98 Days
Piglet was sweating, and the supermarket chill was welcome on her breastbone, her back. Waitrose was full: shiny four-by-fours filling the car park, Saturday-morning shoppers with reusable bags jostling in the aisles.
Oxford was at the end of a heat wave, the novelty of sun-warmed skin worn, and the city was coated in the kind of grime that accumulated in weeks without rain. Outside, Piglet had watched from behind her sunglasses as a man and woman screamed at each other through their open car windows about a parking space.
Even in the cool sanctuary of the supermarket, the mood was irascible. A woman wearing Birkenstocks and ecru-coloured linen pushed past Piglet, reaching for a pecorino.
But guests would be arriving at six, and she didn’t have time to seethe among the cheeses. As she shopped, her fiancé, Kit, would be unpacking their house. Those words—still a novelty, like the stairs, the garden, the mortgage. Piglet stooped to pick up a block of feta and added it to her basket.
It had been her idea—a small housewarming supper for six—and he had been as excited as she was to show off their empty rooms, their white walls, their space. “We can invite Seb and Sophie,” he had said. “And Margot and Sasha,” she added. He had shrugged.
Texts had gone out, and boxes of saucepans, serving platters, and spices had been located, opened, and unpacked. Margot had replied immediately—“You’ve just moved in, shall we get pizza?”—but Piglet had insisted: “I’ll cook.”
She picked up salted butter, thick Greek yoghurt, and cream.
The menu was not modest. Her basket was already heavy with Charlotte potatoes, fresh herbs, and a Duchy chicken.
It was too hot for a roast chicken, but Piglet had once heard Nigella say something about a house only being home once a chicken was in the oven. And anyway, there would be salads: one chopped and scattered with feta and sumac, another leafy with soft herbs. New potatoes, boiled and dotted with a bright salsa verde. Bread and two types of butter: confit garlic, and Parmesan and black pepper. There would be cold wine and open windows, patio doors thrown wide. It would all look and taste exquisite.
There had been roast chickens back in Derby, but her mother’s were always anaemic, trussed at the legs and moistened only by a gravy that had started life as a spoonful of granules. For dessert—or afters, as her father would say—there would be an apple pie from the Morrisons bakery or a roulade from the frozen aisle, depending on the season, eaten on the sofa in front of the television. Between bites, Piglet’s family—her parents, her sister, herself—would call out the answers to quiz shows, spoons scraping in their bowls. Piglet knew her parents still ate her mother’s roast chicken every Sunday. On Saturday it was a takeaway—Chinese, from the shop in town—and on Friday it was fish. No matter the weather, no matter the time of year. These routines, which had once cradled their familial bonds, their Sunday traditions, now made Piglet feel a crawling embarrassment, a creeping pity. She had learned since she left Derby, left her parents, that the only way to serve a dessert from the frozen aisle was ironically.
When she had met Kit’s parents, they had served a roast rib of beef. Richard had carved, and the blackened bones, which had stuck into the air, shook as he sliced. When Cecelia apportioned herself a single slice and a heaping of steamed cavolo nero, Piglet had done the same. They had discussed art over dinner—Warhol at the Ashmolean—and Piglet had nodded, beamed, and spoken about Campbell’s Soup Cans to sympathetic smiles. Kit and Richard ate second helpings with their fingers. Cecelia had sighed, the corners of her lips curling: “Boys.”
Piglet’s dinner would not be like her mother’s or her future in-laws’. There would be jazz music, cigarettes smoked on the patio, and a dessert made from one of the new cookbooks she was editing: an espresso semifreddo with warm caramel sauce and glinting shards of praline. There were easier recipes she could have made—she could have bought dessert, pudding, even—but she did not pass up an opportunity to mention one of her authors by name on the off chance someone might ask for the recipe.
At the checkout, Piglet stood behind a woman with two young boys. They were hanging on the woman’s arm, whining about sweets, swinging backwards and forwards, catching glances from the other shoppers before raising their voices, eyeing their mother as she moved groceries from trolley to till with her remaining hand. Piglet tried to catch the cashier’s eye: this was Waitrose.
The woman didn’t look at her children as she transferred crisps in brightly coloured packaging to the conveyor belt. Cereal, sliced white bread, ice cream. Piglet eyed the shopping, and then the children. She glanced at the cashier again.
