Page 12 of The Promise of Tomorrow
The universe would know that Elena had worked in HR. Perhaps it had sent her one verbal and two written warnings: the voice shouting ‘Watch out!’ at the firework display. The text Gary had written about him making coffee. The big red and white swimming sign with writing saying to be careful in the deep end.
This meant only one thing.
Termination was next.
Elena’s house came into view. No. She was being ridiculous. The universe, some force, intervening? What an impossible idea.
Or was it as possible as the reality of what had happened in 2004 – that because of the promise young Elena made, a woman with an unfamiliar accent, living in a tent, in the woods, had saved a life that the doctors had written off?
8
ELENA
Whistling greeted Elena as she walked into the kitchen, its windows steamed over, the air fragrant with pesto and garlic.
‘Took you forever to wash your hair,’ said Rory, and he passed her a glass of wine.
They’d grabbed a burger after the pool before heading to the cinema, his idea. She’d done her best to focus on the latest Marvel movie. Elena was no movie snob and, like her books, she gave every sort of film a go: literary, commercial, adult, teen. No surprise that Rory was a huge fan, what with the movie’s daredevil action. He’d insisted on buying a bucket of popcorn and two bright-blue slushy drinks. She caught him giving her worried glances during the screening, perhaps concerned she’d get bored, despite the jump scares.
‘I came to look for you but your room was empty and the shower wasn’t running, just like last time,’ he said and sipped his drink.
Elena’s phone rang and speedily she answered it, glad to walk away from the inquisitive look Rory had shot her. Ten minutes later, she returned to the kitchen.
‘Mum and Dad have invited me to dinner, tomorrow night. They said to ask you along. It’s Moussaka Monday.’
‘It’swhat?’
‘On their first holiday together, back in the eighties, in Kos, they wanted to go somewhere fancy for their first proper meal out together. Back home they’d only ever had takeout as a treat. So they sat down in this restaurant and without a word of Greek, simply pointed to a moussaka dish other diners were eating. It was only when they asked for the bill that they realised they’d gate-crashed a wedding.’
‘Way to go!’
‘To add to the celebrations, Dad got down on one knee and proposed!’
‘Wow. What a story. Remember our first meal together?’
Her brow furrowed.
‘I’d just begun my first ever contract job with Bingley Biscuits and you insisted on taking me out after work, for food. We’d brainstormed, for fun, during our lunch hour, over the concept for a new stuffed cookie range you’d heard about from Mary in product development. Neither of us had eaten a thing since breakfast.’
Elena always took new team members out to get to know them, whether they were temporary or permanent. Going the extra mile had become a way of life. Sometimes it wore her down, but Derek approved and Mum and Dad showed off about her to friends, mentioning her commitment to her career, her fancy house. ‘Yes, I remember. You researched the figures – the jump in stuffed cookie sales during the pandemic had been sustained and they were still tracking well. I thought we could pitch them as being stuffed with love and comfort. It was a shame the product was never taken forward.’
‘It had been a long day so I suggested takeout back at mine,’he said. ‘We picked up fish ’n’ chips on the way, your treat. You asked the guy – he wasn’t English – to shake your fish free of excess batter before frying. It was noisy. He gave you a really odd look. Our order took forever and when we got back to mine and opened the food, we understood why.’
‘He must have only heard the wordsfreeandbatter, taking free to be the word number three, so frying the cod that many times, each with a new coating of batter. That fish would have made a good rugby ball. Talk about a thick, leathery coating.’
‘Yet you ate it. No complaints. I’ve never forgotten that.’
A flicker of something pleasant tickled her insides.
‘Moussaka Monday sounds good. It’s great that your parents are so romantic. That’s the dream, isn’t it – finding someone to spend your whole life with?’
Was it? Elena had never allowed herself to contemplate that.
She wanted to ask about his parents. He only spoke about his dad, who lived on the outskirts of Manchester, was called Mike and worked as a plumber. Rory drove over there every now and again for dinner, and his dad caught the train into town and they’d get lunch and go to the cinema. Rory was a talker, a doer, as vibrant as they came – yet, on the subject of his mother, he closed down like a funfair that had suddenly lost its electricity supply.
‘Tahoor’s wife, Isha, made a mean moussaka,’ said Elena. ‘She’d often bring me round a portion of their dinner – dishes from around the world, though the biryanis from her childhood were the best.’
Rory told her about Tahoor’s bedroom and a sense that he was struggling to keep on top of managing the house.
