What No Longer Fitted

Her mother wanted the empty boxes flattened first. Fenna wanted to fill them. They faced each other in the little room where a bed had once stood and which now mostly contained things apparently too good to throw away. A broken lamp. A wooden rack. Two bags of clothes labelled WINTER, although it was January and nobody had taken anything out.

'If I flatten them, I'll only have to unfold them again,' said Fenna.

'Then we can get that chair past.'

'Where's it going?'

Her mother looked at the chair. 'I don't know yet.'

Fenna laughed, put the box in the hall and lifted the rack a little herself. Underneath lay dust in the shapes of everything that had stood there over the years. Her mother fetched a cloth and began cleaning behind her. A quarter of an hour later they had cleared enough floor for the first four boxes.

'The rest can go in the storeroom,' her mother said. 'Not your food. You always used to have food in your bag.'

'I still do.'

'I know.' She held up an empty wrapper she'd found under the chair. 'How old do you think this is?'

Fenna took it. It was a bar she hadn't bought for years. The paper had gone tough. She put it in the bin bag and let her mother win for a moment over what was allowed in the storeroom.

The landlord had confirmed in writing that they had agreed to end the tenancy on the thirty-first of January. Fenna had put in the handover date and saved the confirmation in her own folder. No rent continuing while she was in Denmark. One less home to come back to, though. Bringing the first box had felt like the start of emptying the flat, even though she still needed almost everything at home.

'And if that money doesn't come through after all?' her mother asked.

'Then I'll carry on looking from here. I can't keep paying rent for months because I want to wait for the very last yes.'

Her mother nodded and looked at the cleared floor. 'No angry landlord here, at least.'

Fenna put her arms round her. Her mother smelt of hand cream and the washing hanging in the next room. She held Fenna tightly for a moment, then pushed her away a little. 'You needn't act as if you're leaving already. Bring that box in.'

The afternoon she was supposed to spend with Marten was beginning to tug at her. They'd agreed on a day off together, walking somewhere, taking their time over food, not looking at the clock in turns. She'd said she was free from the morning. When Naja had sent two possible times for a group video call yesterday, she'd immediately chosen the earlier one: four this afternoon. The alternative was next week, close to her own training. She hadn't wanted to rearrange that as well. And since she was breaking up their day together anyway, the landlord could come round this morning to discuss taking over the curtains too.

She'd messaged Marten last night to say their day was off. He'd asked whether she really couldn't manage any of it. She'd replied that with everything around it, it would feel rushed. Tonight, though? His answer had been brief: That works. She'd read it in whichever way suited her best just then.

Her mother came to stand in the doorway. 'Are you staying to eat?'

'No, I've got a call later. Then I'm going to Marten's.'

'I needn't peel those potatoes, then.'

'You're welcome to peel a few for me.'

'You're leaving.'

'Not straight away.'

Her mother shook her head. She took another plate out of the cupboard all the same. Fenna sat at the kitchen table and saw on her phone that Marten had sent a photograph of a flask beside two unused cups. She'd thought it was a joke. Now she didn't know what to say without opening up the afternoon she'd cancelled all over again.

She rang him from the car before driving home. He answered almost at once.

'What are you doing?' she asked.

'Tidying.'

'Your table's already fairly empty.'

'There are other things in my flat.'

She watched the traffic passing the end of the street. 'I'll come after the call. Shall we eat together?'

'Yes. When will you finish?'

'I'm not sure. It's scheduled for an hour.'

'I'll work on half past five, then.'

Something in his voice irritated her. As though she had to sign for an arrival time before the call had even begun. 'If it runs over, I can't just leave.'

'You can let me know.'

'I do, don't I?'

At the other end she heard a tap being turned off. She was suddenly ashamed of her sharpness. It had happened faster than she could stop it. 'I am coming. I want to see you.'

'I want to see you too,' he said.

At home she laid a clean jumper on the bed and moved the laptop so the camera wouldn't show the open wardrobe. The little squares appeared one by one. Naja, two other riders further along with their travel arrangements, someone still struggling with her microphone. They spoke English. Fenna could follow well enough, but finding her own sentences took a fraction longer than she liked.

