The Silent Supper

She shopped for her ‘silent supper’. Like most folklore, the idea was a simple one:
A late meal must be prepared in total darkness; total silence. Not one word must be uttered by any participant for the entire duration. Everything must be placed backwards, servers walking backwards from the kitchens and even the courses eaten in reverse order.
This was to be done on St John’s Eve, when magical realms were said to be closest to this material plane.
If done correctly, come midnight, she’d be staring at the apparition of her future husband.
She shook her head clear of the nonsense.
If the veil between worlds had been thinned, then the spirit world would be awash with the clamour and smells of the indoor market. The June heat seemed to intensify them both.
She saw no obvious faerie folk as she wandered between the stalls but then it would be hard to tell - the diversity of the shoppers was as broad as the range of produce on offer.
She didn’t know if it mattered, but realised she had even been buying the ingredients in reverse order!
She’d laughed at first when Roisan had brought up the idea of the supper. She didn’t consider herself to be the least bit superstitious but Roisan’s pained look had told her mockery was unacceptable. This was obviously something important to her, but then, what wasn’t?
Roisan had always been obsessive. When she got an idea in her head she was generally unswayable. It was one of the qualities that made her both lovable and unbearable in equal measure.
At college it had been fun and exciting to be with her but as they’d both approached their thirties it grew tiresome.
She sensed that Roisan understood the toll her intensity had been taking lately which made this supper idea all the more difficult to comprehend.
When her hopes that Roisan would just let it go proved useless, she’d simply acquiesced. It was easier that way. She’d even offered to do the shopping – secretly hoping to get a couple of hours respite from Roisan’s compulsive attention to detail.
She didn’t believe for one minute that any of this would work, but hadn’t she just caught herself working improvised elements of the ritual into the shopping? – As if the whole thing rested on whether she’d purchased the prawns before or after the steak!
Again she shook her head at Roisan’s abilities to control her.
Oh well, if nothing else, she’d eat well (albeit late) tonight.
Her mobile vibrated. She suspected that Roisan may even have set that to ‘silent’ in anticipation of the evening to come. The text read: ‘Where are you Emma?’
The sun was still high in the sky but she was clearly keen to get started.
As a small act of defiance she deliberately walked the long way home and only replied: ‘On way’, when she’d got to the foyer of the flats.
As she waited for the lift she felt a presence behind her. She turned to see Mark, their neighbour grinning broadly at her.
“Hi Emma, want a hand with those bags?” he asked.
She grinned back but then faltered – was she supposed to be silent already?
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she chastised herself. It was one thing to indulge Roisan in the privacy of their own flat but she’d die if she had to explain herself to anyone else.
“Yeah sure,” she replied, “thanks very much Mark.”
Their flat was directly opposite the lift on the thirteenth floor. As the lift opened she could see the door was ajar and Roisan was stood in the corridor glaring at them both.
She was ready to apologise but Roisan raised an index finger to her lips with one hand and reached out to grab the bags from Mark’s hands with the other.
She turned to Mark and raised her eyebrows. He shrugged exaggeratedly; breaking what could have been a tense and awkward moment and giving the whole proceedings the surreal feeling of a silent movie.
He’d been their neighbour a long time, and although he always seemed to have time for her; he knew full well what Roisan could be like.
Roisan had already entered the flat so she dutifully followed.

Inside it was dark. She saw that the windows had been draped with heavy material.
The table in their small living room was already laid. A single candle burned in it's holder on the sideboard.
She didn't know where the fine china and silver cutlery had come from; or the expensive bottle of red wine that was open, probably 'breathing'.
Yet again Roisan had thrown herself into the task with complete devotion.

She could no longer convince herself that this was some harmless, offbeat exercise. Roisan was deadly serious. It scared her.

She looked through into the kitchen space. Roisan hadn't completely blocked out the light in here, probably so she could prepare the courses of the meal more easily.

They'd aimed to get most of the food preparation done before the dusk and had spent the morning arranging the flat. They'd carried their tired sofa and assorted pieces of furniture into the second bedroom then placed the table in the centre of the living room. In broad daylight it had looked out of place. There were deep indentations in the carpets from all the furniture they'd moved. The carpet itself had retained it's colour and texture where it had been hidden under the sofa and chairs. With the room stripped it was easy to track the daily paths they walked around each others lives as they were clearly mapped in the worn areas of carpet.
She'd found it vaguely depressing she now realised.

Roisan was in the kitchen already, emptying bags and placing produce on the chopping board.

She glanced around the walls for a moment .The paintings and photos that hung there looked strange in the flickering candle light. The flame was reflected in the wide mirror that hung on the wall just inside from the cramped hallway.

