Page 40 of Barging In

V ictoria plumped the cushion in her favourite chair for the sixth time, turned the background music off for the third time, and switched a corner lamp back on.

She sipped from her glass of Chablis, then refilled it.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this nervous — or was it excitement?

She struggled to pinpoint the difference.

To her, excitement was the anticipation of something positive, and nerves were the anticipation of something negative.

But both could have been responsible for her clammy palms, restless limbs, racing heart, and fluttering stomach.

She checked her watch. Her guest was due to arrive in five minutes. She perched on a stool at the kitchen island and forced herself to breathe slowly. It was only dinner. Dinner with Clem, the woman who made her feel things she wasn’t supposed to feel.

Why couldn’t she keep away from her? She could source cakes elsewhere, find someone else to help the wharf with marketing, and call a taxi when she next wanted a lift.

Victoria swallowed hard, trying to suppress the nausea rising in her throat.

She didn’t want to do any of those things.

At least the hospital run had led to making peace with her neighbours.

Hopefully they could be cordial from now on.

Clem’s words from the tour of the wharf lingered in her head.

She’d said Victoria made a habit of forgetting herself.

Clem had been referring to the museum, but the way she said it, Victoria knew she was saying something else.

And then there was the other thing she’d said: Sometimes you had to be on the outside looking in to see problems. That, too, had a deeper meaning behind it, she was sure.

Victoria noticed things, like the slight tilt of Clem’s head challenging her to dispute it.

She’d also noticed the way Clem had stroked her cheek that morning when she’d returned her Tupperware, the very cheek Victoria hadn’t been able to resist kissing when she’d passed it to her.

Had Clem been thinking about it in that moment?

If so, did the smile on her face mean she’d liked it?

But what could a young, beautiful woman see in someone like her?

She had more yesterdays than tomorrows and was desperately trying to cling to the last of her dignity.

A deep sigh escaped her lips. What did it matter anyway? She was still married. Always would be.

The doorbell rang, making Victoria jump and sending her heart racing again.

Fuck! Who was she kidding? It mattered a lot. It meant everything.

She opened the door to find Clem holding a bunch of pink roses. Her hand flew to her chest as sudden emotion swelled there, threatening to choke her.

“Wow!” she managed, letting out a breath as she took them. “It’s been a long time since someone brought me flowers. Oh — not that you have, in that way, anyway.” Victoria did her best to look less flustered than she felt. “Come on in.”

Clem stepped inside, and as Victoria closed the door behind her, she shook her head at herself. What was she thinking? People often gave each other flowers — especially when one of the people was hosting a dinner party. It didn’t have to mean anything.

“They can mean whatever you want them to mean,” Clem replied softly, eyes locked on her as she turned around.

Okay — maybe it did mean something.

“Thank you.” Victoria held the bouquet in front of her face, using it as a shield to hide her moistening eyes. Why on earth was she crying? Okay, she knew why. Clem… had brought her … flowers. “Come through,” she added, leading the way into the kitchen. “I’ll find a vase.”

She set the flowers down on the marble worktop and rummaged under the sink, trying to compose herself as she did.

“I’m beginning to think a lemon drizzle might’ve been easier,” Clem remarked, her tone carrying a trace of nervous humour.

“Not at all. I have one somewhere,” Victoria called out as she dove into a cupboard under the island.

“Ah, here we are.” She said, spotting one.

“And the flowers are beautiful,” she added, setting a crystal vase onto the worktop.

As she stood, she took in Clem properly for the first time.

Her long, brown hair spilled over her cream, floral dress, and a soft, ever-enticing smile lit up her face. “Just like you,” she let slip.

Clem’s smile deepened. “Thank you. ”

Did I say that out loud? Victoria scrambled for her brain to deliver something — anything — to move the conversation on.

“Oh, I have something for you, too,” she blurted.

She reached for a small, rectangular parcel wrapped in floral paper and pushed it across the worktop to Clem, watching as she peeled it open.

“ Under Pressure: A Feminist History of Corsetry . Thank you,” Clem said, flipping back the book’s front cover. “Signed by the author himself, I see.”

“Of course,” Victoria smirked. “He was very eager . Wine?”

