Yesterday
I dont know why I always get so flustered before company, but last night was no exception. Simon, where on earth are you putting that salad bowl? Youre blocking the cold meats! And can you move the wine glasses closer? Edmund will be here soon, and you know he cant sit still when he talksflails his arms around like a windmill.
Simon was bustling about, rearranging the cutlery and nearly dropping a fork in his eagerness. My feet felt like lead, my back was aching just below my shoulder blades, and Id been standing at the stove since morningno chance to grumble though, not with our special guest arriving: my husbands younger brother, Edmund.
Just relax, Simon, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. The tables fine as it is. Listen, did you remember the granary bread? Last time, Edmund complained we only served white, and now hes watching his figure.
Got it, he replied, darting to the bread bin. Granary, just how he likes. Molly, the roast? Its done, right? You know hes fussyeats out at fancy places all the time, cant impress him with cottage pie.
Of course I knew. Edmundforty, single, calls himself a freelance creative, though he mostly lives off odd jobs and his elderly motherfancies himself a gourmet. Every visit felt like an exam I was guaranteed to fail.
I did a honey-mustard pork roast, I replied. Fresh meat from the farmers market, cost nearly £20 a kilo. If he doesnt like it, Im washing my hands of the whole thing.
Oh come on, said Simon with a wince. Hes just missed us, thats all. Wants a proper family evening. Try, for his sake? Hes going through a rough patch, searching forwell, himself.
Or searching for money, I thought, but said nothing. Simon adored his little brother, forever defending him as an unrecognised genius.
The doorbell rang, exactly at seven. I peeled off my apron, did a quick fix of my hair in the hall mirror, and plastered on my welcoming smile. Simon was already unlocking the door, beaming like a brass kettle.
Edmund! Mate! Youre finally here!
Edmund always had a knack for theatrics: designer coat open, scarf draped artfully over his shoulder, a hint of stubble for that rugged look. He let Simon hug him, only offering a stiff pat on the back.
I glanced at his handsempty. Not a bottle of wine, not a box of biscuits, nor even a single stem of flowers. Half a year since hed last come, and here we were, a table groaning with food, not even a token gift in return. Thankfully, the children were with their grandmother, as there were no sweets for them either.
Hi, Molly, he nodded, not bothering to take his shoes off straight away as he inspected the hallway. Changed the wallpaper? Rather institutional. Well, as long as you like it.
Hello, Edmund, I answered, clipped. Wash your hands, please. I bought new slippers.
Ill skip the slippers, thanks. You never know what sort of fungi might be lurking. Im fine in socks. The floors clean, I hope?
I felt a flash of irritationId scrubbed that floor twice in anticipation of his arrival.
Spotless, Edmund. Shall we?
In the lounge, the scene was as festive as I could muster: pristine white linen, fancy napkins, three kinds of salad, meat and cheese platters, red caviar, homemade pickled mushrooms from last autumn, all crowned by steaming roast pork.
Edmund lounged back, surveying the spread. Simon fussed with the special five-year-old cognac hed picked up just for his brother.
To catching up! Simon proclaimed, pouring generous glasses.
Edmund twirled his, sniffed, frowned. Spanish, is it? I prefer Frenchmuch subtler aroma, you know. This, wellits a bit raw. But never look a gift horse in the mouth, eh
He tossed it back in one go, then helped himself to the finest cut of cured pork.
Help yourself, Edmund, I offered, moving the salad bowl towards him. Prawn and avocado salada new recipe.
He speared a prawn, scrutinising it as though it were an antique diamond. Frozen prawns? he asked, knowingly.
Of course. Were not exactly on the coast, I replied. Bought them at Waitrose. King size.
Rubbery, he declared, dropping the prawn. You overcooked them. Prawns take exactly two minutes in boiling water, Molly. These are tough. And the avocados not ripecrunchy.
Simon, mid-bite, paused, spoon suspended in the air.
Oh, come off it, Edits lovely! I tried it myself.
Simon, taste is something you cultivate, Edmund intoned. If you eat substitutes your whole life, youll never appreciate real gastronomy. I was at a restaurant launch last weekscallop ceviche, now thats a texture! Thiswell, did you make the mayonnaise yourself at least?