A spectral figure appeared in the door frame to the kitchen. Even with her face in dark shadow, she could sense Roisan was frowning. They needed to keep to her schedule: prepare the meal and rehearse the serving order.

She turned to walk the short distance to the kitchen. The pain in her shin registered before she realised what she'd done and she let out a loud and painful shout, amplified by the stress she felt under.

She'd collided with a hard table leg. Roisan rushed over to her, but instead of offering comfort or assistance she covered her mouth to stifle any further cries and managed to convey the message 'be quiet!' simply by looking her in the eyes.
Pain gave way to anger, a rare emotion for her. It must have shone through her eyes because Roisan looked shocked although she still held her gaze.
She was going to speak, to say:
“If you care more about this stupid supper than me then...” but the front door banged loudly before she'd finished the thought let alone got the words out.

Roisan stood up leaving her crouched over, rubbing her rapidly bruising shin vigorously and breathing hard through her pursed lips.

When Roisan opened the front door she found Mark stood in the corridor outside. Before speaking, he tried to peer past her into the dimly lit room beyond.
“Er, Roisan, hi...” he began, “I heard a cry and got worried.”
He probably had more to say but a puzzled look crossed his face.
“Whys it so dark in there?”
Roisan looked at the little telephone table behind the door and picked up the memo pad that lay next to it. From the living room Emma could see that Roisan had even disconnected their land line. There was no way she would even think about speaking when she'd gone to such lengths.
Sure enough she scribbled furiously on the pad with the small pencil attached to it, tore off a sheet and then thrust it at Mark.
He read it and raised his eyebrows, echoing the expression Roisan had given him outside the lift not long ago. His was more one of bewilderment and he re-read the scribbled note aloud, changing his intonation to make it a question. “We're busy Mark, just go away?”
Emma felt herself blushing scarlet and was glad of the dim interior. Why was Roisan so rude to Mark all the time? He again tried to peer across Roisan's shoulders into the darkened living room.
“Well, as long as you're alright in there Emma?” he asked, still clearly puzzled.
She nodded vigorously and wondered if he could see the smile she'd mustered for him. Had she felt just the slightest frisson when he'd said her name? She really liked Mark despite Roisan's obvious distaste for him. But then, Roisan felt like that about most men.
“What are you two up to now?” he asked Roisan, his natural humour returning. “You're not holding a séance or something?” he laughed.
He didn't realise how close to the truth he was and Roisan clearly didn't see the funny side.
She scrawled a second note - “We're fine, please go.”
She was closing the door even as he read but he jammed it open with his foot. Ignoring Roisan for a minute he spoke straight at her, “Listen Emma, pop round if you need someone to talk to, okay?”
Roisan was now pushing him firmly by the shoulder so he took a step back. It looked like he might say something else, but she never got a chance to hear it. Roisan slammed the door shut.

