“Sam?”
“Listen, I don’t have long—I’m in a phone box and my money’s going to run out any second.”
“How did you get this number?”
“I begged Horace for it. It cost me a large donation to Hope and Hands and almost all of my dignity. Are you free? Can you meet me this afternoon, about two?”
I hesitate. My eye falls on the calendar tacked to the wall beside the phone. I can see today’s date clearly. Tuesday, June 27. Written in the little box alongside it are the words:Wedding Menu—Caterers 3pm—bring notebook!
“What’s all this about, Sam?”
I can hear the smile in his voice as he replies, “Ghosts, Mina. I think I have one for you.”
Oscar comes through thedoor that evening, calling my name as he always does—first high, then low.Mi-na. I greet him in the hallway, lifting my damp hands to take the bouquet of flowers he is holding out to me. Pink roses and baby’s breath.
“These for me?”
“Make sure you add sugar to the water, they’ll keep brighter for longer.”
“They’re so beautiful, Oscar. Thank you.”
He snakes an arm around my shoulders and skims a kiss on my temple. Heat radiates from him, making his skin clammy, hair sticking to the nape of his neck. He heads into the kitchen and washes his hands at the sink, scooping a palmful of water over his face. I watch him carefully. Anxiety knots behind my ribs. He glances at the plate of vol-au-vents sitting on the counter.
“Those from the caterers?”
“That’s right.”
“They good?”
“You tell me.”
I watch as he lifts one from the plate and folds it into his open mouth. I hope he won’t be able to detect the heat still clinging to it, hope he won’t notice the oven door is still warm to the touch. Because if he does, then I’ll have to tell him why I missed the catering appointment that afternoon and instead I had to pick up two boxes of frozen vol-au-vents from the supermarket on my way home. I folded the empty boxes into the bin at the far end of our road, a good distance from the house. Sometimes the deceit is so weightless, you barely think of it.
“Nice.” He’s nodding. “I like this one, what is it?”
“Uh, prawn I think?”
“So will we use them? Did the meeting go okay?”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s so much to plan! I wish you’d come with me to these things.”
I keep my voice light, even managing to smile a little as I move to the sink, peeling the paper wrapping from the flowers. Oscar slides his hands around my waist so I can lean back into him. It’s a wonder he doesn’t notice how fast my heart is beating.
“I trust you to get it right,” he says kindly. “And you know my mother is justdesperateto get involved. Why don’t you take her along next time?”
I clench my jaw. Oscar’s mother is polished and cold and sometimes I see her looking at me askance, the tips of her mouth pointed upward in a taut little smile. When we announced our engagement, she hugged me so tightly that she dug her curved nails into my shoulder blades.“Wouldn’t life be dull if we all married our equal,”she said, and it had got under my skin somehow, the heat of it.
I turn in Oscar’s arms to face him.
“I’ve been offered some work.”
This is how I’ve chosen to phrase it. An investment. An opportunity. These are the expressions Oscar will recognize.
“Doing what?”
“Research.”
I’m speaking with a confidence I don’t feel, can’t quite meet his eye. Oscar’s voice is steady.