Free North Sea Requiem by A. D. Scott

Andrew, that always cheers you up. Bring Jean and Annie. Stay for tea—we’ve plenty of pasta.”
    After they had eaten and Chiara had bathed the baby with the help of two besotted girls, and after Andrew was wrapped up tight like baby Jesus in swaddling clothes and delivered to his daddy, who sat with him and the girls watching television, Joanne and Chiara did the dishes—Chiara washing, Joanne drying. The soothing routine and the warm kitchen and the rich food, especially the orange cake they had for pudding, comforted Joanne, melting the cold lump in her chest.
    â€œHow’s McAllister?” Chiara asked, trying for innocent and failing.
    Joanne didn’t look at her. “How’s McAllister? I don’t really know. I’ve only seen him at work lately.”
    â€œWhose fault’s that?”
    â€œI’ve been busy . . . what with the divorce and the girls and . . .”
    â€œIt’s me you’re talking to, Chiara, your best friend . . . or is this wonderful American woman now your best friend?”
    â€œNever! And how do you know she’s wonderful? Of course, your dad. She’s charmed him too.”
    â€œJoanne, I’m only joking. I know we’re best friends, and yes, she charmed Papa—he loves blond women, you should hear him go on about Grace Kelly—but you’re like a big sister, so I’m allowed to tell you when you’re behaving like an idiot.”
    Joanne said nothing but wiped a large white dinner plate so often it was gleaming.
    Chiara was not going to let up. “McAllister is a man. Single. Forty-five. Never been married. You have to train him. You have to—”
    The doorbell rang. Peter Kowalski, Chiara’s husband, answered.
    â€œCome in, come in. Chiara’s in the kitchen with Joanne if you want to say hello.” Peter came in carrying his bundle of baby, followed by McAllister.
    â€œWe were talking about you,” Chiara said as she dried her hands on a tea towel and came forwards for a continental-style double kiss. “Coffee? Tea? Wine?”
    â€œCoffee please,” he said. He looked at Joanne. Smiled.
    She smiled back, said, “McAllister,” then looked away. The large wooden table between them was as wide as a frontier, and as helpful.
    When they were alone, the men having taken their coffee into the sitting room, and Chiara had the percolator on the stove for a second round, she felt, then saw, the irritation in Joanne.
    â€œWhat? What’s wrong?”
    â€œYou never told me McAllister was coming over.”
    â€œI didn’t know. But he comes here regularly for a game of chess with Peter. You know that.” Chiara was staring. “You, dear friend, have a problem. We will talk later. But first . . .” She was laying the tray with cups and sugar.
    â€œFirst I have to get the girls home, it’s late.”
    â€œNo, you don’t. It’s Friday. They can sleep here and we can have a lovely night together, the four of us.”
    â€œI can’t . . .”
    â€œYou have no choice. I’ve decided.”
    And a lovely night they had. Then McAllister offered her a lift home. When they were in the car, Joanne remembered Chiara’s words. She hadn’t liked hearing her friend tell her she had a problem, but she knew she was right. “Can we go to your house? It’s ages since we talked alone.”
    She could feel his reaction. Feel the pleasure emanating from him like the heat from her two-bar electric fire that she practically sat on top of on cold winter’s nights.
    At his home, they talked. At first the conversation was about Nurse Urquhart. The viciousness of the attack had shaken everyone—especially women who could imagine it happening to them. They talked over the Why? They considered motives; an amputated leg in a shinty boot in Nurse Urquhart’s washing was a pretty sick joke; acid