I chase the guests out as soon as they start tearing into my flat, criticizing the décor and the food.
The hallways atmospheric, isnt it? Like something out of a gritty 90s British drama. Theres that particular smell. Is it the cats, or does the cellars dampness seep up? Im on the third floor already, halfexpecting to faint theres no lift, and the stairs feel like a workout.
Poppy squeezes her dainty nose into a little sniff and, without waiting for an invitation, strides into the entrance hall, not even pausing to wipe her shoes on the mat. Arthur Bennett, an old university mate of Olivers, follows, thudding his heavy boots so hard that the clean laminate immediately splashes with muddy autumn slush.
Iris Thompson stands in the doorway, clutching a decorative hand towel, feeling the smile shed rehearsed for guests slip away and be replaced by a bewildered grimace. Shed been dreading this visit. Oliver has been rattling off Arthurs achievements all week his booming business, his glamorous young wife. We have to treat them like royalty, Iris, her husband says, nervously readjusting his tie in the mirror an hour before they arrive. Arthur is a serious sort, used to a certain standard. Dont embarrass me.
Iris doesnt want to embarrass anyone. Shes spent two days scrubbing the flat, polishing every inch of their modest but cosy twobedroom. Shes bought new curtains because the old ones felt tired. As for the cooking, theres no point in saying more: since six oclock shes been at the stove, roasting a pork joint from her mothers recipe, rolling intricate aubergine roulades, chopping salads, and slowbaking a duck with apples and cranberry sauce. She wants her guests to feel warm and wellfed.
Come in, please, Iris says, trying to sound welcoming. Here are some slippers I bought a fresh pair for you.
Poppy eyes the soft, pompomtopped slippers as if they were shackles.
No, thank you. I dont wear communal shoes; its unhygienic fungus never sleeps. Ill stay in my socks. Hope the floors clean? My socks are white cashmere.
The floors clean, Iris replies quietly, glancing at the muddy boot prints left by Arthurs shoes. Oliver, could you show the guests to the washroom to freshen up?
While the guests scrub their hands, loudly complaining about the cramped shower (Arthur, I bumped my elbow on the towel rail and theres nowhere to turn!), Iris darts back to the kitchen for the hot dishes. Her heart pounds. The start has been, to put it mildly, disastrous. She hopes a good table and warm hospitality will smooth the edges. After all, theyve been travelling all day; perhaps a bit of food and drink will lift the mood.
The dining room table is set with a crisp white tablecloth, the best china they own, crystal glasses they reserve for special occasions, and napkins folded into swans a trick Iris learned from a YouTube tutorial.
Arthur, a broadshouldered man in an expensive jacket that strains at the belly, flops onto the sofa.
Oliver, old chap! Its been ages! Looks like youve kept things modest but tidy. When did you last renovate? Early 2000s? Those patterned wallpapers are deadaged. Everyones into loft, minimalism, exposed brick now. Youve got floral stuff. Cosy, like a grannys sitting room.
Oliver shuffles Poppys chair aside.
Were planning, Arthur, just a bit strapped at the moment the mortgage is tight. But the neighbourhood is quiet, leafy.
Leafy? Poppy scoffs, scanning the room like an inspector. You mean those poplars that block the light? Its as dark as a cellar in here. Id move to a new build. Were in The Panorama floortoceilings, threemetre ceilings, concierge, security. Here it feels unsafe at night, doesnt it? The residents are all working class, plain folk.
Iris carries a platter of starters to the table.
Help yourselves. Everythings homemade pickled tomatoes, mushrooms, selfcured bacon. Dig in.
Poppy picks up her fork with two fingers, as if it were a surgical instrument, and delicately pierces a Caesar salad that Iris has dressed from scratch with anchovies and parmesan, not the packet sauce.
Is that mayonnaise? she asks, horrified.
No, its an emulsion of yolks, mustard and oil, Iris explains.
Basically mayo. Pure fat. Arthur, you shouldnt eat that cholesterol, remember? Im not having it. And wheres the plain veg? No dressings?
There is, Iris quickly places a bowl of fresh vegetables on the side.
The tomatoes look plastic, Poppy declares without tasting. Probably from the supermarket? We only buy from the market, from reputable farms, maybe the Taste of Britain stall. Those are full of nitrates. Im not being rude, Iris, just looking out for health. Arthur and I watch our diets.
Iris feels irritation rise. Shed selected the plump, pink, farmgrown tomatoes herself, paying as much per kilo as for a steak.
Theyre Baku tomatoes, straight from the market, she says evenly.
Youve been scammed, love! Arthur laughs, pouring himself a shot of vodka. The markets full of middlemen pushing cheap Turkish fruit as Baku. They love a gullible buyer. Anyway, itll go down with the vodka. Oliver, a toast! Dont just stand there like a wallflower.
