Bea took me to her flat with a bag of takeaway food between us.
“I need to check I've got enough clean towels,” she said. “Nate's bringing his things after the wedding.”
“You could ask him to bring towels.”
“He will bring one towel and three mysterious cloths from the garage.”
We climbed the outside stairs to her door. She tried to find her key with one hand while holding the food in the other, so I took the bag before she fed it to the landing.
The flat smelled faintly of the candle she'd blown out the last time she was home. It was the same little place I'd helped her move into, two bedrooms off a short hall, with a living room that caught the evening sun. The sofa had a green throw over its worn arm. There were flowers in a glass on the windowsill, slightly past their best.
“Don't judge those,” she said, catching me looking. “They're retired.”
“I thought they'd been forgotten.”
“They have a dignified life here.”
She put her bag on the sofa and went to get plates. I checked the little table we had built when she moved in. She'd folded a piece of cardboard under one leg.
“Still resisting you?”
“We've reached an agreement.”
“It looks like you surrendered.”
“Get the food out.”
We sat on the floor with our backs against the sofa. I had a plate balanced on my knees, and Bea ate straight from a carton because she said she'd brought the plates for me, the fussy guest.
She had ordered the noodles I liked, and the dumplings we used to argue over. There were seven. She counted three onto my plate and three into her carton before I could accuse her of stealing.
“Very fair,” I said.
“I'm a decent hostess.”
“The table has cardboard under it.”
“There's plenty more if you need some.”
I laughed with my mouth full. She laughed too, covering hers with her hand, and for a moment it was impossible to hold on to the careful version of us from Mother's kitchen.
We ate. A bus went past below the window. Somewhere upstairs a chair scraped, then everything was quiet again.
“I like it here,” I said.
Bea glanced around. “So do I.”
“Even the table.”
“Especially the table. We suffered for it.”
She leaned back and stretched her feet out. The flat was ordinary, with too many things on the bookshelves and a laundry basket in the hall. I had always liked that she could leave a laundry basket somewhere without turning it into an argument.
“You were so happy when you moved,” I said.
“I was.”
“I thought you were going to change your mind when Mum started telling you where to put everything.”
Bea picked a noodle from the edge of the carton.
“When she helped with the rent, I thought—”
She stopped, then put the noodle in her mouth.
“What?” I asked.
“That I'd have to ask her about everything. I kept waiting to feel properly grown up.”
“Did you?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I bought the wrong size bin bags and wanted her to come and sort my entire life out.”
I smiled. “I expect I'll do that.”
“Get the bin first. It helps.”
I nudged her foot with mine.
“I can't wait to have my room,” I said. “At the guesthouse. I liked the summer room, but I knew I'd have to hand it back.”
“The new one's yours.”
“While I'm working there.”
“You're good at it.”
“You're basing that on the fact I got you an extra pillow.”
“It was an excellent pillow.”
I put my empty plate on the floor and leaned my head against the sofa cushion. I liked hearing her say I'd be good at something. I liked not needing to prove it to Mother first.
Bea stood, took the cartons into the kitchen and came back without them.
“Come and look at something.”
“If it's the towels, I can only give a brief opinion.”
She held out her hand. I took it and got up.
The second bedroom had a small bed against the wall, a narrow wardrobe and a desk that held a sewing box. I had slept here on visits before. Usually the bed was covered in clothes. Tonight it was clear except for a folded blanket.
“I sorted it last week,” she said.
“Where did all the clothes go?”
“Don't open my wardrobe quickly.”
I touched the blanket. It was the soft striped one we used to drag onto the sofa at home when Mother went out and we watched films she thought were silly.
“You kept this.”
“You weren't the only person who liked it.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. I sat beside her, my fingers still on the blanket.
“You can use this room,” she said. “Whenever you come back. After Monday, when you're visiting. Or if you need somewhere for longer.”
I looked at her.
“With Nate here?”
“I've asked him. He's happy for it to be your room when you need it.”
“What about guests?”
“You're a guest.”
“I'm the fussy guest.”
“We'll survive.”
I couldn't smile for a moment. It was too close to the thing I'd wanted without knowing how to ask for it. Somewhere in town that could be mine without me having to go back to the house, without Ruth having to hear every argument first.
“I am going on Monday,” I said.
“I know. I'm not asking you to change that.”
“And I might not want to be around you both all the time.”
She nodded. “I know that too.”
I looked at the desk. There was room for my bag under it. There was a hook on the back of the door for a coat. Little things, but I could picture using them.
Bea reached into her trouser pocket and brought out a key on a plain metal ring.
“Spare,” she said. “You don't have to ask me every time.”
“Won't Mum say something?”
“She doesn't get to decide who comes here.”
I took the key. It was still warm from her pocket.
“You'd really let me turn up?”
“Send a message, so I know you're on your way. But yes.”
“Even if the table finally falls over?”
“You'll need to help put it back.”
I laughed and leaned against her. She put her arm around me. It was easy to sit like that here, where nobody would come through the door and ask whether we were being useful.
“I hated seeing you so sad this week,” she said.
“I wasn't exactly thrilled.”
“I know.”
“I'm still angry with you.”
Her hand stayed on my shoulder. “Okay.”
I closed my fingers around the key. I didn't stop being angry. But I felt wanted in a way the kitchen photograph had taken from me.
We went back to the living room and shared the last dumpling, which Bea had somehow kept in the carton. She insisted that cutting it in half with a spoon was a delicate skill. Hers got most of the filling.
“Decent hostess,” I said.
“You saw nothing.”
I put the key in my bag before we left. On the stairs, Bea linked her arm through mine so we could carry the empty takeaway bag between us.
I looked back at her door once, then let her lead me down to the street.