Dinner at Mine Read Free Page B

and pinched the edge, pulling at it experimentally. She felt weight at the bottom of the bag. Slowly, she pulled the bag from under the damp vegetable peelings and
opened it, revealing a shiny red onion at the bottom.
    Rosie looked at the onion for a few more seconds. It seemed fine. It had been wrapped in the plastic bag, mostly, so it was protected. There was nothing harmful in the rubbish. And no one was
watching.
    She cut up the onion quickly, and once she had scattered the slices into the salad and scraped the peel into the bin, covering up the plastic bag, the tension in her shoulders subsided.
    With a teaspoon she tasted the salad. Good, but . . . well, it was mainly lentil, wasn’t it? Maybe a bit more maple syrup? She measured out two overflowing teaspoons and stirred them
in.
    Oh dear, now it was a bit sweet. Was there any lemon left? She squeezed what was left of it over the salad, picking out the pips by hand. Hmm, that was now a bit sharp. More syrup?
    Rosie looked at the time. They were late, but so was she. Thank God she’d already got changed. As long as her hair had survived the lemon . . .
    The Gruyère loaf that stood cooling on the side looked dense and misshapen. Rosie cut it into thick, irregular slices to serve with drinks. The chunks fell apart as she laid them out,
even though she’d been so careful about the timing. Bloody thing. Why hadn’t she just got some nuts instead?
    After hanging up her apron, Rosie set out the loaf alongside the crackers on the coffee table. The quiet tidiness of the living room immediately soothed her. Every time she looked at her Noguchi
coffee table and Accent Wall with its fresh wallpaper, she felt a sense of contented calm.
    It had taken two months of disruptive painting and dec orating work, twice as long as they’d said it would, but Rosie felt that room was worth it. She had been looking forward to having
guests in here ever since it had been finished. Not that she wanted to show off, exactly, but she was certain that they’d be impressed.
    She crossed the hall to the dining room. The table still wasn’t laid, but soon it would be beautifully arranged with plates designed by a younger member of the Conran family and cutlery
made by a German modernist. Perhaps the evening would be a success.
    Rosie started sharply at the firm ring of the doorbell. The tone was too insistent, she thought; it always made her jump. Perhaps she should try to find something softer. But never mind that
now. She smoothed down the front of her dress and went to answer the door.

Two
    Marcus watched Sarah and Rosie embrace warmly before saying hello to Rosie himself and engaging in a much more awkward kiss.
    ‘Sorry if we’re a bit late,’ Sarah said.
    ‘No, not at all. You’re the first ones here, actually.’
    ‘Oh I’m sorry . . .’
    ‘No, no, I was just starting to wonder where everyone was.’
    Marcus tried to identify the jumble of smells coming from the kitchen as Rosie led them down the hall, but couldn’t get much beyond a vague, sweet spiciness. He did not think the aroma was
intimidating.
    ‘Smells lovely,’ Sarah said.
    ‘Thank you. I hope you’ll like it. I’m just putting the last few things together. Let me get you something to drink.’
    ‘Oh, yes – we brought some wine,’ Sarah said, scrabbling around in her handbag. Marcus couldn’t understand how she carried it around with her like that, with all that
useless stuff in it. She could never find anything, even a bottle of wine, for God’s sake.
    Rosie took it without looking at the label.
    ‘Well, here it is,’ she said as they paused in the doorway of the living room. ‘Our sitting room is finally finished. What do you think?’
    ‘Oh it’s lovely,’ Sarah said, before stepping in.
    Marcus experienced a moment of uncertainty when he saw the sofa, a sleek understated design that he didn’t recognize or dislike. He had not previously suspected Rosie of having good taste,
and the