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It was a pleasure to cook in the massive state-of-the-art kitchen. It was truly a chef’s space, with everything she could possibly need right at her fingertips. She’d been honest when she’d boasted about being a decent cook. She happily whipped up a chicken korma—one of her dad’s specialties—from scratch, with butter naan and raita as sides.
Trystan proved an able sous chef, happily chopping and dicing anything she needed him to. He remained largely silent, while Iris regaled him with stories of her family’s business and some of the more outlandish events they’d planned and catered.
“I’m actually a little sorry I missed the Bhandari wedding this past weekend. It’s one of the biggest events we’ve ever catered. Over a thousand guests. Dad was really chuffed we got the contract.
“I went to school with the bride, Shruti. She and I were never really friends, she was more popular than me. I didn’t have many friends at school, I always had my head stuck in a book or I’d be staring into space thinking up crazy stories. The other kids thought I was a bit weird.”
“Did they bully you?” It was the first time he’d spoken in ages, and it made her aware of how long she’d been prattling on inanely.
“Sorry, you must be bored to tears. I do tend to go on a bit when given free rein to talk.”
“If I were bored to tears I wouldn’t be asking questions, now would I?”
Fair point.
“What was the question?” she asked, prevaricating.
“Were you bullied?”
“A little,” she admitted. She ignored his annoyed hiss when she deliberately looked away from him to “check” on the curry simmering away on the gas stove top for the second time in under a minute.
“A little?” he repeated and she inhaled shakily, before forcing herself to meet that all-seeing gaze.
“Okay, a lot. Usually small things, like name-calling and taking or breaking my stuff. They made fun of my braces, my hair, my body. My parents being in the service industry. Nothing was off limits to them.
“I didn’t want a phone, and I had no social media accounts because I knew the online bullying would be relentless if I did. And it became yet another thing for them to mock me about.
“Then one Friday afternoon, just after the final bell, Shruti—the ringleader—and her cohorts shoved me into a supply room and locked the door. The teachers were all in a staff meeting and the other kids had mostly gone home already. Any student who did hear my panicked screams daren’t go against Shruti and her minions. It felt like I was locked in there, in the dark, for hours. But in reality it was only forty minutes or so. That’s how long it took for my form teacher to return to the classroom and find me there. I was a wreck. I’d…”
She stopped talking, not sure she wanted to tell him anymore, her face blossoming with color.
“What?” His voice quiet, reassuring, and interested. His eyes were gentle.
She breathed out a shuddering sigh and shrugged. Her fingers tracing the veins in the marble-top counter.
“I’d wet myself. No other students were there to witness it, but… I was so scared they’d find out. That it would be another thing for them to mock me about.”
“How old were you?”
She’d been so absorbed in the memories that she’d mostly put behind her that the question, uttered in that dark, brooding voice, startled her. She jumped and looked at him. She was getting so used to being in his company every day that it no longer seemed surreal that she was standing here in Trystan Abbott’s presence.
“It started when I was fourteen and didn’t stop until I started my A-levels at seventeen. They were the longest three years of my life. I was fifteen at the time of that particular incident.”
“So, you were sorry to miss the wedding because you planned to spit in the champagne fountain, right?” he asked and—after the meander down shitty memory lane—his dry wit was very welcome. Iris burst into laughter and he watched her for a moment, his eyes alight with an indefinable emotion, before he joined in on the laughter.
“Not gonna lie, the thought definitely occurred to me,” she admitted with a chuckle. “But honestly? I wanted to witness the spectacle. All the gorgeous saris, the colors, the food. I fully intended to remain out of the bride’s sight, though. I wanted to avoid the inevitable snarky comments. She really is such a bitch. And going by the few times I’d encountered her over the past few years, the last decade has done nothing to improve her disposition at all.”
“Do you work for your parents full time?” he asked, while removing a couple of plates from a kitchen cabinet.
“No. I help out most weekends, and when they’re short-staffed, but I’m a freelance editor. I work mostly with indie authors, and have a decent—and growing—client base.”
He set the table, while she turned off the gas cooker to give the curry a few minutes to cool down.
“Sounds like a thriving business.”
“It is. I earn good money and enjoy the work. But…”
“You want to write your own stories,” he completed for her, and she blinked at him in surprise.
