begun to clear the paper liners from out the counter, and I'd clean forgotten to scrub out the juicer. Carrot sediment had dribbled and set on the chrome in dirty orange streaks.
'I can't leave you to do any bloody thing,' she said, scrubbing the sheen off the metal with a scourer.
'Leave it to soak for a couple of minutes, darling.'
She dropped it into the sink, knocked the remaining pieces in after it, and tore off her gloves. Her eyes darted about the kitchen, as she hunted for signs of catastrophe.
'I washed the floor in here,' I offered.
'I didn't think it needed it,' she said.
'It was busy today. We're nearly out of sausage.'
'I told you to buy more last Saturday.'
'How were the roads?'
She went back to the till. 'Haven't you cashed up yet?'
'I haven't had the chance,' I said, hating the whine in my voice.
She started scooping change out of the till and onto the worktop in short, compulsive jerks. She scraped pennies into her palm, counting them much like a Macanese croupier deals cards in the Jai-Alai: with an expression somewhere between boredom and contempt. I watched her fingers curl and jerk. She wore her nails short now, and even so one of them had torn. The skin on that side of her finger was inflamed.
'That can wait,' I said, wanting her to look at me, even if it meant a confrontation.
'Don't tell me what to do.'
'Look at me,' I said.
She looked at me. 'What?' she said.
She was my age: twenty-six when we first met. But nothing that had happened in the years since had changed her the way it had changed me, or Hamley. The crows' feet at the corners of her almond eyes were still the suggestive, bedroomy hints I remembered from our first meeting. Her skin was still sound and white: the proverbial porcelain of Orientalist fantasy. Only her hands had changed, coarsened by her work at the cafe - but that was nothing a little cream and a return to our old life wouldn't cure.
'What?'
Her mouth was small, her lips full and puckered: when she was younger she used a dark lipstick to make them appear bruised, an eruption of something absurdly sensual at the centre of that perfect sloe-eyed mask.
I said, 'I think the Japs must have put us in a guide. They like our teas.'
She started counting the silver.
'They come here after matinees at the Globe.'
'I'm counting,' she said.
'Twelve,' I said, plucking a number out of the air.
She flapped a hand at me to shut up.
'Six,' I shouted. 'Twenty-four. Plus three.'
'The cakes are in the boot,' she said, not missing a beat. 'Let's not be here all night.'
Our Mazda Xedos was parked opposite. Its silver skin, so striking in the day, reflected back the sodium-lit surfaces of the street like a fly-spotted mirror. I got all the way to the boot before I remembered the keys. Eva had them. Had she watched me, traipsing out here like an idiot? I went back inside. 'I need the keys.'
'Oh - ' She pressed a fistful of coins to her forehead, as though the close contact might help her remember what they came to. But it had gone out of her head. She slapped the coins back on the counter with a bang. Several went spinning off and disappeared behind the worktop.
'Sorry,' I said.
She fished in her pocket and threw her keys in my general direction. 'Ta,' I said, for all the good it did. In the boot there were stacks of flat square boxes: the sturdy, corrugated cardboard ones contained pecan pies and apple tartins and carrot cakes so juicy and fatty you could hardly cut them without the whole thing collapsing into a gooey mess. The thin white ones held rounds of brie. There was a carrier full of large paper packets of coffee beans, and the smell coming out of it was so heady and spicy I stuck my head in the bag for thirty seconds of pleasurable hyperventilation. I slung the carrier round my wrist and carried the brie in on top of a stack of cake boxes.
Eva was bagging up the money at last. I dropped the boxes and the bag on the worktop beside her. She walked past me and out
'I can't leave you to do any bloody thing,' she said, scrubbing the sheen off the metal with a scourer.
'Leave it to soak for a couple of minutes, darling.'
She dropped it into the sink, knocked the remaining pieces in after it, and tore off her gloves. Her eyes darted about the kitchen, as she hunted for signs of catastrophe.
'I washed the floor in here,' I offered.
'I didn't think it needed it,' she said.
'It was busy today. We're nearly out of sausage.'
'I told you to buy more last Saturday.'
'How were the roads?'
She went back to the till. 'Haven't you cashed up yet?'
'I haven't had the chance,' I said, hating the whine in my voice.
She started scooping change out of the till and onto the worktop in short, compulsive jerks. She scraped pennies into her palm, counting them much like a Macanese croupier deals cards in the Jai-Alai: with an expression somewhere between boredom and contempt. I watched her fingers curl and jerk. She wore her nails short now, and even so one of them had torn. The skin on that side of her finger was inflamed.
'That can wait,' I said, wanting her to look at me, even if it meant a confrontation.
'Don't tell me what to do.'
'Look at me,' I said.
She looked at me. 'What?' she said.
She was my age: twenty-six when we first met. But nothing that had happened in the years since had changed her the way it had changed me, or Hamley. The crows' feet at the corners of her almond eyes were still the suggestive, bedroomy hints I remembered from our first meeting. Her skin was still sound and white: the proverbial porcelain of Orientalist fantasy. Only her hands had changed, coarsened by her work at the cafe - but that was nothing a little cream and a return to our old life wouldn't cure.
'What?'
Her mouth was small, her lips full and puckered: when she was younger she used a dark lipstick to make them appear bruised, an eruption of something absurdly sensual at the centre of that perfect sloe-eyed mask.
I said, 'I think the Japs must have put us in a guide. They like our teas.'
She started counting the silver.
'They come here after matinees at the Globe.'
'I'm counting,' she said.
'Twelve,' I said, plucking a number out of the air.
She flapped a hand at me to shut up.
'Six,' I shouted. 'Twenty-four. Plus three.'
'The cakes are in the boot,' she said, not missing a beat. 'Let's not be here all night.'
Our Mazda Xedos was parked opposite. Its silver skin, so striking in the day, reflected back the sodium-lit surfaces of the street like a fly-spotted mirror. I got all the way to the boot before I remembered the keys. Eva had them. Had she watched me, traipsing out here like an idiot? I went back inside. 'I need the keys.'
'Oh - ' She pressed a fistful of coins to her forehead, as though the close contact might help her remember what they came to. But it had gone out of her head. She slapped the coins back on the counter with a bang. Several went spinning off and disappeared behind the worktop.
'Sorry,' I said.
She fished in her pocket and threw her keys in my general direction. 'Ta,' I said, for all the good it did. In the boot there were stacks of flat square boxes: the sturdy, corrugated cardboard ones contained pecan pies and apple tartins and carrot cakes so juicy and fatty you could hardly cut them without the whole thing collapsing into a gooey mess. The thin white ones held rounds of brie. There was a carrier full of large paper packets of coffee beans, and the smell coming out of it was so heady and spicy I stuck my head in the bag for thirty seconds of pleasurable hyperventilation. I slung the carrier round my wrist and carried the brie in on top of a stack of cake boxes.
Eva was bagging up the money at last. I dropped the boxes and the bag on the worktop beside her. She walked past me and out
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