The flush crept up my cheeks. Of course the mayo was shop boughtHellmanns, nothing special. I simply ran out of time to whip up my own.
Came from Sainsburys, I replied, clipped.
Alright, he sighed, as though receiving dire news. Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Poison. Lets try your pork. Hope you didnt ruin that as well.
In silence, I plated up a generous slice of roast, ladled over the honey-mustard sauce, added rosemary potatoes. The aroma could provoke hunger in anyone. But Edmund, ever the connoisseur, was immune.
He carved a piece, chewed, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for enlightenment. We watched, breath heldSimon hopeful, me simmering.
Dry, Edmund pronounced at length. And the sauceits too sweet! If I wanted dessert, Id ask for one. The meats under-marinated, Molly. Didnt let the fibres soften. Shouldve left it in kiwi or sparkling water overnight.
I left it ten hours, in mustard and spices, I retorted quietly. People always said it was delicious.
Well, people is a loose term. Maybe your friends at work like itnever tasted anything more complex than carrot. Im telling you, objectively: edible, but uninspiring.
He pushed aside his barely touched roast, reaching for the mushrooms.
At least the mushrooms are homemade? Or from a tin?
Picked them ourselves, salted ourselves, I bit out.
Edmund popped one in, grimaced. Too much vinegar. Youll destroy your stomach. And the saltare you in love, Molly? Only people in love salt so generously, he chuckled, pleased with his own joke. Simon, careful with your blood pressure at this rate.
Simon let out a nervous giggle, trying to smooth things over. No ones died yet, Ed. Good with vodka, though. Pour us another, will you?
They drank. Edmund shed his scarf but not the coat, as though to show he was only gracing us with brief attendance.
And couldnt you find decent caviar? he asked, poking his sandwich. This is small grain, lots of skins. Got it discounted?
Its wild salmon caviar. £80 a kilo, my voice faltered. We bought a jar just for youwe never buy it for ourselves, we save up.
Saving on food is a terrible mistake, Edmund mused, scoffing another bite. You are what you eat. Id never buy cheap ham, rather go hungry. But you fill the fridge with nonsense from the bargain aisle and wonder why you feel sluggish and look grey.
I looked at Simon. He kept his eyes on his plate, chewing in silencehis blame, his defence of Edmund, hurt worse than Edmunds words. He always hid, afraid to confront his beloved little brother.
Simon, I asked, does the roast seem dry to you too?
Simon coughed. NoMols, its lovely. JustEdmunds got a refined palate, thats all
Oh, refined, I spat, laying down my fork with a clang. So mines crude and clumsy and Im serving up poison?
Molly, dont start, Edmund grimaced. Im giving you constructive criticism. You should be grateful! Youre used to Simon praising everything, but youll stagnate without self-improvement.
Grateful? I asked, rising from the table. My chair scraped loudly.
Molly, wherere you off to? Simon sounded desperate. Weve barely started!
Ill fetch dessert, I replied in a cool tone. Edmund loves his sweets.
In the kitchen, my signature Napoleon stood gleaming on the counter. Twelve wafer-thin layers, homemade custard, fragrant vanillabaked past midnight. I stared at it, then at the empty bin.
My hands trembled. All the years of pent-up resentment came spilling out. How many times had Edmund visited, eaten, borrowed cash and never paid it back? Criticised our decorating, my clothes, the children? And always, Simon defended him. Hes sensitive, hes creative. So Im supposed to be iron-willed?
I left the cake alone. I returned with a big tray and started clearing the table.
Desserts here? Edmund perked up. Hopefully not a supermarket Swiss roll?
I methodically, calmly, started gathering the plates. Meat first. Then the prawn salad. Then the cold cuts.
Oi, whatre you doing? Edmund protested as the caviar sandwiches disappeared from under his nose. Im still eating!
Why bother, Edmund? I said, meeting his gaze head-on. Its all inedible, according to you. Dry meat, poisonous mayo, rubbery prawns, bad caviar. I cant allow our esteemed guest to poison himself.
Simon leapt up. Molly! Enough! Put it all back! Apologise this instant!
I set the tray on the kitchen counter, then turned to my husbandno tears, just icy resolve.
