by Ivy Pembroke
Teddy said finally, “You’ll probably see her here again.”
“You think?” said Sam.
“Yes. Who only goes to a supermarket one time? When you see her again, be cool and ask her for coffee.”
“I’m not taking dating advice from my eight-year-old son.”
“You should. Aunt Ellen says you’re hopeless.”
“Yeah, but I think I’m slowly climbing to be a little less hopeless. So there’s that. Baby steps,” said Sam.
“Wait until I tell Aunt Ellen about the woman in the produce section,” said Teddy.
“Oh, God,” said Sam.
Chapter 5
How to prepare beetroot
How to prepare beetroot salad with bacon
Getting beetroot stains out of shirts
How to stop eyes watering while cutting a shallot
Is a shallot the same thing as an onion
What can I use for a grater if I don’t have a grater
Plane tickets to Fiji
“Teddy,” Sam said as his son came into the kitchen. “We are moving to Fiji.”
“We just got here and when we got here you told me to remind you that packing is horrible and the only thing worse than packing is unpacking and I was to remind you of that if you ever said we were moving ever again.”
“I don’t care,” said Sam. “We’re moving to Fiji. Fiji’s nice. You’ll like it.”
“What’s in Fiji?”
“Sun,” said Sam fervently, looking outside, where it was raining very energetically. Not even polite, wispy rain that Sam could have expected his guests to brave. But proper if-you-walk-outside-a-raging-flood-might-whisk-you-away rain.
Teddy stood at the window and looked out at the rain and said, “Maybe we should cancel the party.”
“No,” said Sam, determinedly chopping his beetroots into very fine pieces because surely that was the same as grating them. “We are definitely not canceling the party.”
“But it’s a barbecue,” said Teddy. “We’re supposed to be outside for it.”
“We’ll just be inside for it,” Sam said. “It’ll be an inside barbecue. It’ll be an adventure.”
There was a moment of silence.
Teddy said, “We probably should have put a rain date on the invitation.”
“Yes,” Sam agreed, chopping even more energetically. “We probably should have.”
“What are you doing?” Teddy asked, watching him.
“I am grating beetroot. I am grating beetroot even though we don’t have a grater. I have decided this is good enough. Who ever heard of grating beetroot, anyway?”
“I think you should give up on the beetroot salad,” said Teddy.
“Not when I’ve come so far,” said Sam.
“It stinks,” was Teddy’s assessment.
“You are not the world’s most supportive son, you know,” Sam informed him.
“It wouldn’t help you for me to tell you not to serve that to people you don’t know,” said Teddy, looking at the salad with his nose wrinkled. “You wanted to impress people, but I think this is the wrong way to go about it.”
Sam looked at his beetroot salad. “Yeah, wrong type of impression, isn’t it?”
“A bit,” agreed Teddy.
Sam sighed. “Ah, beetroot salad, we hardly knew ye.”
“You’re so weird,” said Teddy.
* * *
“I told you about this,” Anna was telling Marcel. “I know I told you.”
“That we have to go and socialize with strangers in the middle of torrential rains?” Marcel said. “You definitely did not tell me that.”
Anna huffed impatiently. “Well, I didn’t know it was going to rain at the time that I told you about the invitation.”
“Who are these people again?”
“They moved in where the Thurstons used to live.” Anna frowned at her shirt, decided to swap it for another one. Everything made her look fat lately; she had to stop eating so much chocolate.
“We never used to have to talk to the Thurstons,” Marcel remarked.
“Would you stop whining?” Anna said, pulling a new shirt over her head. “You’d think I was leading you to a firing squad. Fine. If you don’t want to go, you don’t have to go.”
“I don’t want to go,” Marcel said.
“Don’t go,” Anna snapped at him.
Emilia started playing the drums. Which was a thing she did whenever they argued.
Anna sighed and rubbed at her forehead, where a headache was lurking, and the drums weren’t helping, and the fighting with Marcel wasn’t helping, and the rain wasn’t helping, and the bloody party next door wasn’t helping.
Marcel said, “You’re awfully keen to go to this party.”
“I’m not. I’m really not,” Anna said. “And don’t even start. There’s nothing suspicious going on.” She considered her choices for shoes. What shoes would be best for standing around in mud and puddles?
“Well, it is a tad suspicious,” Marcel said. “When I wanted to go away for a few days, you weren’t nearly as keen as you are about wanting to go to this party.”
Anna batted Socks out of her way as she reached for her perfume. “Because going away would have cost money, and we’re trying to save money.”
“For what?” said Marcel.
Anna, perfume still in her hand, looked at him and said blankly, “What?”
“What are we saving money for?”
“What do you mean what are we saving money for?”
“How does the saying go? ‘A rainy day’?” Marcel gestured to the rain outside.
“It’s not meant literally. And there’s a lot to save for: Emilia’s future. Our future. We don’t know how long we’ll have our jobs and how long they’ll pay us for—”
“We also have no reason to think we’re about to lose our jobs. You’re making up scary troubles when there aren’t any.”
Anna put the perfume down with a sharp click and said, in a low furious tone, “Do you not remember running out of money before we could eat for the week? Counting every cent to try to pull together enough for milk for Emilia?”
