I bought new make-up. A foundation with moisturising action and a mascara that promised to give your eyelashes ten times their normal volume; although it occurred to me, as I was putting it on, how alarming that might look if that were the actual result. Still, I kept a steady hand while I painted on layer after layer – face cream, foundation, eyeliner, eye shadow – and I took deep breaths periodically, pulling in the smell of beef casserole that was stewing in the kitchen. The place had been alive with more smells and noises throughout the day. I knew that some of it had been to keep me busy; I hadn’t needed to make an apple pie from scratch, for instance. I hadn’t been quite nervous enough to churn my own butter, though, or make a main meal that required anything more than peeling and chopping vegetables while dancing – or at the very least jigging – to the best and worst of mine and Rowan’s teenage years. I had a specific playlist for it; tracks that we’d listened to on the car radio when we’d been parked up somewhere for the privacy of it. When Jennifer Paige’s ‘Crush’ came on, though, I’d thought of Fred, sliced the carrot too harshly and caught my index finger in the process – and that put an end to the dance part of the preparations.
For something wholesome, I swapped to the playlist I shared with the girls. A Spotify set-up where all of us could add but none of us could take away and I laughed aloud, then, and asked the room, ‘But isn’t that my whole life with those girls?’
It occurred to me that thinking about them for too long might have caused some cosmic thread to start tugging, because, in the minutes after, I got a missed call from both Faith and Betty. I hadn’t spoken to either of them – any of them – about my plans for the night. I hadn’t needed to, really. I could have told them I was about to suggest a series of threesomes with farm animals and they would have nodded along to my face. They’d have me checked over by a head doctor behind my back, of course, but to my face they would have given me nothing but support. I knew the truth would be the same again of this – whatever ‘this’ ended up being.
‘Jesus, have I even decided?’ My reflection didn’t have the answer either, though, so she only stared back at me while I brushed on an additional layer of compact powder. When I arrived at a point of not being able to look myself in the eye any longer, I turned my attention to clothes.
Blame Jones’ acoustic spin on ‘You’re All I Need To Get By’ came on in the background and I had the clearest image: Betty sloshing about, beer bottle in hand; Faith with her arm around Lily’s waist; Cora and Molly slow-dancing together but howling with laughter at the same time. I had the photograph somewhere; a hard copy from when we’d gone retro and taken a disposable camera on a night out with us. It would have been the perfect distractor task to go and search it out, spend ten minutes – if not longer – staring through the image to the finer details in the background, trying to piece together a memory of exactly where we were when it was taken.
But when I checked the wall clock, I realised I didn’t have time for distractions. Company would be arriving in the next fifteen minutes, and I was still wearing a Hawaiian-print bath towel and a frown. I picked up pace to the music and moved at a deliberate speed along all the clothes I’d adopted from Fred’s wardrobe. I even blinked hard while my fingers flicked that denim dress out of the way, one she’d gifted me with a condition – ‘You can only ever wear this without tights, and without leggings. Deal?’ – and she’d sealed it with a kiss on the cheek when I agreed.
In the end I went for a loose-fitting jumpsuit; navy blue and a ten out of ten for comfort. It moved well with me while I bopped to the music, trying still to get my energies up and ready. Prepped to play at being a good hostess, I pulled out restaurant-calibre dishes from the cupboard I only normally cracked open when my parents were visiting; which must have meant I was ready for a special occasion. I put dishes into the oven to heat through, alongside bake-from-the-bag bread rolls. Then, in time with the oven door clanging closed, the front door chimed a tune.
I imagined Lily coaching me through a big belly breath while I walked the stretch of the hallway. I exhaled, grabbed the door and yanked it open as though the three things were connected to the same movement. Otherwise, it would have taken me as long to open the door as it had done to choose an outfit.
‘Wow.’ Rowan had a bottle of white wine in one hand and flowers in the other. But he was wearing a shirt that hadn’t been ironed and I felt guilty for having noticed. Given that this was the first time we’d seen each other since that night, though, I was only glad that he was brandishing a creased shirt and a bottle of wine, rather than a chapter and verse from the Old Testament and a threat to tell Mum and Dad. ‘Edi, you look …’ He petered out, leaned in and kissed me – on the cheek. ‘You look amazing.’
