Julian held up a California roll. ‘And a takeaway.’
Kate poked out her tongue. ‘It’s too late to cancel. Especially on such a special night. Behave, man.’
‘You’re right,’ said Julian. ‘And besides, Becca would hunt us down and kill us.’
‘We haven’t had much . . .
us
time this Christmas,’ said Kate. ‘Maybe we should do a mini-break somewhere?’ She envisaged chintz, open fires, brocade sofas;
the antithesis of her own home. ‘I could arrange cover for the shops and—’
‘Darling, I can barely draw breath at the moment. Take Becca and go somewhere hot and ludicrously indulgent. My treat.’
‘I’m not married to Becca,’ muttered Kate, as she rinsed an orange lozenge of salmon.
‘Darling, don’t mutter,
please
.’ Julian played with a remote, and stiff white drapes slithered tither and yon until he was satisfied.
If the apocalypse really was due in five hours’ time, somebody had forgotten to tell the good people of the Chelsea Harbour development. The view from the kitchen was the same as ever: the
white modern blocks flanking a marina were glamorous enough for a five star holiday vista yet she saw it every day through the wrap-around glass walls. Kate shivered and reached for the angora
bolero Julian had bought her for Christmas.
As lights came on in windows the complex glittered against the dark winter sky like an outpost on some distant, wealthy planet. Chelsea, enduringly chic and moneyed since its famous King’s
Road kick-started the swinging sixties, was self-assured, never deigning to notice unemployment figures or natural disasters.
Much like Julian, who surfed the housing market, never getting wet, always ahead of the wave.
‘Wish I’d done a roast.’ Kate flung a ruined batch of rice in the bin. When she’d scribbled the invitation sushi had felt celebratory, and ‘right’ for their
lifestyle.
Kate had caught that word from Julian: she teased him
people don’t have lifestyles, matey, they have lives!
but nobody could deny their apartment was stylish. Lifestylish.
Initially, she’d baulked at the openness, the glossy pale surfaces, the hard edges, disappointing Julian, who had expected his wife to jump with joy at the mammoth her hunter gatherer
hubby had laid at her feet.
They’d compromised. Julian got his Bang & Olufsen sound system and Kate got her colourful rugs. Julian was fond of pointing out how she softened his minimalism with her books and
vintage china.
We’re the perfect team
, he’d say.
One day she’d win her battle to have actual handles on the kitchen cupboard doors. One day he’d manage to stop her leaving make-up smears on the glass shelves in the arctic white
bathroom.
This was marriage. Love in action. Julian didn’t know about Kate’s rainy day account, where she stashed a hundred quid here, fifty there. One day, if Julian ever fell off his
surfboard, they might be glad of it.
At the sound of the doorbell, Julian threw open the enormous veneered front door. Kate hastily civilised the chaos on the worktop as Becca’s effusive
hello
s argued with the Gypsy
Kings CD Julian had chosen.
‘God I LOVE this place!’ Becca stalked across the apartment in her sky high shoes, her beaded black dress an excellent match for the surrounding monochrome. She looked around,
noticing everything. ‘New Buddha statue!’ She pointed at a silvered ornament then threw her arms around Kate. ‘Happy New Year! Love the blouse. You’re brave doing
sushi.’
Kate looked down at her white satin shirt. A Rorschach blot of soy had blossomed on a lapel, like a dirty rose.
A cork popped. Becca threw open the door to the terrace and stepped out among the dejected ficus trees in their handmade pots.
‘Hi.’ Charlie held out flowers and wine, the customary offering to the god of dinner parties.
‘Ta.’ Kate took the gifts. ‘I love . . . um, actually, what are they?’ She frowned at the blooms.
‘No idea,’ said Charlie.
As Kate
Kate poked out her tongue. ‘It’s too late to cancel. Especially on such a special night. Behave, man.’
‘You’re right,’ said Julian. ‘And besides, Becca would hunt us down and kill us.’
‘We haven’t had much . . .
us
time this Christmas,’ said Kate. ‘Maybe we should do a mini-break somewhere?’ She envisaged chintz, open fires, brocade sofas;
the antithesis of her own home. ‘I could arrange cover for the shops and—’
‘Darling, I can barely draw breath at the moment. Take Becca and go somewhere hot and ludicrously indulgent. My treat.’
‘I’m not married to Becca,’ muttered Kate, as she rinsed an orange lozenge of salmon.
‘Darling, don’t mutter,
please
.’ Julian played with a remote, and stiff white drapes slithered tither and yon until he was satisfied.
If the apocalypse really was due in five hours’ time, somebody had forgotten to tell the good people of the Chelsea Harbour development. The view from the kitchen was the same as ever: the
white modern blocks flanking a marina were glamorous enough for a five star holiday vista yet she saw it every day through the wrap-around glass walls. Kate shivered and reached for the angora
bolero Julian had bought her for Christmas.
As lights came on in windows the complex glittered against the dark winter sky like an outpost on some distant, wealthy planet. Chelsea, enduringly chic and moneyed since its famous King’s
Road kick-started the swinging sixties, was self-assured, never deigning to notice unemployment figures or natural disasters.
Much like Julian, who surfed the housing market, never getting wet, always ahead of the wave.
‘Wish I’d done a roast.’ Kate flung a ruined batch of rice in the bin. When she’d scribbled the invitation sushi had felt celebratory, and ‘right’ for their
lifestyle.
Kate had caught that word from Julian: she teased him
people don’t have lifestyles, matey, they have lives!
but nobody could deny their apartment was stylish. Lifestylish.
Initially, she’d baulked at the openness, the glossy pale surfaces, the hard edges, disappointing Julian, who had expected his wife to jump with joy at the mammoth her hunter gatherer
hubby had laid at her feet.
They’d compromised. Julian got his Bang & Olufsen sound system and Kate got her colourful rugs. Julian was fond of pointing out how she softened his minimalism with her books and
vintage china.
We’re the perfect team
, he’d say.
One day she’d win her battle to have actual handles on the kitchen cupboard doors. One day he’d manage to stop her leaving make-up smears on the glass shelves in the arctic white
bathroom.
This was marriage. Love in action. Julian didn’t know about Kate’s rainy day account, where she stashed a hundred quid here, fifty there. One day, if Julian ever fell off his
surfboard, they might be glad of it.
At the sound of the doorbell, Julian threw open the enormous veneered front door. Kate hastily civilised the chaos on the worktop as Becca’s effusive
hello
s argued with the Gypsy
Kings CD Julian had chosen.
‘God I LOVE this place!’ Becca stalked across the apartment in her sky high shoes, her beaded black dress an excellent match for the surrounding monochrome. She looked around,
noticing everything. ‘New Buddha statue!’ She pointed at a silvered ornament then threw her arms around Kate. ‘Happy New Year! Love the blouse. You’re brave doing
sushi.’
Kate looked down at her white satin shirt. A Rorschach blot of soy had blossomed on a lapel, like a dirty rose.
A cork popped. Becca threw open the door to the terrace and stepped out among the dejected ficus trees in their handmade pots.
‘Hi.’ Charlie held out flowers and wine, the customary offering to the god of dinner parties.
‘Ta.’ Kate took the gifts. ‘I love . . . um, actually, what are they?’ She frowned at the blooms.
‘No idea,’ said Charlie.
As Kate
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