Naja talked them through the first weeks: getting to know their group, individual conversations, the rented track time around Ballerup and expectations for training. There was room for experienced women who didn't have to get used to every aspect of an athlete's life. That made Fenna happy. She didn't have to sell herself as still young enough to be interesting. They wanted her because she was already good and wanted more.

When one of the other women asked about her room, the call ran longer. Fenna asked a question herself. Not an urgent one nobody else could have answered. She wanted to know what their days together would look like, what it would be like to wake up there without first having to go to a warehouse. She leaned towards the screen and forgot that Marten was probably already cooking in his own kitchen.

At five past five she picked up her phone. Running a bit over. Leaving soon. Naja finished at quarter past. Fenna closed the screen and sat a little longer with the smile the call had given her. She hadn't just imagined leaving. She'd spoken to the people who would be there when she arrived.

At Marten's a pan was on a low heat. She kissed him in the hall and smelt fried onion. His sleeves were rolled up. Her hand slid along his bare forearm without thinking.

'You're here,' he said.

'I did say I was coming.'

It was out before she thought of Apeldoorn, of the same words he'd used and how happy they'd made her then. Marten tilted his head a little. 'Yes.'

She went to wash her hands. Her hair tie was still on the edge of the bathroom basin. She put it round her wrist and resolved not to talk only about Denmark tonight. At the table Marten brought it up himself. How had it gone? She said more than she'd intended, because he asked who would be in the group and because she wanted to talk to him about it. Only when he put down his fork did she realise she'd stopped noticing his plate.

'I wanted to spend today with you,' he said.

'I'm here, aren't I?'

'I can see that. I mean the day. We'd made plans.'

She took her hand off the edge of the table. 'They changed. It's not a hospital appointment I simply forgot.'

'I didn't say it was a hospital appointment.'

'No, but you're acting as if I've done something terrible.'

Marten rubbed his thumb over his chin. 'I'm saying I've missed you. Today. On a day we were supposed to have together.'

She already had her answer ready. He'd had time to be disappointed; she'd just come out of something good and now had to return to his day. She wanted him to see how special this was for her too. 'I can't ask them to move every call because I want to go for a walk with you.'

'Wasn't there another time?'

She looked at her plate. The onion had turned sweet; she could still taste it when she no longer wanted it. 'Next week. An awkward day.'

'For who?'

'For me. Of course for me. It's my programme.'

He lowered his hand. She knew she could still take the sentence back. Not the fact, but the way she'd used it to shut him out. She didn't do it straight away. She was angry because he'd asked exactly the question she'd rather have skipped.

They ate a few mouthfuls without talking. Then he told her he'd turned his sister down when she'd asked for help with a bookcase today. Not as a sacrifice, he said. They'd had plans, so he hadn't been available. To Fenna it still sounded like a bill. She said he could have gone after all, then.

'That's not the point.'

'What is, then?'

'I don't want to be just the bit at the end. Once everything else is done.'

She put her fork down. She wanted to say he was more than that. It was true, and tonight it probably wouldn't make him feel anything he didn't already know. She looked at his face, asking so little of her and too much at once. She couldn't clear this whole month for him. She didn't want to either.

'I shouldn't have said yes to that time straight away,' she said at last. 'I could have talked to you first.'

He nodded. She saw him waiting for more and again felt the urge to make a promise that would make the evening pleasant again. Instead she asked whether there was any food left in the pan. He got up to fetch it and she went with him. In the little kitchen they touched at shoulder and hip, both heading for the same worktop.

'It really was good, though,' she said quietly. 'The call. I still want to tell you about it.'

He put down the serving spoon. 'I want to hear it too. Just not as if nothing else happened.'

She took his hand. This time she said sorry without adding an explanation. He drew her a little closer. They stood like that until he turned off the heat. First they went back to the table and the cold food. Later, on the sofa, she told him about one of the other women having to explain her own joke in English. Marten laughed at her imitation. She leaned against him and did it again.