Oliver drinks, relaxes, and nods along.
Yes, Arthur, youre right. Iris is simple, she trusts the sellers. She takes what they say.
Iris watches her husband. He avoids meeting her eyes, preferring to please the successful friend rather than defend his wife. The word simple cuts her.
The meal goes on. Arthur devours the pork joint, mushrooms, fish, commenting constantly.
The bacons a bit tough, Oliver. The rinds not crisp. My fatherinlaw makes bacon that melts in your mouth. This one feels factorymade. The fish is oversalted. Iris, are you drinking the salt?
The fish is lightly salted, I seasoned it yesterday, Iris replies softly. Maybe it tastes different to you?
Im a gourmand! Arthur roars, saliva dripping. I dine out daily, my palate is refined. You, Iris, should stop arguing and start learning. Critique is useful, but next time, dont pile on the plates.
Poppy pokes at her empty salad leaf, visibly irritated.
Its stifling in here, she says suddenly. No airconditioner?
Theres one in the bedroom. We rarely use it; we keep the windows open.
Windows? In this area? Poppys eyes widen. Theres dust, exhaust fumes. We have an airpurification system, climate control. Youre choking your lungs. No wonder Oliver looks so sallow.
My complexion is fine! Oliver tries to joke, but it falls flat.
Iris slips back to the kitchen for a hot dish, tears threatening. The duck, her pride, sits golden in the oven. She cant bear to carry it out to these people; she wants to dump it down the rubbish chute. Yet her grandmothers voice echoes: Guests are sacred. She sighs, lifts the platter, and heads back.
Ah, the game is on! Arthur exclaims, eyes gleaming. Give us the duck, bold move.
She places the dish centretable. The scent of apples and spices fills the room, even Poppy inhales.
It looks decent, she says, condescendingly. But why leave the skins on the apples? All that wax.
Oliver begins carving the duck.
Iris, youve outdone yourself today it smells amazing! he says, trying to smooth things over.
Arthur snatches a leg, poking at it with his fork as if searching for evidence. He finally cuts a piece, chews, grimaces, and spits it back.
Its dry. Overcooked. A duck should be juicy, a bit bloody, not this shoesole. The sauce is sour. Cranberry? Orange would have been classic. This is rural. Sorry, but I cant eat it. Itll break my teeth.
Silence hangs. Iris watches Arthurs gleaming face, Poppys repulsed push of her plate, and then Oliver.
Oliver sits, eyes down on his plate, chewing the duck. He knows it isnt dry; he knows its tender, the meat falling off the bone. Yet he stays silent, fearing hell offend the important guest.
The plates theres a chip, Poppy says, tracing the rim. Thats a bad omen eating from broken china brings no money. Its tacky to serve cracked dishes to guests.
Its a vintage set, forty years old, Iris replies, voice low. A heirloom from my grandmother.
So what? Old stuff belongs in a landfill. You need new, stylish things. Your house feels heavy, stagnant. I can feel the poverty pressing on me.
Arthur burps loudly, uncouth.
Come off it, Poppy. People live how they can. Not everyone can be rich. Some work in factories, live in council flats. At least the duck give it to the dogs, it wont go to waste.
Oliver chuckles nervously.
Right, Arthur, give it to the dogs normal duck.
The word normal is the final straw. Not delicious, not spectacular, just normal, said in a apologetic tone.
Iris stands, slow and calm. A strange lightness washes over her, as if a heavy backpack has been set down. Fear, the urge to please, the anxietyall melt away. Only cold fury remains.
Put the cutlery down, she says quietly, but firmly, causing Arthur to choke on his vodka.
What? he asks, confused.
I said: place the utensils on the table. The meal is over.
Oliver looks at his wife, eyes wide.
Iris, what are you doing? Joking?
No jokes. Im clearing the plates.
She moves to Arthur and snatches the halfeaten duck plate from under him. The greasy sauce splatters the tablecloth, but she doesnt care.
Excuse me, I havent finished! Arthur protests. What are you doing?
You called it a shoesole, inedible, a dogs meal. I wont force you to chew and break your precious teeth. And youre right about the cholesterol, Poppy. I wont let you suffer here.
She grabs Poppys plate.
You, dear, find this place stifling, dark, dusty, heavyenergy. The tomatoes are plastic, the mayo poisonous, the crockery broken. I wont let you endure any of that a second longer.
Enough! Oliver bursts up, his face flushing. Youre turning my friends into scapegoats! Youre disgracing us!
Iris turns to him, ice in her gaze.
No, Oliver. Youre the one disgracing me. You sit and listen as these men trash my home, my food, my effort, and you just nod! Iris is simple, the duck is normal. You let them trample over me in my own house.
