A Perfect Marriage by Alison Booth

Author:Alison Booth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: RedDoor
Published: 2018-02-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

NOW

A wind has sprung up and is rattling the kitchen window frames. Charlie and my mother are still embroidering anecdotes while I have been transported to Buckinghamshire and back. Now they are reminiscing about the day that Charlie and the son of the Coverack inn-keeper almost succeeded in launching my father’s boat.

The dining room clock strikes half six. ‘Time to think about what we’re going to eat.’ I jump to my feet.

‘What about a glass of something first?’ Charlie says, winking at me. Her grandmother is very fond of a little tipple as she calls it. I get out the bottle of white wine I put in the refrigerator this morning.

‘Lovely idea, Charlie,’ says my mother with alacrity. ‘Will you join me?’

‘No. I’ve got to do a bit more homework after dinner. I’m sure Mum will though. And I’ll sit with you while you knock back a glass.’

‘You’re so crude, Charlie. I sip wine, I don’t knock it back.’

‘Very lady-like, Gran. Would you like to see some photos Marge sent me?’

‘Marge, your step-grandmother?’

‘The very one. They came today.’

I open the bottle and pour two glasses. ‘Drink it upstairs,’ I tell my mother. She looks tired and will be more comfortable in an armchair talking to her beloved Charlie. But I’m not being entirely altruistic; I don’t want to hear them talking about the photos and I’m expecting Anthony to call shortly. If my mother overhears the conversation she’ll be full of questions.

‘The Blake bloke’ll be ringing soon,’ says Charlie, as if she can read my mind. ‘So she wants to be alone.’

‘Who’s the Blake bloke, Sally?’

‘Awesome new admirer,’ says Charlie, grinning. ‘He’s in the States at the moment. Phones every second night. Like, at seven o’clock on the dot. You were out the other night, Granny, when he rang.’

‘Does he live there?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘He’s just a friend. He’s working there this term.’ I busy myself extracting vegetables from the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. The conversation behind me has a life of its own, with or without my involvement.

‘How old is he?’ my mother says, switching her interrogation to Charlie.

‘Dunno Gran.’

‘Charlie!’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. Mum knows. Ancient, I expect.’

‘Ancient like your mother?’

‘Probably.’

‘What does that make me?’

‘Antediluvian!’

While I can’t help laughing, I’ve had enough of them both. ‘Off you go now,’ I say, clapping my hands like I used to when Charlie was a child and I was shooing her out of the way. ‘You can entertain each other in the living room while I get on with cooking.’

Alone in the kitchen I start to make dinner. Preparing vegetables is a form of therapy; cutting up the onions and braising them slowly in olive oil; slicing through the fleshy courgettes; arranging the cod pieces on the bed of vegetables and pouring over the top a sauce of coarsely chopped tomatoes and herbs. I am placing the dish in the oven when the phone starts ringing. Involuntarily I look at my watch. Seven o’clock precisely. Impeccable timing.

As I wash my hands, I hear my mother’s footsteps overhead, clicking to the phone in the living room.

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