She should've realised just how tense the silence would be once Roisan had returned to the kitchen.
Everything from the small, exaggerated movements as they worked to the sharp glances and almost imperceptible head shakes told her that when they could finally talk to one another again, Roisan would have a great deal she wanted to say.
In turn, she felt her own anger rising still further and she had the childish desire to spoil the whole thing, despite the hours of work and effort that would be wasted.
The urge to speak was almost a compulsion for her now. She wanted to pull back the curtains and let in the fading light of the early evening. She wanted to shout at Roisan that this bloody stupid game had gone too far, that she’d sucked the fun out of it like she did everything else.
She wanted to, but she did not. Because what had those rare rebellions ever brought her before? The hope of an apology was always crushed and replaced by recriminations. Roisan would tell her she was weak and she wouldn't manage without her; that Roisan had to look out for her. Apparently she needed Roisan to inject some excitement into both their lives. It wasn’t Roisan that wasn’t any fun – it was her …
The sad thing was, part of her agreed. She was dependant upon Roisan up to a point. Despite all of this, the relationship was a comfortable one. Familiar. She’d needed someone strong like Roisan in college and what had really changed during these subsequent years?
So she busied herself with the preparations as written on the carefully drafted list she could just about make out in the gloom.
The cheese and biscuits were already at room temperature whilst the pot of coffee that simmered on its hot plate would doubtless taste like hot treacle by the time it was served.
Everything was prepared backwards, so that by the time Roisan was chopping lettuce for the prawn cocktail, it was dark. She thought about changing but couldn’t be bothered. The dress that Roisan had picked out could stay hanging on the front of the wardrobe.
She wandered through to the lounge and sat down at the table. The candle had burned down and cast long shadows.
She reached for the wine bottle and poured herself a generous glass before Roisan saw. She gulped it greedily. The wine was of a good quality, better than they usually afforded themselves. She felt the warmth of it spreading through her and realised that she hadn't eaten in hours.
She replaced the glass, hoping that Roisan wouldn't see that she'd drunk any before the coffee that would be her first official course.
When Roisan first emerged from the kitchen, Emma had to stifle a giggle. The wine really had gone to her head. The sight of Roisan carefully shuffling backwards, precariously balancing a coffee cup on a saucer would probably have made her laugh even if she'd not drunk anything. As she imagined the serious and determined look that Roisan must have on her face she did laugh – a short, high pitched giggle that she immediately suppressed.
Roisan came around behind her and set the coffee down a little too forcefully. She returned to the kitchen but then reappeared with a second cup. This she placed far more delicately in the setting opposite.
The chair opposite her was not entirely empty. A carefully folded piece of paper had been placed on the seat. She'd written it but the words had come from Roisan.
“Only my intended may eat.”
She quietly sipped at coffee and stared at the empty chair opposite her. Tendrils of steam drifted off the untouched cup.
Roisan appeared again and placed the cheese board at the centre of the table. She set down two side plates that had been tucked under her left arm and hurried back to the kitchen, but gave the still full coffee cup a long sideways glance as she did.
When Roisan returned, her backwards steps were more assured, improving with each journey. This time she set down two small glasses and uncorked a small bottle of port she had been carrying in her other hand and poured two generous measures.
She drank the port quickly, but when Roisan made a point of staring at her empty cheese plate she glanced at the clock and was shocked to see it had gone 11 o'clock. The meal needed to be finished before midnight.
She took two slivers of cheese and ate them, surprised by the ferocity of her appetite. She hadn't touched the biscuits but there seemed fewer than there'd been in the kitchen. She guessed that Roisan had been snacking between courses, it couldn't be nice preparing all that food and not having any yourself.
As she pondered this Roisan came through and began busily tidying up. The aroma of sizzling onions followed her. She poured herself another glass of wine. Something troubled her. What was it? The side plates. Roisan had carried the two side plates out together. Her own had been almost clean. She'd only placed the two slivers she'd cut on it briefly. They'd both been hard cheeses. So why was Roisan carrying a plate smeared with a creamy cheese and peppered in biscuit crumbs?
She stared pointedly at the empty seat opposite. She felt a little scared but chastised herself. Roisan was just playing along. She knew that both plates had been clean when Roisan had set them down, but between the wine and port and pondering she could have cut some of the cheese and eaten it without her seeing.
That was it she thought. She grinned and lifted the wine bottle. She gestured with it to the empty space opposite – raising her eyebrows questioningly. She cocked her head to one side as if listening to a reply then smiled and nodded. She reached over and poured a large glass for her invisible companion. She refilled her own glass and raised it in silent toast.
Roisan carried two bowls of already melting sorbet through from the kitchen. She eyed the wine bottle and snatched it from the table. She shook it vigorously to show there was less than a glass left. The implication was clear - “Emma, you've nearly drunk the bottle!”
She raised her hands in protest and pointed at the setting opposite. Then her hand fell. The glass was empty save for a last few drops. She looked at Roisan incredulously. Roisan looked back and she knew right away that Roisan had not touched the wine. Her eyes spoke of a mixture of fear and wonder but not deceit.
Roisan picked up a spoon and placed it in the sorbet, gesturing for her to continue eating. How could she? There was something here with them! An unseen presence.
Of course they'd discussed it. Researched it. This would be no ghost, just a future echo of the person she'd spend her life with. Her true love. How could that be scary? It would be just like the holograms they'd seen at the science museum.
