Violet wrote all day. She filled page after page with stuff about car design and culture, about chromium trim and national ardour, about the tailfins of the 1950s—as emblems of American post-war optimism and vectors of workaday prosperity. She made a note on a facing page, reminding herself to write a novel—after she had gained a little more confidence—to be called Harley Earl: A Novel. She would keep notes for it in a separate workbook.
When finally she looked at her watch, it was 5:30 pm. Tom would be home in about an hour. She hadn’t given any thought to dinner. She wondered if he had? Then she went back to her writing.
At 6:27 on the dot she heard the car sigh into the driveway and at precisely 6:30, Tom opened the front door and strode into the hallway. He hung up his raincoat, looked around—as if he were faintly surprised to find the house the same as he had left it in the morning—and called out to Violet.
“I’m in the kitchen,” she called out in reply.
Tom came back to the kitchen, gave Violet a peck on lips, opened the refrigerator, bashed two ice cubes free from the grip of the stinging cold tray, carried them quickly across the room, where he took down a glass from the cupboard, tossed the ice cubes into it, dried his wet, freezing hand on a tea towel hanging by the sink, went back to the refrigerator, pulled the bottle of gin from the freezer, poured a couple of fingers of it over ice cubes, rummaged around in the fridge until he found what looked like the last can of Canada Dry tonic water, snapped the tab, and poured half of the can into the icy gin.
“Do you want some lemon?” Violet asked him.
Tom started, as if he’d been caught out at something slightly improper.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I forgot to ask you if you’d like one of these!” Violet had just spotted a moment of verbal infelicity on her scrawled page and was leaning over to correct it.
“Violet?”
She looked up quickly.
“Yes?”
“Do you want a drink?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Tom, I just spied something stupid I’d written here and wanted to fix it before I forgot where it was.”
“But about the drink…yea or nay?”
“Nay,” said Violet absently. Then she looked up and smiled at him. “But thank you anyway.”
Tom put his drink on the kitchen table and sat down.
“Do you want to go out for something to eat?” he asked her.
“Okay.”
“Where would to like to go?”
“I don’t know. Thai, maybe? Or would you like sushi?
“Sushi seems too cold for tonight. It’s cool and rainy outside. I’d like something warm and comforting.”
“How about Indian? That’d be warm and comforting.”
“Or,” said Tom, insinuating his arm about her waist amd giving her a boyish grin, “we could just stay home and you could be warm and comforting.”
Voilet gently unwound herself from his arm.
“Let’s go out,” she said.
An hour later they were seated at a table for two in the front window of the Agra Tandoori restaurant, which was not far from where they lived, out in the Junction. It was a nice little neighbourhood place, warm with red paint and gold hangings and brass elephants. The maitre d’, Akanksha, knew them, and they always felt comfortable there.
What do you fancy?” Tom asked.
You know what I’d love?” Violet told him. “a plate of Goll Baji with a dish of Tamarind puree! Heaven!”
“Okay, but that’s just an appetizer. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not very. It’s the writing I think. It takes all my attention and I forget about eating.”
Tom smiled. “Maybe dining here will bring it all back to you.” He glanced over at Akanksha, who came smiling up to their table.
“Have you decided?”
“What’s that wonderful okra dish we had here a few weeks ago?”
“I think you and Mrs. Dollop has our Bhindo Masala,” said Akanksha.
“It was great! Lets have it again,” said Tom. “And some Butter Chicken!”
Akanksha looked momentarily discomfited. Butter chicken, yes,” said Akanksha thoughtfully. “I wonder if you and Mrs. Dollop would mind it I made an alternate suggestion?”
“Speaking for myself,” said Violet, “Mrs Dollop would be delighted!”
So would Mr. Dollop,” Tom added.
“We have tonight a lovely Bombay dish called Parsi Chicken with a Apricots, rich with tomato, ginger, dried apricots and garnished with potato straws…”
“Sounds delightful,” said Tom.
“Most satisfying,” murmured Akanksha happily. And off he went to the kitchen.
“And some Naan bread!” Violet called after him.
Akanksha returned, smiling, to their table.
“Try some Saag Roti,” he said. “Roti with a spinach base.”
They both smiled up at him, and suddenly the dinner was entirely decided—fixed and promising.
“You were right,” Violet told Tom happily.
“About what?”
“The idea of eating. It’s coming back to me!”