Arthur tries to backtrack. We were only joking! Why are you getting so worked up? A bit of criticism between friends, thats normal, isnt it?
Criticism is advice. When guests arrive, eat, drink and then insult everything thats rudeness, uncouthness, outright barbarity, Arthur, regardless of your pricey jacket and cash.
Poppys face turns a bright red.
How dare you?! We came all the way down, like from the heavens, to your hole, and you
Im opening the door now, Iris says, flinging it wide. Both of you, out. Immediately.
Oliver, are you going to let this happen? Arthur shouts, tugging at his shoes. Your wife is kicking us out! Weve known each other twenty years!
Oliver darts between his friend and his wife, unsure what to do.
Arthur, wait Iris, just apologise! Lets have another drink
If they dont leave now, Im calling the police, Iris says calmly, pulling out her phone. Ill report that strangers are behaving aggressively in my flat.
Go to hell, Oliver, with your fitofanger! Arthur roars. Ill never do business with you again. Forget my number. Youre a
Poppy bolts out onto the staircase, coat in hand. Stinking hallway! Sick people!
Arthur follows, slamming the door so hard plaster dust flies.
Silence settles, broken only by the ticking clock and the faint scent of cooling duck.
Oliver stands in the middle of the room, hands hanging limp, his face pale.
You realise what youve done? he whispers. Youve destroyed my friendship. Youve humiliated me. Arthur could have helped with a contract, and you over a duck, over words.
Iris quietly begins clearing the table, shovelling the remnants into the bin. The salad shed spent an hour prepping now ends up as waste. The criticised garnish follows suit.
It wasnt the duck, Oliver. It wasnt the words. It was that you chose them over me.
Betrayed? Oliver snaps. What betrayal? I just wanted to be a polite host!
A polite host protects his home and his family. You let them mock us, let them call our place shabby. Their opinion mattered more than my feelings. You wanted to impress Arthur. Congratulations, you succeededfor him. To me, youve become a stranger in two hours.
She lifts the duck dish, still perfect.
The most painful part? she asks, looking at him. The duck was divine, but you never noticed because you let a rude mate point it out.
She sets the platter on the countertop.
Im heading to bed. The bedroom with the airconditioner. You can finish the shoesole and the plastic tomatoes or chase after your friends and apologise. Its your call. But if you leave now, you might not come back. Ill change the locks.
Iris walks to the bedroom, locks the door, and collapses onto the bed in her nightclothes, eyes closed, no tears, just a hollow certainty that things will never be the same. The rosetinted glasses are shattered, their shards cutting her eyes.
She hears Oliver pacing, dishes clinking, water running, the door to the bedroom opening and closing without a knock. The shadow of his feet passes the crack of light under the door, but he doesnt knock.
Later the front door bangs. Iriss heart thuds. Has he gone to chase Arthur?
She lies staring at the ceiling, contemplating a life alone. The mortgage looms, but she knows she can manage. No one will ever call her simple again or be ashamed of her home.
An hour passes. The door bangs again, heavy footsteps approach.
Oliver returns, entering the kitchen. Glass shatters as he empties bottles, water splashes as he washes dishes an unusual sight, as he never handled the washing up before.
Iris stays shut.
Morning comes. She steps out of the bedroom, ready to start divorce papers. The kitchen is spotless. Every plate is washed, every utensil stored. On the table sits a duck slice, covered with a napkin, and a mug of cooling coffee.
Oliver sleeps on the sofa, curled under a blanket. His phone lies beside him, screen lit with a message from Arthur: Youre a proper wimp, Oliver. Shes got you on a string. Call if you want to apologise, but Id pull the plug on you.
Below it, Olivers angry reply glows: Sod off, Arthur. Take your duck and your nonsense elsewhere.
Iris reads it twice, a faint warmth stirring in her chest.
She moves to the sofa, adjusts the blanket. Olivers eyes flutter open, red and swollen.
You didnt leave? he croaks.
Im still here, she says. Its my house. Why should I go?
Oliver sits, rubbing his face.
Sorry, Iris. I was an idiot. I wanted to look cool, like you, like him. Hes just a poser. When I shut the door, I sat down and ate a cold piece of duck. It hit me its brilliant, and Im a fool for swapping your smile for his approval.
She sits beside him.
Did you really send that? she asks.
Yes, he mutters, embarrassed. And blocked him. And Poppy too. We dont need those guests. Let them chew their plastic in their Panorama block.
Are we not poor? she asks softly.
Were better than most, he says firmly, pulling her into a hug, his nose pressed to her shoulder. Our flat is cosy, it smells like home, not a sterile clinic. Youre the best hostess,Later that evening, as the soft glow of the kitchen lights bathed the table, Iris and Oliver clinked their mugs together, silently promising to rebuild their home on a foundation of mutual respect and honest love.
