The air in the flat was thick with the scent of something charred.
«You can’t cook like my mum,» said Oliver, pushing his plate away untouched.
«Emily, whats that smell?» he asked, barely over the threshold, hanging his coat on the peg and sniffing the air. «Something burnt?»
«Roast chicken,» called Emily from the kitchen, frantically turning off the hob beneath a pot of potatoes. «Its almost ready!»
Oliver stepped into the chaoshis wife at the sink rinsing salad leaves, hair tousled, a smear of flour on her cheek, her apron splattered with something orange.
«How was work?» she asked, not turning around. «Was Thatcher giving you grief again?»
«No, fine. And you?» He peered into the oven, where a chicken sizzled in some dubious sauce. «Whats this recipe?»
«Found it online. French-style chicken. Supposed to be simple.»
He nodded vaguely and disappeared to change. Emily set the table, smoothing the white cloth shed laid out specially. Shed been trying new recipes, collecting spices, hoping to surprise him.
«Dinners ready,» she said when he returned.
Oliver served himselfchicken, potatoes, a limp salad. Emily took little, her appetite gone.
He chewed silently, face blank.
«Well?» she pressed.
«Alright,» he said, not looking up.
«Just alright? I tried something new»
Oliver sighed, set his fork down.
«You cant cook like my mum. Every meal she made was an event. This» He gestured at the table. «This is just food.»
Emily swallowed hard.
«Im learning. Not everyone gets it right straight away.»
«Mum was feeding five kids by your age. And no one ever went hungry.»
He left. The TV murmured from the lounge.
She scraped his plate into the bindry chicken, mushy potatoes, sauce gone wrong. The dishes clattered in the sink.
«Em, make us a cuppa?» he called.
She did, though her hands shook.
As the kettle boiled, she thought of her mother-in-law, Margaret. Legendary cook. Her roasts melted in the mouth, her pies were poetry. When Oliver first brought Emily home, Margaret had laid out a feast.
«My Ollie loves homemade pasties,» shed said, dough flying under her fingers. «I make batcheshe freezes them.»
Emily had watched, mesmerised. But when she tried, the pastry crumbled.
Once, shed asked for lessons.
«Cookings from the heart, love,» Margaret had laughed. «Recipes dont matter.»
But love wasnt enough. Emilys meals were always too much or too little.
The next night, she tried againbeef stew, slow-cooked all day.
«Smells good,» Oliver admitted. He took a bite. «Not bad. But Mum did it differentlycarrots diced, onions stewed with the meat.»
«But its nice, isnt it?»
«Nice. Just not the same.»
Sunday lunch at Margarets. She let Emily help with the pastrykneading, rolling, crimping.
«Not too much flour,» Margaret chided. «Keep it light.»
The pies came out golden.
«Well?» Margaret asked.
«Lovely!» Emily said.
Oliver chewed thoughtfully. «Mums pastrys lighter.»
Margaret shot him a look. «She did well.»
That evening, Emily stared at the leftover pies. Goodbut not good enough.
«Whats for dinner tomorrow?» Oliver asked.
«Dunno yet.»
«Could you do a proper prawn cocktail? Mum showed me how.»
She said yes. But it wouldnt be right. Nothing ever was.
At the window, she watched other houses glow. Other wives cooking, other husbands eating. Maybe some of them didnt measure up either. Or maybe their husbands didnt care.
She sighed, reached for her shopping list. Prawns, lettuce, Marie Rose sauce. Maybe this time.
But she didnt hold out much hope.
