The Origins of Iris by Beth Lewis

Author:Beth Lewis [Lewis, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Published: 2021-05-24T00:00:00+00:00

Before

I ran up the steps into our building, into the elevator, bouncing on my heels as the carriage chugged up. Then a last walk-jog down the corridor to our door. I stopped outside. Tried to push down the rising anxiety I’d felt every day of the two months since I’d accused her of cheating.

I was late. It was my fault. It was always my fault because no matter what I’m doing, I never leave enough time. For Christ’s sake, Iris!

I said it all to myself before she could. Took the sting out.

I breezed in hoping I wasn’t that late, only twenty . . . seven or so minutes, and besides, Claude always allowed contingency time because she knew me so well.

But this time, I’d fucked up.

This time, Claude’s contingency had melted away in a panic of preparation, and when she said 5.30, she meant 5.25, not eh, sometime around six.

‘Hey,’ I said, all light and smiling, dropping my keys on the side table.

‘Hey?’

Fuck.

‘Where have you been?’

Claude stood behind the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, apron on, patched with flour and some kind of sauce, hair tied back, smear of chocolate or similar on her jawline, surrounded by a battleground of canapés and ‘small bites’ and everything that could possibly go into making them.

I put the groceries she’d asked me to get on the table and set about unpacking and putting away before she could tell me to.

‘Sorry, babe, I was looking everywhere for the olives you wanted. It took forever.’

‘That’s why I asked you to go yesterday.’

And I’d planned to. I’d tried to. But then Ellis called and we went for a drink and then another, and ended up at the movies and, well, shit.

‘Did you get the olives?’

I braced myself. ‘I tried four delis, nobody had them. I got these instead.’ I held up the jar. Steeled myself.

Claude sighed, hands on the counter, chin to her chest. She stayed like that, taking long, slow breaths, while I stood awkwardly, a schoolchild outside the principal’s office without a chair.

‘I’m sorry,’ I tried, but she shook her head.

‘Will you help me with the salmon? Guests will be arriving in an hour.’

I reached out to her, but she moved away, picked up a knife, sliced the chives.

‘Claude?’

She put down the knife and looked at me for the first time since I walked in the door. ‘Iris. It is my birthday and my friends are coming for dinner. In an hour. I want it all to be perfect, so please, can you prepare the salmon?’

I did. Best I could. I wasn’t what you’d call a natural-born chef. My mother said eating was my strongest skill. But I cut the smoked fish, layered it on tiny toast discs, dabbed on some cream cheese and a couple of perfect chives, all under Claude’s eye. I felt her bristle beside me, felt the weight of her judgement, felt her hover over my movements. When a piece of salmon toppled, I heard her sigh. When the cream cheese dab was too big, I heard a sharp inhale.

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