‘Thank you, you scrub up pretty well yourself.’ I stepped aside, then, and nodded him along the hallway. ‘Come on, don’t stand on ceremony for me.’ It had only been days since we’d seen each other but somehow it felt longer. I wondered whether he actually looked different, or whether I only thought he did now I was seeing him in a different light. Have you lost weight? I thought as I walked close behind him. Have you swapped … ‘You smell different.’
He sniffed the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Do I?’ I saw his eyes stretch and then narrow, and I wondered what he’d just realised. ‘Weird.’ He hurried to take the garment off and dropped it over the back of his chair. ‘Probably Ian or Monty.’
I murmured in agreement and then turned around to check the oven. It had only been minutes and I knew the bread wouldn’t be done. But I didn’t want him to see my face. ‘I’ve thrown together a beef casserole, maybe a stew, definitely something with beef.’ I laughed as I closed the oven door. ‘Wine?’ Rowan had put the bottle on the table and the chill of it was starting to drip off.
‘Beer?’
‘Of course.’ I grabbed a bottle from the fridge and, when I put the drink down for him, I pulled the bottle of wine back for me. It was a screw top, and the Lily in me wanted to undo the lid and chug half down in one go. But instead, I turned around to grab a glass. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Aren’t I always?’
‘Okay, well there’s definitely enough to feed at least six people in that pot.’
He laughed. ‘Which sounds about right for you, for making dinner for two.’
It felt familiar; this old knowledge of each other. My expression softened as the wine sloshed into the glass. ‘I have issues with measurements, what can I say?’ I turned with the drink in my hand, then, and Rowan nodded towards it.
‘I can see that.’
‘What?’ I looked down. ‘It’s a large glass of wine.’
He pushed the flowers towards me. ‘Don’t forget those.’
‘Thank you. They’re really lovely, Rowan, thank you.’ And just like that we went back to the forged politeness of people who needed to talk about something, but weren’t yet ready to. I dropped the flowers into a pint glass and filled it with water. My politeness only stretched so far before my nerves took over.
Unprompted, then, while I was still facing away, Rowan started to tell me what had been happening in his life. There was so much information packed in that it felt like the updates stretched beyond the few days we hadn’t spoken for; I realised, then, how little we must have talked even when we’d actually been talking.
‘Work is good but pretty mental. They’ve pulled in a new piece of land further out …’
I busied myself with finishing dinner preparations, as he continued, ‘But I’ve said I don’t want to be the ground guy on this one …’ There wasn’t exactly much to do, though I made a show of pretending there was for the sake of not sitting opposite him. Which is a great sign, Edi, as you well know … I grabbed cutlery, then even more dishes to have ready for the apple pie, assuming we got that far.
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘Are we going to talk about the other night?’ I belched the words out like involuntary gas and my hand flew to my mouth with an apt embarrassment. Everything in me wanted to apologise – as though to say, Whoops, sorry, don’t know where that came from – but I swallowed the words back down, and followed them with a large swill of wine. Rowan still hadn’t answered by the time I set my glass down, though. ‘We don’t have to, I just—’
‘You think we should.’
‘I’m surprised you don’t want to, Row, if I’m honest.’ A timer dinged in the background and I wondered how inappropriate it would be to turn around and check the casserole. Are we even having dinner now? He rubbed at the back of his neck and looked behind me to where the noise had come from. ‘It’s just the plates having warmed through, that’s all. It’s nothing that can’t wait.’
‘I mean, I am hungry.’
Something truly uncomfortable passed between us in the seconds after that. We locked eyes and it felt like he was challenging me – but to what? Whatever it was, I didn’t rise to it. I only shrugged and, with a murmur of agreement, I turned around and started to scoop one, two, three ladles of casserole onto the warmed plates from the oven. I dropped four bread rolls into a bowl, too, and carried those first – with my wine – to the table; when a room is on fire, only grab the most important things, and I definitely had mine. I flashed him a tight smile before I turned back to get the dinners.
While there was no danger of further eye contact I said, ‘I just think there’s probably some questi—’
‘So you’re gay, bi, whatever. Is that where this is going?’
The question landed on me in the seconds that I turned round to face him, with a heavy plate of food balanced in each hand. When I saw his expression, though, both plates slipped, shattered and scattered across the floor, taking cubed vegetables and chunked meat along with them. He looked at me with an expression that I thought must be fury. Am I being dramatic in thinking that? The air started to crackle around me. But no, it’s fury – and something like disappointment. I felt my eyes prick with the promise of tears as I swallowed.
‘Rowan, I think we should break up …’