte shrugs, looking out the window for clues about how the weather might behave.
The microwave beeps, demanding attention, but both Charlotte and I are staring out the window at the torrential rain that’s erupted and is pounding the patio with large, angry drops.
‘Drink?’ Charlotte says suddenly, breaking into my worried thoughts.
I nod. ‘That’d be great Thanks.’
‘Red or white?’
‘Wine?’ I ask, exhaustion and hunger catching up with me. ‘I don’t really mind.’
‘Okay.’
Charlotte pours the remainder of one bottle of red into a glass before opening the microwave and lifting out the plate that I know by her expression is much too hot to hold. She drops it onto the countertop and fetches another bottle of wine from the rack above the fridge.
‘I only have red,’ Charlotte announces as if that’s some sort of failing.
‘I like red,’ I say, wondering why I said that. I do like red wine, but I really don’t feel like alcohol right now. I really need food, water and sleep.
Charlotte fills a second glass and sets one down on each side of the table. She walks away again to retrieve the plate of shrivelled fajitas and reluctantly places them next to me.
‘They looked better earlier,’ she says.
‘They look great,’ I say. I’m lying and we both know it. But they do smell good and I wonder if I should wait for Charlotte to sit down before I tuck in.
Charlotte ignores the wine she’s poured for herself and walks back to the sink. She pulls on a pair of bright-yellow rubber gloves as if the washing up is suddenly important.
‘Gavin loves fajitas,’ she says, turning on the taps.
‘I know,’ I say, biting into a fajita. They may not look like much but they taste great.
‘I was keeping those for him.’
I stop chewing and look down at the plate that Charlotte has suddenly made clear is her husband’s dinner.
‘I’ve been keeping dinners for Gavin and then throwing them out when he doesn’t get home.’ She sighs.
I begin chewing again, too hungry to be polite.
‘I’m not sure why I bother, really,’ she says, staring into the sink. ‘It’s usually so late when he gets home that he’s too tired to eat.’
I swallow. I’m not sure if Charlotte is blaming me or if she just wants to vent and I’m the only person here to listen.
‘It’s exhausting,’ I say as Charlotte drags steel wool vigorously over and back against a baking tray. ‘For all of us.’
‘Molly misses him,’ Charlotte says.
I don’t reply. Instead, I take another bite and keep my eyes focused on the plate in front of me as Charlotte continues to wash up. I munchmy way through the remaining fajitas in silence. When my plate is empty I stand up.
