Since Gemma was keen to bring wine, Annie decided to make a nonalcoholic hot apple punch as a complement, reasoning that the smell of cinnamon and mixed spice heating on the little hob would also create a sense of warmth in the chilly room. She was planning to cook some mini pesto tartlets to have hot, along with antipasti and a big bowl of fancy crisps. Preparation, planning, and list making were some of Annie’s greatest joys, and starting a new life required a whole new level of rumination that she was only too happy to embrace.
It was late in the afternoon. It had been chilly all day, the pale sun masked behind smoky clouds, and now even that scant light was starting to fade. The air was clammy, and she could feel it clinging to her hair as a woolly gray fog slipped over the rocks and blotted out the landscape. Annie shivered and felt grateful for the little waft of smoke spiraling out from the chimney of Saltwater Nook, signaling warmth within. As she hauled her bags of shopping up the garden path, she saw a wicker hamper sitting on the top step in front of the door. She climbed the stone steps and stooped to read a paper parcel tag tied to the basket handle:
With Love, Max
Eternally Sorry
Oh, for fuck’s sake, thought Annie, what now? She hoped it wasn’t some bizarre love token, like his severed finger. She unlocked the door and pushed her shopping inside, then crouched down, undid the leather straps, and lifted the lid. Inside were two beige plastic baskets made to look like wicker, a DVD of The Lost Boys, a sachet of southern fried seasoning, and a small cool-box containing a pack of six chicken drumsticks and a bag of frozen French fries. A bottle of cream soda lay in the bottom, along with a packet of butterscotch flavor Instant Whip and a pint of milk.
Oh, he’s good, she thought. He’s pulling out the big guns this time. She tried to remain unmoved by the gesture, but the basket lit a scene in her mind. It had been her friend Claire’s seventeenth birthday. A few friends gathered in her living room to watch a rented video of The Lost Boys. Annie sat on a cushion on the floor. Max was next to her. Max wasn’t her boyfriend, but she fancied him in that desperate way that only teenagers can: all-consuming, breath-stuttering, electric passion that torments and exhilarates. She remembered the intoxication of his nearness. How she thought her heart would explode out of her chest as his warm hand reached for hers and held it. Her friends whooped and shrieked as Corey Haim speared a vampire through a stereo on the TV. But Annie didn’t care about The Lost Boys anymore because Max Sharpe, hottest boy in sixth form, was leaning toward her. In that moment, she felt her whole life had been a mere prelude to French kissing Max on Claire Smith’s living room floor. As the credits rolled, Claire’s mum served up southern fried chicken and chips in baskets, and Annie and Max became an item.
Shit! thought Annie. How does he do that?
“Hello!”
Annie jumped, startled, and almost lost her footing, clinging to the handrail to steady herself. “Holy shit!” The memory bubble popped, and Annie suddenly felt the cold mist seeping through her clothes.
“Sorry!” Paul laughed. He was grinning up at her from the bottom step. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Annie. “I was lost in my own little world. How are you?”
“I’m good,” said Paul. “You?”
“Fine,” said Annie, still distracted by the hamper.
“I’ve bought friendship flowers,” said Paul. He waved a bunch of late-flowering hydrangeas. “I don’t want things to be awkward between us. I think we get on really well.” He paused. “It would be a shame for one night to stop us hanging out as friends.”
Annie smiled. What a grown-up, she thought. How refreshing.
“I completely agree,” she said. “As a matter of fact, how would you like to have dinner with me?”
“Great!” said Paul. “When?”
“Tonight,” said Annie. “Come on in, and I’ll make a start.”
“What’s on the menu?” Paul asked.
Annie held aloft one of the plastic baskets.
“Chicken in a basket,” she said.
“Whoa,” said Paul. “How could anyone refuse an invitation as retro as that.”
It seemed to Annie that the best way to tamp down the flame of an old memory was to re-create it with a new friend. She guessed—as she coated the drumsticks in their bright orange southern fried crumb—that Max was parked in a lay-by up in the village, waiting for Annie to call him and ask him to share the hamper with her for old times’ sake. The thought of him poised, phone in hand, gave her no malicious pleasure, but neither did it make her feel guilty. This is progress, she thought.