By the time Piglet’s organic chicken had reached the till, the children were quiet. They had each been handed a fluorescent bag of Nik Naks, torn from their multipack. They grinned at each other, their fingers dusted orange, pulped corn between their teeth. The woman paid, left, and Piglet positioned herself to receive her groceries and compliments on her choice of food. The cashier looked up at her, smiling, inclining her head. “Boys,” she said, before she pushed the chicken through the till.
* * *
“They’re not going to notice if a bit of skin’s gone.” Kit, his eyes dark with desire, was naked besides his boxers, a pair of yellow rubber gloves. The chicken—a long-legged bird with feathers still clinging to its thighs—had just been removed from the oven, and the kitchen was shimmering with heat. The room was empty, walls white, boxes spilling Tupperware stacked where a table would eventually stand. Kit stood behind Piglet, her skin also bare save an apron strung over her underwear, and she felt the heat of him on her back.
“I thought you were doing the bathrooms,” Piglet said as she inspected the bird, her body bending into his.
“They’re done,” Kit said. “Doesn’t take long when they’ve never been used.” With his arms around her, he began to remove his gloves, pulling a finger at a time until his hands were uncovered and inching towards the chicken, its brown skin crisp. Piglet turned to face him.
“Not for you,” she said, leaning closer to his face, gently biting his lip, tasting salt. He smiled, and she felt his lips pull wide, away from her. “I’ve been saving this for us, though.”
Piglet pulled a near-empty round orange Le Creuset pot towards her. She scraped a spoon around its edge and lifted it to Kit’s mouth. His eyebrows contracted, his lips.
“Good, isn’t it?” Piglet said, smiling as Kit groaned. “Coffee custard for the semifreddo.”
Kit took the pot from the stove and cradled it like a child as he folded his legs beneath him, sinking to the floor of their empty kitchen. He slapped the space next to him, and Piglet sat. Kit scraped another half spoonful of custard from the pot and held it to Piglet’s lips. She swallowed: a child taking medicine, a communicant receiving the Eucharist.
“Is it too late to uninvite everyone?” he asked.
“You know what? Maybe not.”
They sat cross-legged on the floor, the tiles cool beneath their hot flesh, passing the Le Creuset between them, spoon discarded, grinning and sticky-knuckled, custard on their fingertips.
* * *
Her hair, dark with water, dripped onto her linen dress, the fabric rippling. The dress had been ironed by Kit and laid on their mattress, which was in the middle of the bedroom, empty besides more boxes piled high and bulging duffle bags bursting with socks, trailing sleeves. The dress, ivory white and peppered with eyelets, spoke to her of summertime, of evenings drinking ouzo in Santorini. She dropped a beach towel from her body and stepped between the folds of fabric. The linen was light against her bare skin and, in the warmth of the early evening, she felt a power in her body: strong and beautiful in her own home.
Downstairs, in the reflection of the patio doors, Piglet tied and retied her apron.
“What do you think?” she called to Kit.
“Perfect,” he said, joining her in the distorted image of the door. “And me?”
Piglet turned, appraising him: handsome in his chambray button-down shirt and the fitted sand-coloured trousers they had chosen together. She reached forward, undoing a third button, the hollow of his chest now visible between the folds of his collar. He raised an eyebrow. She turned back to their reflection.
“It’s summertime,” she said. “And it’s our house.”
They hovered—straightening tablecloth corners, wiping down sparkling surfaces—until the doorbell rang. They looked at each other, grinning.
“Put the music on,” Piglet said. “And the candles.”
“Matches?” Kit called behind her.
“I don’t know!” she shouted, her voice rising, giddy.
Their guests had arrived all at once: Margot and Sasha with a bottle of vodka tied with a red ribbon, and Seb and Sophie holding a bunch of flowers and a Jo Malone candle. Piglet and Kit greeted them at the door.
“Look at you two,” Margot called from the drive, and Piglet could not help but curtsey.
“Come in, come in,” Kit said, standing aside. “There are boxes everywhere, but the wine is in the fridge.”
“As it should be,” Sasha said as she kissed Piglet on both cheeks. “We tried to think of something practical to give you,” Sasha said as she pressed the vodka into Piglet’s hands.