“Please,” Clem said, not even looking up from where she was perusing the table of contents.

“For dinner, I thought I’d play it safe with a spaghetti carbonara.”

“Perfect.”

“Did you get everything you needed next door?” Victoria asked, pouring Clem’s wine into a glass.

“Next door?”

“For your mum,” Victoria clarified, sliding the glass across the worktop to Clem. “The photographs.”

“Oh, yes. All sent,” Clem confirmed. She placed the book down, picked up the glass, and wandered around the room, taking it in.

“Your house is very different to theirs. You wouldn’t know they were identical unless you saw the outside.

You’ve opened it up more than Mum and Dad have. Mum didn’t want it to be too draughty.”

Victoria began arranging the flowers into the vase. “Ah yes, well, I may live to regret it when I’m her age… if I still live here, that is.”

Clem flashed her a tight smile; not wanting to linger on the matter, Victoria continued .

“It had lost a lot of its original features by the time we bought it. Rather than install replicas, I decided to embrace more of the building’s journey and go for a contemporary interior.”

“You’ve done a great job with it. Original features are lovely, but I know they were giving my parents a headache. I suppose no one knows that better than you, with your career and all.”

“Indeed.” Victoria grinned. “Why don’t you sit yourself over there and have a nose through that book while I make dinner,” she suggested, nodding toward her favourite chair overlooking the garden.

If Clem watched her cook, she’d probably drop something or cut herself.

Her body was barely cooperating now as it was.

“Are you sure I can’t help with anything?”

Victoria nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. You go relax.”

Resigned, Clem picked up the book and curled into the chair. The soft light from the lamp beside her bathed her in a golden glow. She looked good there. Too good.

“Sorry about the view,” she called, trying to sound casual. “The blasted neighbour insists on mooring her ghastly orange boat there. It completely ruins the view of the canal.”

“How unreasonable of her,” Clem played along. “But you know, narrowboats are part of the canal.”

“Oh, I do. Every time one passes my office window, the sound echoes like a foghorn.”

“Okay, I’m not biting.” Clem laughed, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs beneath her.

Victoria’s breath caught as she watched her.

Clem looked so at ease, like she was part of the place rather than a visitor.

She opened the book and began flicking through its pages with curiosity.

Then she looked over, caught Victoria watching, and smiled.

A flutter stirred in Victoria’s chest. She gave a quick smile in return and turned to focus on cooking, heart thudding.

Once the meal was plated, Victoria called Clem over to the dining table. She topped up their wine as Clem took a seat.

“I can’t remember the last time I shared dinner with someone,” Victoria said, sitting opposite. “You’ll have to come again. I always make enough for two.”

“I’d like that,” Clem said, meeting her eye. “Life can be rather dull alone.”

Victoria began digging into the pasta. “And good company is hard to find.”

“It is. I often read a book when I eat,” Clem added. “Sometimes it’s the only chance I can grab fifteen minutes’ peace. I’m so tired by the time I get to bed, and then I have to be up early. I’ll enjoy reading Jasper’s book. Have you read it?”

“No. His books aren’t my sort of thing.”

“Feminism isn’t your thing?” Clem asked, eyebrow arched as she sucked up a strand of spaghetti.

“It’s great and everything, and I get behind anyone who is into that sort of thing or musters the energy to be passionate about it, but I don’t.

I guess I see no hope of ever achieving equality.

I prefer fiction — at least that way we can pretend we’ve achieved it, depending on your genre choice, of course.

Some fiction is worryingly becoming reality, increasingly so. ”

“You don’t think an apathetic attitude by too many people might have got us into this mess in the first place?”

“You mean if we all rose up, we could achieve something?”

“If women stopped doing the brunt of the work, or even invoiced for it, the world would be a different place. But we don’t,” Clem said, getting a little animated with her fork. “We get on with it, all the while enslaving ourselves to our captors.”

“Stockholm syndrome,” Victoria sniffed with amusement as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“Exactly. And each generation of women enables the next set of men when they raise their children. It burdens the women of that next generation because at the end of the day, men have got to want to do something in order to do it. All we ever show them is they don’t have to,” Clem said with a noisy exhale.