Dinner at Seven

On the first supper night, Clara burned the onions.

Not all of them. Enough to matter.

She stood over the tray with a spoon, trying to persuade herself that the darker pieces were deliberate. Rosa came in, looked once and opened the back door.

“There’s time for another batch.”

“I know.”

“Then stop negotiating with those.”

Clara tipped them out.

It was six weeks since the table arrived. She had learned the hospital’s routines, developed a strong opinion about one particular trolley and discovered that a regular wage did not prevent her from wanting things. It made wanting them less frightening.

There were nine paying guests booked for seven. Arthur was one of them, because he had insisted on paying and Clara had not had the energy to stop him. Two others had come because Rosa knew them. The remaining six had found the menu somewhere and liked the sound of it.

Clara kept checking the bookings as if one of the names might evaporate.

Eddie had booked for the next evening they were planning, four weeks away. He had put the date in his phone while she listened. Neither had made a joke about it.

At half past six, the fresh onions were in the oven and the kitchen smelled as it should. Clara changed her apron. In the back room, Rosa lit two candles, looked at them and put them away again.

Arthur arrived carrying a small paper bag.

“Not flowers,” he said.

“Good.”

Inside were the kitchen scissors, cleaned and sharpened, their yellow handles unmistakable.

“I found them in a box marked bathroom.”

“Your system’s evolving.”

“I thought you might like them.”

She picked them up. A faint smell of rosemary remained in the join of the handles, or she imagined it. She was no longer trying to settle every question like that.

“Thank you.”

He looked towards the oven.

“Smells good.”

“Now.”

“Problems?”

“Onions.”

“Ah.”

“Handled.”

“Right.”

He didn’t offer to help. He went to the table and sat where she had put his name.

The evening did not run perfectly. One guest had forgotten to mention she didn’t eat celery. A plate came back because it was cold, and Clara discovered she had warmed all the plates except the ones she was using. Rosa dropped a fork loudly enough to make everybody look up, then took a bow.

But people ate. They asked for bread. A man with very precise glasses wanted to know what was in the dressing. Two women who had arrived separately began telling each other about the same disastrous walking holiday, which each believed the other remembered incorrectly.

Clara moved between the kitchen and the table, carrying plates, answering questions, learning the room.

At nine, she brought out the apple cake. It was Helen’s recipe only in the sense that Helen had once cut it out of a newspaper and then ignored half the instructions. Clara had followed the original. It was, privately, better.

Arthur took a bite and looked up at her.

“Not quite your mum’s,” he said.

“No.”

He tasted another forkful.

“That’s allowed.”

“I know.”

And she did, at least about the cake.

After the guests left, Clara counted the money and wrote down the costs. There was not enough left to transform anything. There was enough to do it again without pretending.

Rosa took her share, put on a coat with a broken zip and went home. Arthur stayed because Clara had asked him to.

They stacked the chairs from the front room. He carried dishes to the kitchen while she scraped plates. Neither spoke much. The silence no longer needed defending.

“There’s cake left,” Clara said.

“I could manage some.”

“You’ve already had two pieces.”

“I’ve done a bit since then.”

She cut a third, and one for herself. They took their plates to the big table. A new mark ran across the top, a fine white scratch where someone had dragged a buckle against it. She touched it with one finger.

“Already,” she said.

Arthur looked, but didn’t reach for anything.

“Your first night.”

“Yes.”

Outside, somebody wheeled a bin over the uneven pavement. The sea was out of sight, a dark movement beyond the buildings. In the kitchen, the fridge motor stopped, leaving the room unusually quiet.

Clara sat opposite Arthur and put her feet on the lower rail of her chair.

“Will you come next time?”

“If you’ll have me.”

“Don’t make it sound like that.”

“Like what?”

“As though you’re asking permission every time.”

He considered this, then nodded.

“I’ll come.”

“Good.”

She reached across for the last piece of bread. Arthur moved his plate to give her room.