* * *
“So, what’s on the menu?” Margot asked, leaning against the counter as Piglet cored a cucumber, its watery seeds heaped in a pile. The others were outside, their conversation rising as their wineglasses emptied. Piglet heard Sophie’s whinnying laugh and Seb’s voice, loud, tripping over itself as he arrived, jubilant, at a punch line.
“Roast chicken,” Piglet said, glancing up and catching Kit’s eye, the edge of a smile, before she started to slice the cucumber, “because I couldn’t help myself.”
“And vegetarians be damned,” Margot said.
“Sorry,” Piglet said, offering Margot a sliver of cucumber, which she accepted and crunched. “But there’s also gorgeous bread and confit garlic butter, salads, and the most incredible espresso semifreddo with caramel for dessert.”
“You had me at bread.” Margot turned to the sink, moving slowly, refilling her glass with water. She had started to cradle her stomach with each movement even though the bump was still imperceptible beneath her loose linen shirt, long-point collar high at her throat. “It’s all I want to eat.”
For a moment, Piglet did not know what to say, and she felt the air around her, huge with uncertainty. Like her friend’s body, things were already different, even if they did not appear to be so.
“Me too,” she said, dicing the cucumber into perfect cubes.
* * *
Piglet kept her guests outside until the table—an improvised stack of cardboard boxes, pushed together, covered with tablecloths—was laid. Ice cracked in a carafe as Margot filled it with water, and Piglet arranged dishes of food. She placed the chicken in the centre, testing the cardboard below with her hands before she set the bird down. On either side of the chicken, she placed a bowl of salad, a neighbouring tureen of potatoes alongside. Next to these, at each end of the table, she positioned platters of sliced sourdough and small bowls of whipped butter. Wooden tongs, arranged symmetrically, bookended her dinner. It looked how she had imagined it would.
Margot reached for a slice of bread, and Piglet waved her hands. Margot rolled her eyes and sat, ready to eat.
“Food’s ready,” Margot called out to the patio. Piglet stared at her. “What?” Margot said. “I’m hungry.”
“Look at this!” Seb said, his cheeks pink with wine and 8:00 p.m. sun. Piglet smiled, gesturing for her guests to sit.
“Wow,” Sophie gasped, hovering behind a chair. “God, where do you get off cooking like this when you’ve only just moved in?”
“She’s terrible, isn’t she?” Margot said, a piece of bread in hand. “Sit, Sophie, so I can eat this bread without being told off.”
“Do sit,” Piglet said. “Anywhere is fine.” She watched her friends find their places around her, leaning forward to inspect the dishes with shining eyes.
“Please,” Piglet was saying, gesturing to the food, when Kit lifted a hand.
“Before we start, everyone, I wanted to say a few words.”
Piglet sat back, folding her hands into her lap as she looked up at Kit, watched him push his chair back and stand. Margot lifted her tumbler, bread briefly discarded, tapping her fork against the glass.
“Thank you, Marg,” Kit said, smiling, and she inclined her head. “A little toast,” he said, holding his glass. Piglet watched the honey liquid swirl, glimpsing the edges of his distorted smile through the wine. She leaned forward to see him better, her eyes locking on his.
“To my good fortune, really,” he continued, looking at Piglet. Sasha laughed, and Margot swatted at her. “Yes, I know,” Kit said, turning in Sasha’s direction, “as if I deserve any more good fortune. But here I am in our new home with dear friends and the most astonishing woman, who I have, somehow, convinced to marry me.” Kit turned his gaze back to Piglet and held his glass high.
Piglet lowered her head, aware of every eye on her, and smiled to herself. When she had been growing up in Derby, this life, this man, had been beyond her imagination.
“Anyway, I wanted to say, with wine, that I am thankful for it all.” He lifted his glass higher and raised his eyebrows, encouraging their seated guests to do the same. “So, to the cause of every good thing I have in my life: to my future wife. To Piglet.”
Piglet listened as her friends said her name, clinking their glasses with one another, laughing.
“Kit, that was adorable,” Margot said, her water glass drained, “but you two are disgusting.”
“We are.” Kit nodded, sitting down.
“Why can’t you do toasts like that?” Sophie muttered to Seb as salads were lifted from their bowls with wooden spoons, grains of bulghur wheat breadcrumbing across the tablecloth. Piglet did not look at them and instead leaned forward, pinching a piece of chicken from its platter with hungry fingers, and stretched across the table, placing it into Kit’s mouth.
Copyright © 2024 by Lottie Hazell
