Tilda’s voice pulls me back. ‘Let’s sit, shall we?’ She glances at Simon before motioning us towards the dining table at the far end of the room. It’s large, industrial-style, the kind that’s custom-made from reclaimed wood and meant for big family meals. Heavy chairs surround it, and the table is fully dressed with linen napkins, heavy silverware, crystal glasses that catch the light. A slender eucalyptus garland threads its way down the centre, around the dotted tea-lights.
Dev takes a seat while I make my way to the chair next to him, across from where Tilda will sit next to Simon. I can’t help but notice how the space between us feels charged, as if the air itself is static.
We sit down and Simon uncorks a bottle of Malbec with practised ease, pouring a generous measure into each of our glasses.
‘I hope you like my Italian chicken,’ Tilda calls from the hob, her voice smooth and controlled. ‘It’s an old family recipe.’
‘It’s incredible,’ Simon says. ‘My wife is the best cook.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be delicious,’ Dev adds. ‘It certainly smells good.’
I pick up my wine and swirl it a little in the glass.
‘Your hair looks different,’ Tilda says, when she comes back to the table. ‘I haven’t seen you wear it like that before.’
We’ve only seen each other a few times, but I smile and say, ‘Takes me a bit of time to curl and pin it up like this, so I don’t bother very often.’
‘Looks lovely,’ Simon says, interrupting Dev, who’s saying something to him.
I mumble a thank you and hide behind my glass for an extra second or two.
I can’t shake the feeling that Tilda’s eyes are on me, studying me, assessing me. I take a sip, the wine rich and velvety on my tongue.
She stands up, refusing my offer of help. ‘Food is on its way.’
The meal is served and small-talk at last begins to flow between us. Dev has questions about the area and seems at ease with the banter. He’s always been a more sociable person than I am, but I’m determined to push out of my comfort zone and make the most of getting to know people here.
Finally, on my second glass of wine, my neck and shoulders begin to loosen. ‘This dish is so good, Tilda. You must give me the recipe.’
‘I’d be happy to.’ She smiles. ‘My gran passed it down to me.’
‘Ah, the best kind of food,’ I agree.
‘What about your family, Merri? Did you grow up in Nottingham?’
I put down my fork, my appetite instantly waning. ‘That’s right,’ I lie.
‘Do you have any brothers, sisters?’ She picks up her wine.
‘No, just me,’ I say quietly.
‘It must’ve been a big upheaval, moving so far away from what you’ve always known to come here.’
‘Yes, it was,’ I say, relieved the conversation is moving on. ‘I miss my best friend, Paige. We worked together at the medical centre in Colwick. We were both healthcare assistants.’
I glance at Dev, currently accepting a third glass of wine from Simon.
Tilda nods. ‘And what did your parents do?’
‘They were … just ordinary people. Like me.’
The room falls quiet for a split second until Dev laughs loudly. ‘She’s too modest by far,’ he says. Only I would be able to tell, but his words are a little soft around the edges. A telltale sign he’s well on his way to having had enough to drink. ‘She’s amazing. Somehow she survived a nightmare foster family.’
‘Dev!’ I hiss, mortified. I feel heat rising from my neck and know, in a minute or two, my nervous prickly rash will be gushing like the tide into my face. He has a tendency to over-share when he’s had a drink and I hate it. Especially when it’smyinformation he’s throwing around.
‘Sorry, I … Sorry.’ He takes a large gulp of wine and falls quiet.
‘I had no idea, Merri,’ Tilda says gently, topping up her own glass. ‘You must have such strength of character to overcome something like that.’