Marcel walked over to her and caught up her hands in his own, as if that would be soothing, as if that could make her forget the endless driving panic of lying awake worrying over the child she’d brought into the world and how she would ever provide for her. “I remember that,” Marcel said. “Of course I do. But it was a long time ago. Emilia’s practically grown. She has plenty of milk, and whatever other food she desires. We cannot go back in time to give us money to get through those days. And we don’t need to. We made it through.”
Anna, after a moment, pulled her hands out of Marcel’s. The house was quiet; Emilia had stopped playing the drums, although the rain against the window seemed like a lingering echo of the sound. Anna was safe and warm, but in her gut was the memory of being empty and hollow and hungry, and she didn’t understand how Marcel could so easily forget that.
Anna said evenly, “I am going to meet our new neighbors.”
* * *
Max, coming down the stairs and finding Arthur hiding literally within the curtains by the front window, burst into laughter. “What are you doing?”
Arthur, shrouded in his curtain, did not take his gaze away from the window. “I am watching to see who’s going to be the first to go to the party.”
“And you’re wrapped up in drapery because . . . ?”
Arthur glowered at him. “Because I don’t want anyone to see me, obviously.”
“Darling, I am fairly sure they can still see you; you just look like a lunatic who likes to wear curtains now.”
“They can’t see me,” denied Arthur. “I’m stealthy.”
“My mistake,” said Max, and walked over to the window to peer out it.
Arthur grabbed him and pulled him into the curtain with him. “You can’t just stand there openly.”
“This is very romantic,” Max told him. “I do h
ope a good snog session is in our future.”
“Currently I foresee no snogging for you,” Arthur informed him primly.
“You are very cruel,” Max said. “Go away and bring back my nice husband.”
“Shut up,” said Arthur, and maybe leaned over him to peer out the window again, but maybe also pulled closer because it was almost a snuggle.
Max decided not to point out they were snuggling, as he thought that would be less likely to get him a snog. “Has anyone gone over yet?”
“Not yet,” said Arthur.
Max tried to look at his watch from within the confines of the curtain. “Well, it’s early still. No one wants to be the first one at a party.”
“Exactly,” said Arthur. “That’s why I’m waiting.”
Max let silence fall, watching Arthur as he watched the window. Then he said, “What if we’re all standing at our windows watching to see who’s going to be the first person to go over there, and none of us are going to go until someone else goes, and therefore no one will ever go?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Arthur. “That’s not what’s happening.” A pause. “No, hang on, that’s probably exactly what’s happening.”
“Yeah,” Max agreed.
Arthur was silent for another moment. “It’s just . . . if we go over now . . . what are we going to talk about? What are we going to talk about at all?”
“Probably the weather,” said Max.
“Okay. ‘Wow, terrible weather we’re having.’ ‘Yeah, just awful.’ ‘But I hear the sun might come out in a couple of days.’ ‘Oh, really? Lovely.’ Then what?”
Max chuckled into the skin behind Arthur’s ear. “Really, darling, your conversational prowess. How did you ever pull me?”
“I don’t recall my prowess there having anything to do with conversation,” replied Arthur.
Max laughed again. “Fair enough.”
“Oh.” Arthur leaned forward, closer to the window.
“Careful. They’ll see you.”
“The Basaks,” Arthur said. “The Basaks are the first to go over.”
“Should have put money on that,” Max remarked.
“He’s carrying something. I think they’re bringing food. Were we supposed to bring food to this thing?”
Max considered. “I think we might have some Jaffa Cakes.”
“They’ll have to do,” said Arthur grimly, like he was preparing for battle. “Let’s go.”
* * *
In the Basak house, Diya had a bowl bigger than her own head into which she was carefully arranging a vast amount of pakoras. Diya had a lot of bowls bigger than her own head. Diya spent a lot of time bringing vast amounts of food to people.
“Will they even want pakoras?” Darsh asked. “They’re not Indian.”
Diya stared at him. “Everyone wants pakoras.”
“If you say so,” said Darsh. “Are you sure they’re still even having this party?” He looked outside at the driving rain.
“They’re having it,” Diya said. “If they’re not, what will I do with all these pakoras?”
“I am confident you will find a use for them,” remarked Darsh.
Diya thrust the bowl into her husband’s arms and walked over to the stairs and shouted up, “Pari! Sai! Time to go!”
Sai came down the stairs, his hair flopping into his eyes.
“I wish you’d cut your hair,” Diya said. “Darsh, you should take him to have his hair cut.”
“Take me?” said Sai. “I’m not five!”
“Veterinarians need to have serious haircuts,” Darsh said.
“It’s true. I’m not even sure Anika’s cousin will let you shadow her with hair like that.”
“Shadow her?” Darsh asked.
“That’s what Anika said you call it,” Diya explained.
“You’ve already talked to her about it?” asked Sai, eyes wide.
“Of course,” said Diya. “I know how very keen you are on it. I didn’t want you to miss this opportunity.”
“Mum,” said Sai, and then sighed heavily.
“What?” said Diya. “It’ll be good for you.”
