nervously, and said aloud: That’s alright, I know my place. She made a sarcastic face and went back to the cooker. He watched.
/
When they had finished eating, Alice got up to clear the plates from the table. The rattling and scraping of cutlery, the noise of the tap. Simon was asking Felix about work. Tired now and contented, Eileen sat quietly with her eyes half-closed. A fruit crumble warming in the oven. On the table the detritus of the meal, a soiled napkin, sodden leaves in the salad bowl, soft drops of blue-white candle wax on the tablecloth.
Alice asked whether anyone wanted coffee. For me, please, said Simon. A carton of ice cream melting slowly on the countertop, wet rivulets running down the sides. Alice unscrewed the base of a silver coffee pot. And what do you do for a job? Felix was saying. Alice told me you work in politics or something. In the sink a dirty saucepan, a wooden chopping board. Then the hiss and spark of the gas burner, and Alice saying: Do you still take it black? Eileen opening her eyes simply to see Simon half-turn toward Alice where she stood at the burner and say over his shoulder: Yes, thank you. No need for sugar, thanks. His attention returning to Felix then, resettling, and Eileen’s eyes fluttering almost closed once more. The white of his throat. When he trembled over her, blushing, murmuring, is that okay, I’m sorry. The clanking noise of the oven door, the fragrance of butter and apples. Alice’s white apron discarded over the back of a chair, strings trailing. Right, we worked with him on something last year, Simon was saying. I don’t know him well, but his staff speak very highly of him. And the house around them quiet and solid with its nailed-down floorboards, with its bright burnished tiles in the candlelight. And the gardens dim and silent. The sea breathing peacefully outside, breathing its salt air through the windows. To think of Alice living here. Alone, or not
alone. She was standing at the countertop then, serving the crumble out into bowls with a spoon. Everything in one place. All of life knotted into this house for the night, like a necklace knotted at the bottom of a drawer.
/
After dinner Felix went outside to smoke, and Eileen went upstairs to make a phone call. In the kitchen Simon and Alice washed the dishes together. Through the window over the sink Felix’s slim small figure was now and then visible as he wandered around the darkening garden. The lit tip of his cigarette. Alice watched for the sight of him while she dried the dishes with a chequered tea towel and stacked them away in the cupboards. When Simon asked her how her work was going, she shook her head. Oh, I can’t talk about that, she said. It’s secret. No, I’m retired. I don’t write books anymore.
He handed her the damp dripping salad bowl and she patted at it with her tea towel. I find that hard to believe, he said. Felix was no longer visible out the window then, he had gone around the other side of the house, or further back among the trees. You’ll have to believe it, she said. I’m burned out. I only had two good ideas. No, it was too painful anyway. And I’m rich now, you know. I think I’m richer than you are. Leaving the salad tongs down on the wire rack beside the sink, Simon said: I’ll bet. Alice put the bowl away and closed the cupboard door again. I paid off my mother’s mortgage last year, she said. Did I tell you that? I have so much money I just do things kind of randomly. I will do other things, I have plans, but I’m very disorganised. Simon looked at her but she looked away, taking the salad tongs off the rack, wrapping them up in the tea towel to dry them. That was generous of you, he said. She was embarrassed. Yes, well, I’m only telling you so you’ll think I’m a good person, she said. You know I long for your approval. She dropped the tongs into the cutlery drawer. I approve of you
completely, he said. Her shoulders jolted up, and she replied, half-joking: Oh no, I’m not to be completely approved of. But you can approve of me a little bit. He was silent for a moment, wiping down a roasting dish with the sponge. Restless now, she glanced out the window again and saw nothing. The light fading. Silhouettes of trees. Anyway, she isn’t speaking to me anymore, she said. Neither of them are. Simon paused, and then put the dish down on the rack. Your mother and your brother, he said. She took the dish up and started dabbing at it with the towel, quick hard little dabs, saying: Or I’m not speaking to them, I can’t remember which. We had a falling-out when I was in hospital. You know they’re living together again now. He had let the sponge float down through the dishwater to the base of the sink. I’m sorry, he said. That sounds miserable.
She gave a raw laugh, scalding her throat, and went on dabbing at the roasting dish. The sad thing is, I feel better when I don’t have to see them, she said. It’s not very Christian, I know. I hope they’re happy. But I prefer to be with people who like me. She could feel him watching her as she bent down and thrust the roasting dish noisily into the back of a cupboard. I don’t think that’s un-Christian, he said. She gave another trembling laugh.