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It’s upside down with four bespoke legs erected high in the air. He suddenly grips two of the legs and heaves them towards himself, enabling the table to lift onto its side, and then he wraps an arm over the top and pulls it down with a thump so that it’s standing upright. Dust particles jump into the air, sparkling when they catch in the white light streaming in through the open doorway.
He grabs a cloth from his back pocket and rubs down the surface of the table, only looking up at me again when it’s so clean that I’m reflecting in its dark polished surface.
“Why do you like that?” I ask, looking at him from the other side of the top.
He rolls a shoulder as he stuffs the cloth back into his pocket. “I like putting the work in.”
I raise my eyebrows. Then I reach out an arm so that I can poke a finger on the table, moving it to test if it wobbles. It doesn’t move an inch.
“Sturdy,” I say simply.
He nods his head. “It needs to be.”
I look away from him, turning my head so that my hair covers my glowing cheeks. I hear him move across the room and then the dull scrapes of the two chairs being placed at opposite sides of the table sound in the quiet room.
“Only two chairs,” I acknowledge, my brow suddenly creasing. “You’re not coming?”
He wipes his hands on the back of his pants and then walks around to my side of the table. His hands encase my hips, automatically moving our bodies flush together, and he dips down so that he can give me a light kiss.
“I don’t need a chair because I’m not eating with your guest,” he says, a hard flash behind his eyes when he mentions my sister. “But trust me, I’ll be coming,” he says firmly, and my belly whirls, warm and throbbing.
*
With every timer turned off and everything cooked, I lean nervously against the new table, my fingers gently skimming the polished edge. When I look up through the front window of the bungalow, the valley outside darkened by heavy winter evening clouds, I see my reflection crystal clear.
I’m wearing a high neck dress in baby pink, its hem floating just below the knee, with a soft cream cardigan to insulate my arms. My hair is in a blonde cotton candy blow-out and my cheeks are a little more flushed than usual after my hours at the stove.
I look like a little Battenberg.
I walk quickly across the floor, my pointed satin kitten heels clapping swiftly against the wood, and I rip the curtains shut to block out the mirror image. Then I head back to the table, pedantically realign the kitchenware, and check my phone for the time. It’s 18:43. My mom said that Holly would be here most likely between six and seven but the lack of communication is making me itchy.
In an act of daughterly goodwill I unblocked my sister’s number on my cell, expecting an onslaught of apologies from October, followed by maybe some kind of explanation at the time of their “break up”, but what I actually found made my chest ache even more.
There was nothing. She hadn’t sent me one message, from the time that she started sleeping with my ex fiancé to the time that they split.
I stare blankly at my phone, the frown on my forehead battling with the stinging behind my eyes.
I mean, obviously this dinner was a terrible idea forme, but maybe it’ll give Holly the opportunity to…
I struggle to come up with a word to justify or defend her actions. If my mom hadn’t asked me to do this then there’s no way that I’d be even considering forgiving her tonight.
By seven o’clock I’m so hyper-alert that I’ve taken to pacing, my hand rubbing desperately at my chest as I try to think of what I’ll say to her when she arrives. I think about it for a solid ten minutes and not one expletive-free sentence comes to mind.
At half seven I’m pretty much numb. I’ve been listening out for the gravel-crunch of a cab, the clipped tap of designer heels mounting my step, but all that I get is the faint whistle of the wind coursing heavily through the pine trees. I shudder, cold, and I finally allow myself to sink down into the chair that Mitch spent last night upholstering for me as the truth hits home.
She’s not coming. I was jilted by my ex and now I’m being jilted by the woman that he cheated on me with. My own sister, no less. She’s standing me up, and she was the one in the wrong in the first place.
I press my fingers against the centre of my brow and the oven suddenly hums to life, snapping me out of my depression spiral. I glance over to it, checking that it hasn’t randomly turned itself on, and a cringing pain tightens in my stomach as I see all of the dishes and ramekins keeping the food warm in there. I close my eyes, wincing, and then I let myself arch back in Mitch’s chair, the soft red padding supporting my body like a hug.
A loud rap hits the front door and my eyes fly over to it, my heart stilling in my chest.
Three raps. His usual.
Oh God.I glance around the room, the untouched table set-up, the foil wrapped dishes inside the oven, and mortification makes my blood turn cold.
He can’t see this. He can’t know what happened.
“Harper?” His voice is low as he calls my name through the wooden panel of the door. For some reason I can tell that he hasn’t smiled in the past seven hours. Maybe longer. “You in there?”