“I think it will give you an opportunity to see if you like it,” Darsh said. “You’re very lucky to have an opportunity like this.”
“Yeah,” agreed Sai glumly.
Diya frowned at him, but instead turned back to the stairs and shouted for Pari again.
Pari appeared at the top of the staircase. “I’m not coming,” she said, folding her arms.
Diya lifted her eyebrows at her. “You’re what?”
“I’m not coming. The new boy and I are at war over Jack, and so I can’t just—”
“No war,” Darsh said, leaning past Diya so he could see his daughter. “There is no war happening. You have no idea what real war actually is.”
“Don’t be difficult,” Diya said. “Your brother isn’t raising a fuss over having to go to the party.”
“Because Emilia will be there,” huffed Pari.
Sai squeaked, “What?”
Diya said, “Emilia? Who’s Emilia?”
“Is that the Polish girl from down the street?” Darsh said. “Is she going to be there?”
“Presumably,” Diya said. “All of the neighbors are going to be there. But why would Sai care?”
“Well,” said Sai, and pushed his hair out of his eyes.
“I understand she’s someone Sai’s age to talk to, and you of course should be polite to her. There is never any need to be rude,” Darsh said.
“Right,” Diya said. “Be polite. Try not to boast too much about how you’re going to be a veterinarian.”
“Mum,” said Sai, “I’m not even in university yet.”
Diya waved her hand to dismiss that ridiculous protest, because that was surely just a formality, and turned back to her daughter and said, “You are coming down these stairs right this instant and you are going to this party with us and we are all going to be very polite to all of the neighbors and then we don’t have to talk to them again.”
Pari, sulking with every step, dragged herself down the stairs.
Diya said, “Good. Let’s go,” and led the family out of the house into the rain.
* * *
The first ring of the doorbell made Sam realize that this was actually happening.
He looked at Teddy. “We’re having a party.”
Teddy gave him the why-are-you-so-daft look.
Sam didn’t want to explain that he wasn’t sure he’d ever had a party on his own. He had hosted them with Sara, of course, but that had been Sara’s thing, mostly. The same way making friends had been Sara’s thing. Maybe Teddy was feeling adrift in England, a place he knew only vaguely, and maybe Sam was technically back home, but this was where Sam was adrift, in the place of being two parents at once and having to excel at everything because there was no one there to complement the weak parts anymore.
Sam glanced around the kitchen, which was an absolute mess, and then decided, “We’ll just keep everyone in the lounge and the dining room.”
Walking down the hallway to get the door, he glanced in the lounge and dining room, both of which were only approximately operational and both of which were only half-decorated because Sophie and Evie hadn’t had time to finish.
Probably they should have got decorations for the party. Sam opened the door on the Indian family from down the street: the woman he’d met, and the girl about Teddy’s age, and then what he presumed to be her husband, and then a teenage boy.
“Hi,” he said, with his very brightest smile intact. “Welcome!”
“Hello,” said the woman, and Sam raked his memory trying to remember if he’d ever learned her name. “This is my husband Darsh.”
“Hi,” Sam said to the man, who was carrying the largest bowl Sam had ever seen. “Can I . . . take that from you?”
“Please,” said Darsh, with a smile.
Sam took the bowl. Which was heavier and more awkward than he
had anticipated.
The woman said, “They’re pakoras. I thought you might appreciate some food.”
“More than you know,” Sam said. “Come in, come in.” He looked at the teenager and said, “Hi. I’m Sam.”
“Sai,” the teenager said, and pushed his hair out of his eyes.
“So,” said Sam, carrying the bowl back to the kitchen. “Can
I get you something to drink?”
Everyone followed him into the kitchen, which had not exactly been Sam’s intention, since the kitchen smelled of beetroot and also looked like a bomb composed entirely of beetroot had gone off in it.
I should have lit a candle, thought Sam. And then: Do I own any candles?
The family was taking in the kitchen. Sam thought he ought to crawl under a rock, except that he didn’t know of any rocks big enough.
The woman said, “Getting settled, I see.”
“Gradually,” Sam said. “It’s a lot of boxes.” He looked at Teddy and the little Indian girl—what was her name? Sam wasn’t sure he’d caught that, either—who were basically facing off against each other. “Do you play video games?” Sam asked, hoping for an affirmative response.
“Video games are stupid,” pronounced the girl.
“Okay,” said Sam.
“Pari,” said her mother, which solved the question of the little girl’s name.
“Sai plays video games,” said Darsh.
“Oh, good.” Sam looked at the teenager, who nodded. “Teddy’s pretty good at some very uplifting games.”
“Uplifting?” said the woman. Sam really had to find out her name.
“They’re all called things like Mass Extinction Event,” Sam explained.
“I love Mass Extinction Event,” offered Sai.
And Sam had been hoping to find Teddy a friend but hadn’t predicted it would be a teenager. At any rate, Sai and Teddy headed upstairs to play video games and Pari was commanded to join them by her mother and Sam was just trying to figure out if he ought to offer drinks again when the doorbell rang again.
It was the gay couple, who appeared to have chosen the absolute worst time to make the dash down the street, because they looked like a couple of drowned rats.
