On Friday evening, June arrived with tomatoes, pastry and a piece of paper so stained Mary couldn't read the title.
“It's a tart,” she said. “Trust me.”
“I've seen you burn toast.”
“This doesn't involve toast.”
Mary took the bags and put them on the counter. She had asked June to come and cook with her. Not bring dinner, not sit beside her while she cried. She wanted to learn something she'd imagined making in a shared kitchen, and she didn't want to wait until she had one again.
June found the apron on the back of the door and put it on.
“We have about two hours,” she said. “I'm meeting people afterwards.”
“I know.”
“I can change that if—”
“Don't.”
June nodded. Mary was grateful not to have to make her gratefulness visible immediately.
They read the recipe together. It required more tomatoes than Mary thought any tart could reasonably hold. June said they shrank. Mary said so did her expectations every time she cooked.
“Then we have very little to live up to.”
They cut the tomatoes and left them to drain. Mary unrolled the pastry, taking a corner off in the process. June pressed it back on with a fork.
“No one will know.”
“We're the only people eating it.”
“Then no one will complain.”
The flat was warm from the oven. Mary opened the window. She had spent much of the week working at the table, ignoring the part of the room where the hotel folder used to be. Now she cleared enough space for two plates and a bowl of salad.
June talked while they waited. A volunteer at the hall had rearranged the office cupboard, making it look better and rendering everything impossible to find. June had spent the morning searching for the ticket paper she herself had moved into it.
“I had to apologise to him.”
“How was that?”
“Unpleasant. He'd been very patient about my increasingly pointed questions.”
Mary laughed. June imitated her own professional voice, polite enough to sound deeply threatening, then stopped because she was laughing too.
For a while the conversation was about June, and Mary didn't have to turn every opening towards what had happened to her.
June asked if she'd like to try the pool next week. Mary said yes, provided they weren't going before breakfast.
They checked the tart. It looked good from above. Beneath it, the pastry was soft. June put it back in the oven and increased the heat. Ten minutes later one corner had gone very dark.
“That will be my corner,” Mary said.
“Generous.”
“It fell off. I'm responsible for it.”
They ate at the table rather than standing by the sink. The filling was good. The pastry could have been better. Mary liked the meal enough to write a small note on a clean sheet about what they'd change next time.
“You can put it on your new shelf,” June said.
“With the fiction.”
June raised her glass of water. “To a reliable tart.”
Mary touched her glass against it, smiling.
After dinner, they washed the dishes. Mary packed a piece of tart for tomorrow. June checked the time and went to find her bag.
“I should go.”
Mary wanted her to stay. The wish was immediate and simple. Tomorrow would have been the wedding, and the flat would be quiet when the door shut.
June was looking at her. “Would you like me to ring in the morning?”
“Not first thing. I don't know what I'll want.”
“Then ring me.”
Mary nodded. She didn't ask June to cancel her evening. She had been told about the plans before they made dinner, and they mattered to her friend too.
At the door, June hugged her.
“I'm glad we did this.”
“So am I.”
Mary watched her go downstairs, then came back inside. The kitchen smelled of cooked tomatoes. A little patch of flour remained on the counter even after they'd wiped it.
She put the recipe on the shelf. Tomorrow she could decide whether she wanted leftovers. Tonight she changed into comfortable clothes, chose a film she hadn't seen and sat down to watch it.
Halfway through, something made her laugh. There was no one to share it with, and she missed that. She laughed anyway.