THE SUPPER TABLE IS SET FOR THREE. LOTTIE IS DOING her homework while I shake risotto rice on to the scales. Two ounces each; six ounces. A chopped onion sizzles gently on the hob and the kettle has been set to boil for the chicken stock. In the oven, three pieces of chicken breast are roasting. I’ve chopped a cabbage finely, the way Nick likes it, and dropped it into the steamer. Lottie has already grated a generous pile of Parmesan for me. I have some wine to hand, the remains of last night’s bottle, to add to the stock.
My doorbell rings. Until now I’ve never noticed how often it does. Whether it’s the post, a parcel delivery or a neighbour, it rings all the time. I turn the heat down, then Lottie and I run into the hall. I grab her shoulder and pull her back. The figure standing behind the stained-glass windows is tall and thin. It’s not Nick. My heart slams. I’m certain that it’s a policeman, come to give me bad news.
‘Lottie,’ I murmur urgently. ‘Go to your bedroom.’
‘But Mum,’ she protests. ‘Why do I have to?’
‘Do as I say, darling. Please don’t be difficult.’
She gives me a look of reproach and drags herself upstairs. I wait until she’s out of sight and then I open the door to a tall silver-haired man, dressed in a beautifully cut City suit.
I’m so surprised, I lose the power of speech. We’ve met only a handful of times over the last few years, but he’s unmistakable. It’s Nick’s boss. I stand to one side and allow him in. He bends to pet Toffee.
This is a man of substance, a man to whom people rush to say yes. He is relaxed and yet coiled, friendly and yet intimidating. I remember when we were first introduced, at a work drinks, one of the rare events to which other halves are welcomed; he had taken my hand in his, looked me directly in the eye, nodded his approval, and smiled. It was a smile that covered everything from sympathy because I was out of my depth, to an understanding that I was an outsider. The smile said that he would keep my secret, he was on my side. He knew nothing about me, of course, he just instinctively understood people. I’d felt quite wobbly when he finally let me go and went to greet someone else. ‘He likes you,’ Nick had grinned. ‘Yeah, well.’ I brushed it off. ‘It’s you he likes.’
‘So how is the invalid?’ he asks now.
His presence is so strong that my voice trembles when I speak. ‘He’s asleep. He had a bad night.’
Without waiting for an invitation he strolls into my kitchen. ‘Lovely place you’ve got here.’ He slides open the garden doors and steps outside. I follow him nervously, pulling my long cardigan around me. ‘You’ve done a lot of work on it, Nick tells me. It’s certainly paid off.’
‘Thank you.’
I look back at the house. It is impressive, without a doubt. The modern kitchen extension could have been an uncomfortable juxtaposition, but the heritage-cream paintwork connects it firmly to the wooden window frames. I lift my gaze to the top floor and see Lottie peering out. He’s seen her too, and he gives her a cheery wave. It’s strange that he’s turned up here. Not normal boss behaviour, even if they do have an excellent relationship.
‘So, what’s wrong with him?’ he asks.
‘Some kind of virulent tummy bug,’ I respond instinctively. It makes no sense, but I pray that Nick doesn’t pick this moment to come home. It would be so embarrassing.
‘Can I see him?’
‘I don’t want to wake him. I’ll get him to call you. This is a bit out of your way, isn’t it?’
He smiles and his teeth gleam. ‘I’m due for dinner round the corner, and as I had some papers I wanted to give Nick, I thought I’d drop in and see how he was doing.’ He holds up his briefcase, as if to prove it.
‘You can leave them with me if you like,’ I say. ‘I wouldn’t want to make you late.’
‘I’ve got a bit of time. I don’t suppose I could have a drink? It’s been a long day and I need to fortify myself before supper.’
I doubt that’s true, but I fetch a beer, pop the lid and hand him the cold bottle.
He stands with his feet apart, towering over me. ‘Nick was in an odd mood on Friday,’ he says. ‘So, I was concerned that the no-show today might have had something to do with it.’ His head tilts, as if he’s trying to gauge my response.
‘Not at all,’ I say, blushing. ‘He’s genuinely ill. Vomiting, diarrhoea and a horrible headache.’ I’m hoping that a graphic description will get him out of the house. ‘What do you mean, an odd mood?’
‘Subdued. Did he say anything to you?’
I shake my head. ‘No. Well, he may have said he’d had a stressful day.’
‘Does he share his worries with you? Would he tell you if something was wrong? I try not to bore my wife with the day-to-day aggravations, but if something is genuinely bothering me, she’s very good at winkling it out. And helpful. Do you help Nick?’
His dark eyes, under the silver brows, probe for the truth. Does he sense that I’m lying?
‘Not really. Look, I’m sorry to rush you, but I’m in the middle of getting supper ready.’
I glance inside, my body language clear. A polite request for him to leave. I wish I could tell him the truth, because he might be able to help, but if Nick has had some sort of emotional breakdown he wouldn’t want him to know.
And if he doesn’t come back?
But I won’t think about that.
After he’s gone, I make the risotto and steam the vegetables, but the chicken is spoilt, overdone and stringy. Lottie and I chew disconsolately, leaving most of the chicken on our plates. Nick’s plate is covered with a Pyrex bowl to stop the food drying out. I’ll have it for lunch tomorrow. We don’t talk much, and I hate and resent the silence that has fallen between us. Lottie has always been chatty and open, but right now her body language is that of a teenager, withdrawn, folded in on herself. I badly need a hug, but I daren’t ask.
‘Lottie, I’ve told Nick’s work that he’s ill. OK?’
She pushes her plate away and looks at me. ‘Is he?’
‘No.’
‘Then why did you—’
‘I thought it was best.’
‘Can I tell Hannah?’
‘No, not yet, sweetie. I don’t want everyone knowing our business.’ Now I sound like my grandmother.
I have a horrible thought. I jump up and go to the fridge to look at my calendar. Tomorrow is Tuesday. There’s a coffee morning and it’s happening at my house. I’d totally forgotten about it. My mind spirals into panic. It’s too late to cancel, and what would I say anyway?
I should have made brownies. They’ll have to make do with shop bought. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.