The reality was different.
Her skin prickled and a terrible sense of foreboding came over her. She'd heard that heart attacks were preceded by similar symptoms and wondered momentarily if she was going to have one. She was faint and her brain felt starved of oxygen.
Could she see a faint outline now? Was there a figure sat opposite? She would have put it down to her imagination and the 'ritual' of the evening had it not been for the empty wine glass, the eaten food.
Why was Roisan so calm then? She was back in the kitchen. The unmistakable sounds of sizzling steak indicated that Roisan was pressing on – oblivious to her obvious distress. Surely she couldn't be that self absorbed? Unless...
Why it hadn't occurred to her earlier she didn't know. Roisan must have slipped something extra into the drinks. Hadn't the wine been 'breathing' before she'd drunk it? Perhaps it was the port or even both.
Whatever it was it had worked. She was beginning to feel detached, slumberous – despite the paralysing fear she'd felt moments earlier. Her anger, so quick to flair at points during the evening had also retreated.
She tried again to focus on the chair opposite. The faint outline was still there, indistinct but just visible. The spoon had reached her lips before she realised she'd absent mindedly begun eating the sorbet. It had melted but was still cold. It tasted sickly.
A strange thing happened. As she swallowed, the figure opposite solidified a little. It was a little more 'there'. The guttering candle light seemed to now reflect off it rather than come through it.
Was everything laced with the drug? The more she ate and drank the deeper into the hallucination she was drawn? She'd never heard of a drug that triggered specific hallucinations but then the whole day had left little more in her thoughts or imagination than seeing the shade of her future love.
She closed her eyes. She heard footsteps and smelled the meat before the steak was placed before her. She kept her eyes shut tight. She wasn't going to play along with this any more. This clearly displeased Roisan who gave her shoulder an insistent squeeze, gentle at first but tightening. She pushed her away. In a few moments she thought she heard Roisan retreat to the kitchen. Another small victory. She was building quite a list!
She risked opening her eyes a crack. Roisan hadn't gone. She was sat opposite. She was eating the steak! She looked so serene, so unperturbed. And wasn't that what this had all been leading up to? Roisan 'proving' to her how much she needed her, tricking her into a lifetime of this manipulation and control.
Hadn't she been winning a little too much recently? Her quiet refusals to go completely along with Roisan's schemes? She'd even enjoyed spending time next door, not quite knowing which she enjoyed more – Mark's light and humorous company or the clear feelings of jealousy and insecurity it instilled in Roisan.
Was she really going to choose to spend the rest of her life in this perpetual state of subservience? Walking the same route through her drab life, wearing it thin like the carpet in their living room?
The answer, according to the stony faced Roisan sat opposite was a resounding 'yes'.
She watched Roisan eat, wondering when she would put down her cutlery and begin the real events of the night. Such elaborate planning surely meant that Roisan would be hitting her with strong arguments and emotional blackmail. The way she'd treated Mark earlier meant that she'd probably try to thwart that friendship.
She searched Roisan's features for some sign of anger or upset. She looked blank, her skin almost porcelain. She kept slicing at the steak, small chunks that she chewed slowly, methodically. It was infuriating.
She couldn't stand it any longer.
“Did you really bloody expect this to work Roisan?” she shouted, “that I'd somehow realise that we're 'meant' to be?”
Opposite her, Roisan sat impassive. It was hard to tell if she was even listening.
“Have you got anything at all to say to me? For goodness sake Roisan, what the hell is it you want from me?”
“I just wanted to do something offbeat. Together. A quirky adventure. Like the old days, before it all went stale.”
The figure opposite hadn't spoken. The answer had come from the kitchen. Roisan appeared then. Her mascara had run from her silent weeping. In the flickering candlelight she looked grotesque. Her red eyes showed hurt and desperation.
“I need you Emma,” she began, then faltered. She looked puzzled. “Did you eat yours then switch the plates?” She asked.
The Roisan sat opposite was motionless. At some point she'd finished the meal and was now sat passively awaiting her final course, one that would never come.
“I need you, “ Roisan said. Up until recently she had needed Roisan too. But ironically tonight had shown her that was no longer true.
“If you'd only have said 'I love you'” she said looking between the dishevelled Roisan stood in the entrance to the kitchen and the rapidly dimming one sat opposite.
“Do you see someone?!” Roisan asked, almost pleaded. “It's me isn't it. Say it's me.”
Emma stood up and walked around the table. The figure sat in the chair was again hazy and indistinct.
“Emma, is it me?”
She reached through it to the seat below, surprised to feel no resistance at all.
She walked over to the candle and held the piece of paper above it. It soon caught alight and the whole room was briefly illuminated by the flames. She let it burn until it began to catch her fingertips, then placed it on the base of the candle holder. Black smoke and ash drifted upward.
“Only my intended may eat.”
She looked back to the table. Both chairs were now completely empty.
“There's nobody there Roisan,” she said, “there never was.”
She'd loved Roisan once. She felt nothing but pity for her now, so she wasn't quite sure where the next words came from, knowing how stinging they were.
“Did you really expect something to happen? The folklore says future husband!”
She walked towards their small hallway then. Grabbing her coat and opening the front door, she spoke her final sentence of the evening, loading it with just enough insinuation that she immediately regretted it as she closed the door behind her.
“I'm going round to see Mark.”
Roisan stared at the door, fresh tears running down her face. She caught sight of herself in the mirror.
For a second, just over her shoulder, she fancied she saw someone sat in the chair at the table but when she turned around it was as empty. Roisan was alone.