The Light of Amsterdam by David Park Page B

something only they shared.
    â€˜Good,’ she answered. ‘I’ll tell you later. I’ll get the tea on.’
    â€˜Do you need any help?’ he asked, stepping towards her for the first time and both of them knowing that his offer was only a polite gesture.
    â€˜No,’ she said, looking at him just long enough to tell him that he should have asked her first before the invitation was given, and as she walked back to the house she strained to hear if there was any more laughter but there was only the frosted silence of the night.
    She didn’t begrudge two girls far from home a hot meal but felt a little resentment that her husband would get the credit for it and in the minds of the girls the kindness would be his. Emptying her new sportsgear into the washing machine she hoped he wouldn’t talk about the gym over the meal and imagined the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Anka and the equally slim Celina with her hennaed bob of hair and almond eyes looking at her the way women do with each other, weighing her up, evaluating her strengths and weaknesses. She threw some chicken breasts into the oven, opened some pasta and searched in the cupboard for a jar of good-quality sauce which she hoped would disguise the basic nature of the meal. She remembered the sound of their laughter and felt again her exclusion. What was the joke? Why did they stop laughing when she entered as if she was the schoolteacher returning to the classroom who expected to find only quiet work?
    The central heating had come on a couple of hours earlier and with the heat of the oven the whole house seemed too warm. Perhaps the thermostat was set too high. She bent over the sink and splashed her face with cold water then set the table, momentarily confused as to whether to use the very best plates and cutlery or the workaday set, but decided on her second-best set because it was important to make a good impression, even if the meal was unspectacular. She wondered what proper Polish food was like – there were some shelves in the supermarket set aside for it and in the library there was even a new section with Polish books. Perhaps they could have gone to Krakow for the weekend instead of Amsterdam but at least they’d been once before and would know their way about a bit. And the hotel looked nice. She had looked it up secretly on the internet and was impressed by what she saw. She didn’t understand why he still insisted on using a travel agent to book everything when she could do it in a matter of minutes. But then he didn’t trust the internet and still refused to use it for banking, talking about it as if it was a television screen which anyone could switch on and watch the same thing as you. She’d tried to persuade him but with no success and so she’d never even bothered to tell him that they were having broadband. If she was truthful with herself she would have had to admit that her knowledge gave her a sense of advantage, a skill that he didn’t have, and there was a frequent playful satisfaction when she was able to supply him with some piece of information that had eluded him, or find a price for something he was thinking of buying. It even pleased her to see him eat a meal, oblivious to the fact that its ingredients were part of a grocery delivery she had ordered online.
    He came in the back door, the two girls hesitating a little until she invited them in with an exaggerated sweep of her arm. They smiled self-consciously and still loitered at the door until she showed them where to sit. She was about to offer them a cold drink when she saw him opening a bottle of wine and rummaging in the wrong cupboard for glasses. She pointed to the right one with her fork and then declined the offer, worried that her face would flush again.
    â€˜There you go, girls,’ he said as he handed them the too-full glasses. ‘It’s good to be in the heat.’
    â€˜It’s not really that cold for this