“It’s Tuesday.”
“I know it’s Tuesday. I’ve got a stocktake in the glasshouse…Oh, it’s Tuesday.” He peers at the kettle. “You’re going off to Fallowmill with your guest, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” I ignore the weight behind the question.
“And you’re sure about this, are you?”
“You’re being a dad again.”
“I’m not being a dad.” He holds the kettle under the tap, although most of the water seems to be going down the side of it rather than into it. “I’m being a responsible adult. You should give it a try sometime.”
“I am being responsible. I’m fine.”
“Mmm.”
I try again. “Remember how Sanjay said I should do jigsaw puzzles?”
“I’m still finding some of the pieces down the back of the sofa.”
“Well, this is a big jigsaw puzzle.”
“And Fallowmill?” Charlie pours water onto a teabag.
“You’re being difficult about this on purpose, aren’t you?” I drop my bowl and spoon into the sink with a clatter. “You know that, right?”
Still holding the kettle, Charlie hesitates. “I’m not. I’m trying—”
“Yeah, you are,” I mutter.
His deep sigh is a pretty good clue that he heard me. “I’m trying to make sure you’re thinking clearly. You were upset for days after you missed the party at Fallowmill. It set you back – you know that, and I…”
“You don’t want me to get sick again. I know. But I feel like I need to do this – I need to go there and…exorcize it. Or something.” It made sense in my head at 4 a.m.
“Exorcize it?” He finishes making his tea, pausing just to make sure his incredulity has time to sink in.
“I just really need to do this. I’ll be okay – I promise.”
At last he nods, and I watch him take a sip of his drink.
I wait.
I wait longer than seems entirely reasonable…and then it happens. Charlie frowns, looks at his mug, looks at the kettle…and sighs.
“You could have told me I didn’t actually boil it, you know.”
“What would be the fun in that?”
Still grumbling – about me, about the kettle, about the glasshouses, about everything – he empties the mug into the sink and stomps back off upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I look at the clock.
6.15 a.m.
Great.
Only three and three-quarter more hours to kill.
I give up trying to pass the time at home and head in to Hopwood, making myself a cup of tea in the still-deserted staff break room. But because it’s not even 7 o’clock, nobody’s been in here yet and no one’s brought the milk in from the main kitchen delivery. I stick my head out into the corridor. Nothing. The only sound from the kitchen is a rhythmic thump-slap-thump-slap of dough being kneaded. That means Philippe’s in there, but the main breakfast shift – the chefs who start at four or five in the morning – must be getting some fresh air before the rush starts and the kitchen heats up.
I slip across the corridor and in through the kitchen’s steel swing doors. As they swoosh shut behind me, Philippe looks up from the metal counter where he’s working a small mountain range of dough. Flour is dusted up his arms, the white standing out starkly against his skin.
“You’re in early,” he says with a smile. “Still working on all that stuff in the library?”
“Something like that.” I point at the nearest of the fridges. “Can I get the milk?”
“Sure – help yourself!” He glances round, then back to me, turning the dough over in his hands. “What’s with the apron?”
“The apron?” I stop halfway to the fridge. “What apron?”
He waves a floury hand at me. “That apron.”
Then I realize. He means my dress.
He’s making fun of you. You look stupid. You are stupid.
Stop. No. Think. Is this the right reaction?
Does my mood match the moment?
I check Philippe’s face. He’s smiling warmly. His eyes actually twinkle.
He’s not making fun of you. He’s teasing you. He’s just being friendly. If it was Mira, you’d know she was kidding. He’s kidding.
“It’s a pinafore dress, not an apron.” I pull out the big plastic jug of milk for the staff room and close the giant fridge door.
It happens to be a new pinafore dress, too. Well. Newish. I just haven’t had a chance to wear it until now.
But I’m definitely not wearing it because of Hal.
Definitely not.
Philippe grins even more widely. “It looks like an apron to me. Good for cleaning.”
“It’s a nice dress!” Did that sound defensive? I don’t think it did…“Anyway, nobody could do a full room changeover in this – the straps would catch on everything.”
He laughs, rubbing his nose and leaving a stripe of flour across it. “I will never understand fashion. Or women.” He shakes his head.
If it was a test, I think I passed. My heart swells with relief, pride, triumph…Do people feel like this all the time? I flourish my milk jug at him in farewell as I turn away…
“Flora!”
“Yes?”
“You’re about to walk into the door.”
I swerve around the edge of the open door and into the corridor. “Thank you!” I call back, but the only answer I get is the thump-slap-thump-slap of him going back to his work.
By the time I get back to my tea, it’s overbrewed and bitter. But when I replay the conversation with Philippe in my head – the way I always do with every conversation, however exhausting and miserable that might be – it doesn’t seem to matter.
I make another cup of tea and pull out my phone, settling down in a corner to look through other people’s year-old photos. Call it preparation, call it masochism…but just like going today, it feels like something I have to do. Something I have to face.
“You’re still here,” says a familiar voice – Mira, crashing into the break room with her bag in her hand. “Aren’t you going to—”
“Fallowmill. Yes. In a bit.” I cut her off before she asks why I’m here so early.
Why are you here so early?
Because I couldn’t sleep?
And why was that?
Because I’m excited?
Nope.
Because I’m nervous?
Try again. And this time, be honest.
Because I’m scared.
Bingo.
Except, when I look at the clock, it’s not early any more. It’s nine o’clock, and somehow I’ve lost all that time willing myself into photos I can never be part of. I didn’t even notice the morning rota briefing, even though it must have happened right next to me.
I lock my phone and drop it into my pocket. “What have you got in your bag?” Mira’s usually neat bag is straining all along the zip, the seams visibly close to bursting.
“Ah. Coursework.” She sets her bag down carefully, as though it’s explosive. “For my application. I’m on the lobby and corridor shift today so I brought it to finish before I start.”