Ruth had put a bag of groceries beside Mary's place at the kitchen table. Mary looked inside and found coffee, washing powder and a packet of the expensive crackers she bought only when someone was coming over.
“You didn't need to do that.”
“They were on offer.”
“All of them?”
“The washing powder.”
Mary sat down. Her mother slid a baking dish onto a mat, then inspected the bag as if some essential provision might have been left out.
“There's olive oil in there too.”
“I have olive oil.”
“Good. Now you have more.”
Mary accepted a spoonful of roasted vegetables. She had come for dinner on Thursday because Ruth was out on Friday and Mary had missed Sunday lunch. At the time, Sunday had seemed too soon to tell her mother about a man she had only just met. Now Thursday seemed too late.
“The flat's looking better,” Mary said.
“Have you done the blind?”
“I've arranged for it to be done.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Will you be there?”
“I do live there.”
Ruth gave her a look. Mary grinned and reached for the serving spoon.
She had missed this kitchen: the bright patch beneath the back window, the radio that needed a sharp tap before it would come on, her mother's habit of putting a second helping on your plate while asking whether you'd had enough. She had also forgotten how quickly a conversation here could become an inspection of her arrangements.
Ruth had been less forthcoming about her own life. Last October she'd told Mary she was seeing someone younger, then said she wasn't ready for introductions when Mary asked his name. In November she'd rung from Brighton, laughing about a steep walk and a café pudding she'd complained about and eaten anyway. Mary had enjoyed hearing her like that. She'd let the questions wait.
“I went on a date,” she said.
Ruth paused with her fork over the dish.
“Oh?”
“A good one.”
“Well, that's nice.”
It was an insufficient response. Mary had been carrying the news all day. She wanted to set it down between them and have her mother look properly.
“His name's Adam. He's a sign painter. We worked on the hall signs on Saturday.”
Ruth put the fork down. “Yes. I know who you mean.”
“June introduced us.”
“He's done work for the hall.”
“I know. And we had coffee on Tuesday. Then we went to that pottery place.”
“You went to pottery?”
Mary took out her phone and found the photograph. “Try to guess which one I made.”
Her mother leaned over.
“That one.”
“You could have hesitated.”
“Darling, you've put what looks like a lightning strike round the edge.”
“It's a pattern.”
Ruth smiled. It was familiar and affectionate, and Mary relaxed.
“He was very good company,” she said. “Even when I was laughing at him.”
“That's promising.”
“And he's funny. He doesn't look like he will be, at first. He looks like he might want to explain how you should load a dishwasher.”
Ruth picked up her fork. “Did he?”
“No. We haven't reached dishwashers. We've only reached coffee and badly made objects.”
“So this was your first date?”
“Yes.”
“You sound very taken with him.”
Mary was. It was embarrassing how much she wanted to see the message that had come in while she'd been walking over. She'd glimpsed his name on the screen and put the phone away so she could enjoy looking at it later.
“I don't know him yet,” she said. “I know that.”
“I'm glad you had a lovely afternoon.”
“But?”
“There wasn't a but.”
“You put one in with your eyebrows.”
Ruth took a drink of water. “You only moved back a fortnight ago. You don't have to get everything settled at once.”
“I haven't asked him to share the washing powder.”
“Mary.”
“I'm allowed to like somebody.”
“Of course you are.”
Mary looked down at her plate. There was a line of sauce on its edge, and she wiped it away with a piece of bread. She had meant to make this a happy conversation. Instead, she could hear herself slipping into the old irritated voice she used when Ruth reminded her to take a coat.
She had wanted to get married for years. When she was younger she had imagined a dress and a room full of people, and then, as she got older, the days that came after. She still wanted both. Ruth knew that. Her mother had listened after dates that led nowhere and after one relationship that became less certain the more Mary tried to talk about its future.
It was reasonable that Ruth might worry. Mary didn't have to stop enjoying herself to prove she'd understood.
“I like him,” she said more quietly. “I'm not making an announcement. I wanted to tell you.”
Ruth reached across and squeezed her hand.
“Thank you for telling me.”
Mary turned her hand beneath her mother's and squeezed back. Then she withdrew it to stop a piece of bread falling off the edge of the plate.
“Have you answered June about the twenty-sixth?” Ruth asked.
“Not yet.”
“You should come. There'll be people worth meeting for your work. You can't build all your contacts from the spare bedroom.”
“It's the living room. My flat doesn't have a spare anything.”
“Then it's even more important to get out.”
Mary knew the gathering would be useful. She was also fairly sure Ruth would introduce her as a girl who made lovely pictures, which would give Mary something to correct for the rest of the evening.
“I'll reply.”
“Good. Adam's invited too. He's one of the contributors.”
“June said.” Mary put down her bread. “But I don't want that to be the first time you meet him with me.”
“We know each other through the hall.”
“I mean properly. As someone I'm seeing. I'd rather not do it while you're trying to find chairs for twenty people.”
Ruth began stacking their plates.
“Would he want to come here?”
“I'll ask him. We could have dinner on Saturday. Something easy.”
Her mother stood with the plates in her hands. “You don't think that's rather soon?”
“For dinner? No. I'm not going to make him ask your permission to hold my hand.”
Ruth's mouth moved into a small smile. “I should hope not.”
“And if he turns out to be dreadful, I'll already have a second opinion.”
“I don't want to be your second opinion.”
“Then just be my mother. Please.”
Ruth set the plates beside the sink. Mary watched her run water into the baking dish, loosening a dark patch on its corner with her thumb.
“Saturday,” she said. “Seven?”
Mary got up to help clear the table.
“Thank you.”
She waited until she was back in her flat to read Adam's message. He had sent a picture of a shop window he'd finished, with a question underneath: Any catastrophic joins?
She enlarged it. There weren't any, but she found a small uneven space between two letters and told him he would need to start again.
His answer came while she was putting away the groceries.
I'll break it to the owner gently.
Mary smiled, leaning against the kitchen counter. Then she asked him to dinner at her mother's on Saturday. She added that there would be food, and that he was allowed to wear a shirt with paint on it.
He said yes.
She read it twice before putting her phone down.