Emilia couldn’t help but smile. Everything was going perfectly, better than she’d ever imagined. She couldn’t believe that she had a friend over to stay. That hadn’t happened since she was five years old.
Amber was so nice and kind, immediately starting conversations and answering Emilia’s questions no matter how odd they might be. Emilia knew that she had a habit of saying things that were a little out of place when she was nervous, which usually led to people giving her an odd look, making her more nervous. It was a vicious circle and one that prevented her from wanting to socialise with others.
But with Amber, things were different. She happily answered any of Emilia’s questions and didn’t make her feel strange in the slightest. In fact, she was as comfortable talking and laughing with Amber as she was with Hugo, which was something she never expected. Amber had a gift for making her feel comfortable. She didn’t know if Amber knew how much that gift was appreciated.
“I feel guilty,” Amber announced as she arrived in the kitchen. “I simply have to help you cook.”
“You’re a guest,” Emilia said. She stood on her tiptoes and pulled one of her grandmother’s moth-eaten recipe books from the shelf.
“Maybe so, but I can’t just sit there and watch you slave over a stove for me.”
“It’s not slaving,” Emilia said. “I love to cook. And there are so many things I can’t cook for one, so it’s good to have company.”
It wasn’t entirely true. She was making traditional meatballs that she made all of the time. Although she was now planning to change some of the spice mix in order to cater to a broader palette. Amber had spoken about her love of cuisine—Asian food, Indian curries… all kinds of things that Emilia had never eaten.
Swedish food wasn’t the most flavourful. It was focused on being hearty and filling. Meals to fuel a Viking nation in the cold of winter. Spices were mainly reserved for desserts and cakes.
She knew her grandmother had a sort of curried meatball recipe, and Emilia had an entire cupboard full of spices that she bought in the hope of one day being brave enough to try something new. Of course, she never did try anything new. She liked her routine far too much. Why attempt to fix something that wasn’t broken?
“I’d still like to help, if there’s anything I can do?” Amber queried, looking around the kitchen for a task.
The last time Emilia had shared the cooking with someone, she was a child and assisting her family. As an adult, she’d never had to split the workload. She wasn’t entirely sure what kind of tasks to give Amber.
Eventually, she pointed to a cupboard. “Could you get a cutting board from in there?”
As Amber got the chopping board, she picked up a knife from the block on the counter and placed it on the work surface. She walked into the larder and returned with a large red onion.
“Could you chop this into small pieces?” Emilia asked.
Amber placed the board on the countertop and picked up the knife. “Sure, no problem.”
Emilia consulted the recipe and started to gather all of the items she would need. She pulled out the frying pan from the cupboard, the meat from the fridge. She rummaged through the spice drawer to get all the seasonings. After a few minutes, she had everything she needed ready to start cooking.
She looked at Amber and let out a soft laugh.
“How are you getting on?”
Amber had made almost no progress on the onion. She had almost peeled it and cut it into a very wonky half. Now she was holding onto the wobbly half and figuring out where to begin with her knife.
Amber started to chuckle. “Okay, I’m useless at cooking, you caught me.”
She tried to make a cut and the knife slipped from the onion. Emilia quickly took the knife from Amber’s hand, not wanting her to accidentally slice off a finger.
“Why don’t you sit and keep me company? It might be quicker.” Emilia gestured to a kitchen stool.
“Are you sure? I want to help,” Amber said.
“It would be a help to not worry about you stabbing yourself,” Emilia admitted.
“Good point.” Amber nodded and took a seat on the stool on the other side of the counter.
“I can’t remember the last time I chopped a vegetable,” Amber confessed.
“Do you not eat vegetables?” Emilia started to dice the onion.
“Oh, no, I love vegetables. Always have. I just rarely cook at home.”
“Do you not eat?” Emilia asked.
Amber laughed. “Oh yes, I eat. Three meals a day, every day. I just eat out, or I have food delivered.”
Emilia lowered her knife and looked at Amber curiously. “You do that so often you’ve forgotten how to cut up an onion?”
Emilia had eaten out less than five times that year, each of which had been instigated by Hugo. She couldn’t imagine going out to eat so often, it sounded exhausting.
“I suppose I have,” Amber admitted. “There’s just so many different choices, so much great food. It would cost more to source all of the ingredients to make things than it does to buy a meal. And the convenience of having it delivered to the house is great.”
Emilia shook her head and returned to chopping her onion. “I don’t think there are any restaurants around here that deliver food. Even the pizza place wants you to go and pick it up.”
“Wow, that wouldn’t work in Britain. We’re a pretty lazy nation.”
“You’re not lazy, you asked if you could help me,” Emilia reminded her.
“I have a good guest face.” Amber chuckled.
They continued to talk about all the services that were available in Britain in the name of convenience. Apparently, you could get a taxi to take you anywhere by clicking a button on your phone. And you could buy a pre-peeled orange. Emilia didn’t know why anyone would need an orange to be peeled for them unless they had a disability.
It was a surprise to hear about all the differences in their daily lives. Emilia had known that Amber went to work and obviously commuted to an office every day. She thought the differences might end there, other than Amber obviously opting to have more of a social life.
But it turned out that there were so many more differences.
Amber hardly ever cooked. She spent more time out of her apartment than inside it. They ate different food, read different books. Amber loved going to the cinema and the theatre. Emilia couldn’t remember the last time she had done either. And she didn’t even own a television.
But somehow, they found things to talk about. They laughed and were amazed at their differences. Amber couldn’t imagine cooking for herself every single day. Emilia couldn’t imagine going into a shop to buy a boiled, peeled egg.
They were from different worlds, but somehow Emilia felt more comfortable with Amber than she had with anyone else for a long time.
Even so, the weight of her subterfuge lay heavily on her shoulders.
She kept pushing it down, trying to ignore the part of her that felt guilty for lying in order to bring Amber to her. She bargained with herself, promising that she would be honest with Amber the next day.
She reasoned that Amber would be tired from a long journey, not to mention unsettled due to being in a strange place in a foreign country. Tonight wasn’t the night for awkward admissions. Really, Emilia was waiting to confess her sins for Amber’s sake.
Or so she was desperately trying to convince herself.