MARA
I dragged my heavy feet up the stairs. It was late for a weekday, well after nine o’clock. It upset my equilibrium a little getting home this late. I always felt anxious in advance of the next day, knowing I would wake tired, heavy and possibly blue. As soon as I opened the door, however, the smell of cooking – cooking? – snatched my thoughts away from my worrying and led me up the hall and into the kitchen.
‘Sam?’ I found her sitting at the kitchen table.
‘You’re late.’
‘You’ve been cooking!’ I said, astonished.
‘Yeah, well . . .’ Sam stood up and huffed three steps to the hob and lifted a lid. ‘I don’t know what it’ll be like now it’s been sitting around for so long.’
‘I didn’t know I was going to be home so late or that you’d be cooking, sorry.’
Sam grunted and stabbed at the contents of the pot with a wooden spoon. I felt a sudden desire to scream with laughter but squeezed my lips tight to Stop it. Judging by the set of Sam’s shoulders, right now wasn’t the best moment to test the girl’s sense of humour.
‘I’ll be back in a mo, let me just take my coat off.’
What is going on? I thought to myself, as I removed my coat and returned my shoes to their place in the line-up under the bed. Sam must finally be feeling remorseful for her singularly selfish behaviour. I peeled off my tights and felt my legs heave a sigh of relief. Then I hung up my skirt and dropped my tights into the washing basket. Without a doubt, Sam inhabiting the kitchen and doing something other than opening a bottle of wine was a loud and clear expression of her love. I pulled on tracksuit bottoms and slid my feet into slippers. Ah, that’s lovely. I stood up, relishing for a moment the feeling of soft wool around my tired feet. Time to put my shoulders back and attempt to eat whatever it was that Sam had gone out of her comfort zone to cook. When my hand touched the doorknob, however, an unwelcome thought crossed my mind. Of course it could be that Sam wasn’t sorry at all. It could be that she simply wanted something. My heart sank. I really, really hoped that wasn’t the case. Not tonight.
The table was laid Sam-style, which involved a couple of mismatching knives and forks being thrown into the middle of the table. ‘Can I do anything?’ I hovered. It had been so long since Sam cooked, I couldn’t remember what to do.
‘No, sit down – it’ll be ready in a minute. I’m just going to serve it up, is that all right?’ Sam answered politely although I wasn’t convinced. I could hear that underneath it, Sam was still annoyed about me being so late home. I didn’t say anything and sat down obediently, trying very hard not to think cross little thoughts about the shoe being on the other foot.
‘Here you go.’ Sam put a plate of what looked like pasta with a tomato-based sauce in front of me.
‘Thanks,’ I said, and I meant it. It was nice to be cooked for, regardless of the attitude or the possible food poisoning.
‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ Sam said gruffly. She put her own plate down then returned to the kitchen counter to grab a bottle of wine and two glasses.
‘Here.’ Sam filled my glass – too deeply for my liking but she was obviously trying hard. ‘To you, Mara.’
‘To me?’
Sam clinked her glass with mine. ‘For being a patient friend!’
‘Cheers, Sam, I appreciate it.’ I took a big sip – anything to line the stomach. ‘I know you’ll be good for the money when you can.’
‘Money?’
‘That’s not what you meant?’
Sam’s face drained of colour. ‘What money, you mean the bills?’
‘Well, that and the rent.’
‘The rent? Have I missed a week?’
‘Actually, you’ve missed three weeks.’
‘Fuck.’ Sam wiped her face with her hands in a fed-up sweep. ‘Three weeks? I had no idea.’
I took another sip of wine. ‘What do you mean, then, by being a patient friend?’
‘Oh, you know, this Charlie business. Me running around like an idiot after him, coming in all hours, disappearing for days on end, generally losing my mind.’
‘Oh, Sam, don’t worry about that, at least you’ve stopped now.’
Sam looked at me with a pained expression.
‘What, you haven’t stopped?’
Sam sighed. ‘I don’t know. I think I might stop chasing his tail, I feel pretty down about it all right now, but . . .’ She sighed again, another dramatic sweep of her face. ‘The problem is it will only take one call, one text, one look from him and I’m right back there, panting after him. Putty in his hands.’
‘Is that what happened this weekend? Is he over his heartbreak, ready to jump back in the sack with the next girl in line?’
‘Ouch!’
‘Sorry, that probably sounded a bit harsh.’
Sam sighed.
The meal was cooling in front of me, goading me to take a bite, but it smelt . . . I couldn’t put my finger on it . . .
‘You’re probably not that far off. I don’t know, he was definitely not himself but by Sunday morning he was teasing me again, which is usually a good sign. Oh, I don’t know, Mara, I can’t seem to let it go.’
I looked at my friend. When was she going to screw her head on again?
‘Sam, you’re worth more than that. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. He doesn’t seem to make you happy, which is the point of loving someone, isn’t it?’
Sam nodded reluctantly.
‘Well, forget about him for a moment and let’s eat up. This food is getting cold.’
Sam poked the . . . stuff on her plate.
‘I’m not sure it could be worse.’
‘Come on chicken, on the count of three . . . one, two—’
At the same time we shoved in a forkful and reluctantly chewed for a few moments before reaching for our glasses at the same time to wash it down.
‘Oh my God, that’s disgusting!’ Sam shouted.
‘It’s . . . quite weird, Sam, but not disgusting.’
‘It’s fucking disgusting!’
‘Just wondering though, why did you put so much cinnamon in?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Are you sure? I’m sure I can taste it. It’s an . . . interesting choice.’
Sam went to fetch the jar of spice she’d used and held it out for me to see. ‘This so isn’t paprika!’
‘You are such a worry, Moriarty,’ I answered, laughing at my silly friend and feeling happier than I had in ages.