After the cream was whipped and the toffee sauce melted, Briony put each accompaniment into its own saucer and racked them either side of the sliced cake. She tossed the mixing bowls into the sink, beset by nerves. Then the triumphant march into the sitting room.
“Ta-daa!”
Daniel straightened politely at the sight of her. Holding out his arms he said, “here, pass” and set the rack down between their places.
“Babe, before you si’down could you press ‘disc skip’ on the stereo?”
“Okay- but start without me and you’re cactus”
The mechanical sound of the tray rotating came, went, to be replaced by a man singing, in a startlingly high voice, folk songs that might well have been lullabies. This sensitive melancholy stuff was his favourite. And although Briony didn’t care for it, tonight was for Daniel more than for her. As the hour of her departure had closed in he’d grown sadder and sadder. His eyes more sunken and sleep-deprived, his demeanour more and more withdrawn. And Briony knew why: her.
…
She eased the volume to a background pitch and undid her apron, throwing it over the little ebony bookshelf – covered in back issues of Patisserie Monthly, Daniel’s Waiting for Godot perched on top – before slumping exhaustedly into her chair. She puffed out her cheeks and sighed. Daniel in front of her, a sullen look on his face, and what was in the crease of his lips…
“Oh you didn’t”
“Didn’t what?”
“You sneak!” With a napkin she wiped him clean and shoved her findings under his eyes. “You get a cheeky taste did you?”
“Relax, I didn’t touch the cake. Here, look at all the pieces I haven’t touched them- it’s only cream”
“Only cream? What are these dark bits then, liar?”
“I’m telling you it’s cream- even taste”
He attempted to shove the napkin in her mouth, but Briony baulked and gave his lips a lick. She tasted, eyes closed in concentration, with all the pomp and ceremony of a food critic.
“See? Just cream,” he said, “so lay off”
“And onions actually,” she replied. “You taste like a chip”
“Yeah, well”
With an affectionate smile Briony said, “you shouldn’t have touched the cream either, it’s a component of the dish so it still counts as a cheeky taste – and when did we eat the onions, like a half hour ago, more? Can’t you use a napkin?”
“Whatever” said Daniel
Briony pretended not to hear him, or notice his thumbnail covering a nibble edge. Instead she chewed her nails and washed her hands to the elbows.
“Ta-daa!”
Daniel straightened politely at the sight of her. Holding out his arms he said, “here, pass” and set the rack down between their places.
“Babe, before you si’down could you press ‘disc skip’ on the stereo?”
“Okay- but start without me and you’re cactus”
The mechanical sound of the tray rotating came, went, to be replaced by a man singing, in a startlingly high voice, folk songs that might well have been lullabies. This sensitive melancholy stuff was his favourite. And although Briony didn’t care for it, tonight was for Daniel more than for her. As the hour of her departure had closed in he’d grown sadder and sadder. His eyes more sunken and sleep-deprived, his demeanour more and more withdrawn. And Briony knew why: her.
…
She eased the volume to a background pitch and undid her apron, throwing it over the little ebony bookshelf – covered in back issues of Patisserie Monthly, Daniel’s Waiting for Godot perched on top – before slumping exhaustedly into her chair. She puffed out her cheeks and sighed. Daniel in front of her, a sullen look on his face, and what was in the crease of his lips…
“Oh you didn’t”
“Didn’t what?”
“You sneak!” With a napkin she wiped him clean and shoved her findings under his eyes. “You get a cheeky taste did you?”
“Relax, I didn’t touch the cake. Here, look at all the pieces I haven’t touched them- it’s only cream”
“Only cream? What are these dark bits then, liar?”
“I’m telling you it’s cream- even taste”
He attempted to shove the napkin in her mouth, but Briony baulked and gave his lips a lick. She tasted, eyes closed in concentration, with all the pomp and ceremony of a food critic.
“See? Just cream,” he said, “so lay off”
“And onions actually,” she replied. “You taste like a chip”
“Yeah, well”
With an affectionate smile Briony said, “you shouldn’t have touched the cream either, it’s a component of the dish so it still counts as a cheeky taste – and when did we eat the onions, like a half hour ago, more? Can’t you use a napkin?”
“Whatever” said Daniel
Briony pretended not to hear him, or notice his thumbnail covering a nibble edge. Instead she chewed her nails and washed her hands to the elbows.
…
He spooned a pool of toffee onto his plate, took some cake from the middle and laid it neatly in top, doused it in more toffee, then got a big a dollop of cream and, using the back of the spoon, spread it all over like the centre of an Eskimo Pie. At the same time she quartered her slice and made a little stepladder, to which she added streaks of half-melted cream and toffee from the top, drizzling artfully down the cake. Eventually both streaks trickled onto her plate. There must be airbrushing afoot, she thought- it didn’t much resemble the picture. They began to eat.
“How is it? Would the cravat-ed one be impressed?”
At first Daniel seemed not to hear her; then he half-jolted and, making fork imprints, said, “good”
“Just good?”
“It’s good babe…delicious, what do you want me to say? Let me eat it first”
Affectionately, “uh, how about it’s the best cake ever baked?”
“Did you make coffee?” Was his gruff response
She put her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god…you know what I was so buzzed about how this turned out I didn’t think to make it”
“yeah- I got the coffee cups out though”
“I know Dan I meant to…I can make it right now, although the percolated stuff may take a while, the beans are in the outside freezer encased in, like, an icicle”
“don’t worry then”
“should I just boil water for instant? The stuff in the sachets is okay. Or tea, there’s plenty of tea, Russian Caravan or”
“it’s alright Bri”
“well are you sure?”
“it’s alright”
…
She picked absentmindedly at her plate and ate a small mouthful. There appeared to be a problem with her tastebuds; they were numb and unresponsive, as though coated with beeswax.
After a period of quiet Daniel said, “it’s good cake Bri, you…did a nice job”
And Briony thanked him, even though he sounded to her like a nervous actor who had drawn a blank trying to come up with a line on the fly. Actor: it and similar notions shook rabidly in her head, strange alien notions that had landed only months ago, her mind a kettle drum full of problems without pretext- maybe there was more to that housewife fancy...these absurd crises every time a cake or tray of muffins went into the oven…and all of it a biscuit’s throw from Banff, and Calgary, glacier water that turned curly hair straight and black hair grey, lakes bluer than veins, and wild Moose, and the tundras! How could she have let this stalemate happen? She knew how: a love coated in Teflon, envied for its perfection. All was confusion, except for this: by leaving on such terms she would come home to a life without Daniel, and by staying a part of her would flutter irretrievably away. Briony peered into the kitchen into order to smile and not cry.
No comments:
Post a Comment