Im embarrassing you? When you sat there nodding while he insulted me? Are you a man or a doormat, Simon? He just ate £15 worth of caviar in five minutes and called it rubbish. Have you ever bought me caviar, just because? No. Everything best goes to guests, and were treated like dirt.
Hes my brother! Blood!
And Im your wife! Ten years of washing, cooking, cleaning. Last night, after my shift, I baked that cake until 2 a.m. For what? To be told Im useless? If you dont stop blaming me, Ill put the Napoleon on your head, and I mean it, Simon.
He recoiled. Hed never seen me like thisId always been mild, obliging. Tonight, I was done with that role.
Edmund poked his head in, suddenly less self-assured. You knowIve never experienced this kind of hospitality before. I came in good faith, and you complain about bread?
You came with so much soul, I sneered. Wheres the generosity? Did you ever bring anything to our home? Even a packet of tea? You just come to eat and criticise.
Im skint! Bit of a rough patch
Youve been in a rough patch for two decades. But youve got a new coat and expensive scarf. Out at restaurant launches, but its sacred to borrow £50 off Simon and forget to pay it back.
Drop it, Molly! Simon cried. Dont you dare count his money!
Its not his money, its ours! Money for our familyskimped so we could feed this gourmet!
Edmund clutched his chest, dramatic as ever. Thats it, Im done. I wont spend another minute here. Simon, never thought your wife could be so vulgar. I wont darken your door again.
He stormed to the hallway. Simon dashed after.
Ed, mate, wait! Dont listen to her, shes just tired or hormonal! Shell calm down!
No, Simon, Edmund declared, sounding wounded. Already tugging on his shoes over his socks. This is unforgivable. Im out, and dont call till she apologises.
The door slammed. Simon stood, staring as if the gates to paradise had closed forever. He turned slowly and trudged to the kitchen, where I was packing roast into containers.
Happy now? he mumbled. Youve driven my only brother away.
Ive saved us from a freeloader, I replied, not even glancing. Sit down, eat. Or is it too dry for you too?
Simon sat, cradling his head in his hands.
How could you? Hes a guest
A guest behaves graciously, not like the hygiene inspector. Listen, Simonnever again will I lay on a spread for him. If you want to see him, meet elsewhereon your own dime. My money and time wont stretch to him anymore.
Youve gone cold, he muttered.
No, Ive become fair. Eat. Or do I clear away?
Simon eyed the porkhis stomach growled, defeated by hunger and the aroma of roast. He gingerly forked a bite. It was tender, melting with a hint of sweet and heattruly good.
How is it? I asked, noting his closed eyes and contented sigh.
Its delicious, he admitted softly. Very, very good, Molly.
See? The only bitter thing here is your brothers attitude. Hes just jealous and petty, Simon. Accept it.
As he chewed, a rare thought seemed to dawn on him: maybe, after all, I was right. He pictured Edmunds empty hands, disdainful tone, the awkwardness whenever Edmund nitpicked.
And the cake? he asked, suddenly hopeful. Will we have some?
I smiled, for the first time that evening. Well have it. And Ill make some tea with thymejust the way you like.
Out came the Napoleon, regal and handsome. I sliced it thickly, the homemade custard golden. We ate in the quiet kitchen, sipped tea, and felt the tension slowly ebb away.
You know, Simon said, finishing his second slice, He didnt even give Mum a present for her birthday last month. Just said he was gift enough.
There you go, I nodded. Youre finally seeing it.
Simons phone pingedEdmund, as expected. Couldve sent me off with a couple sandwiches, left hungry. Owe me £50 for emotional damage, the text read.
Simon read it aloud. Silence hung heavy. I raised my eyebrow.
So, how will you reply?
He looked from me, to the cozy kitchen, to the delicious cake, then the phone. Slow and precise, he typed: Find a restaurant, gourmet man. No cash here. And pressed Block.
What did you send? I asked.
Told him were turning in for the night, Simon replied. I let him have it, though I saw the screen.
Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I murmured, Im proud of you, Simon. Better late than never.
That evening, an important truth settled between us: sometimes, keeping a family together means showing someone the dooreven if theyre kin. And honestly, the roast was sublime, no matter what certain connoisseurs with empty pockets had to say.
