— But he has a home, Kendra cries, — our home!
— Course he does, princess, Stephanie agrees, — Toto’s a very loved little dog, she coos, realizing that Kendra is too distraught to be left alone. She calls Stacie, telling her to meet them back at Kendra’s apartment. They leave the practice and walk down Clark without speaking to each other. As well as the intense heat, they are now assaulted by thunderous roars in the skies above them, as four jets, like birds of prey in a mechanized flock, slash through the clear blue sky.
Back at the apartment, Stacie appears and they sit together on the couch, comforting a distraught Kendra with a glass of wine. — I can’t go out… I just feel so helpless, waiting by the phone, she says. Then there is an almighty roar from outside, the jets flying so low that the window bellies inwards. — Shit, Kendra barks in a galled enmity, — Can they not go to Iraq and do that? Is that not what it’s for?
— It’s just a show of strength. I find it pretty reassuring, Stephanie says. — I like the idea of us burning loads of gas in these trials.
— It must be terrible living in a war zone, Stacie shudders.
— It’s kinda what they choose, Stephanie asserts. — If they don’t like it, they can get off their butts and leave, like our forefathers who came here did.
Stacie seems to consider this for a while. Then she casts her eyes around Kendra’s apartment. It’s a mess, but it’s exactly what she needs. — I’ll bet this place is really expensive, she eventually says as she registers the empty spare room she has long harbored designs on moving into. — Can you afford it? she asks Kendra.
— Jeez, you don’t get it, Stace. That question should be reframed: can I afford not to have it? Get with the Breaking News: princesses live in palaces, she shrieks, sliding a Xanax into her mouth, and washing it down with a sip of red wine.
Stephanie fidgets, looks at her watch and tries to get onto the subject of work. — Real estates’s booming, right, Kendra?
Kendra would normally breezily chirp, ‘More than ever,’ even if the market was slow, aware that expectations drive everything and therefore need to be talked up. It was the professional way. Now she can only distractedly moan, — Toto was an angel in the body of a dog.
— She’s so upset, Stacie whispers to Stephanie, as she squeezes Kendra’s knee.
Some people just shouldn’t try to understand this world, Stephanie thinks wearily. Then she leans forward and touches her friend’s hand. — Kennie, I’m worried about you.
— No need, sugar, I’m fine, Kendra protests in a small, reedy voice.
Oh God, compassion fatigue is kicking in, Stephanie considers, trying to convert a yawn into a smile. She just about succeeds but the strain of it makes her consider exit strategies and she’s already thinking about a future engagement.
Stacie offers to stay in the spare room, but Kendra is absolutely insistent that she’d rather be alone. When they depart, she waits up, channel-hopping with the sound turned down. She can hear somebody entering the apartment complex. It’s Chef; she’s already gotten to know the plodding, deliberate pattern of his footsteps on the concrete stairs outside. Who else could it be at this time?
She heads out to intercept him on the stairs. — Hey, you!
— No sign of dog? he cheerfully asks.
— No… I’ve even been to the pound, she shakes her head. — I can’t sleep. I don’t suppose you’re in the mood for another one of those medicinal drinks you gave me yesterday?
— Very tired, long day. Chef raises his dark brows in what she takes to be a plea.
— Just a little one? Kendra purrs, thinking, for some reason, of Chef naked.
— Come, says Chef, pointing to the stairs. At his apartment, he opens the door and ushers her in.
When he moves into the toilet, Kendra waits until she can hear his urine splash, then takes her chance and goes to the kitchen. She looks through some of the cupboards. Nothing. Then she moves to the refrigerator. She looks at it, hesitating in the face of its cold, immutable form. Then the thermostat clicks suddenly, and her heart misses a beat. Steeling herself, Kendra moves over and grabs the handle of the refrigerator, yanking the door open. Squints under the light as a small carcass greets her. She almost screams.
But it’s only a chicken.
She can see that. Kendra leaves the kitchen and moves across to the giant scratching post in the corner of the lounge, the one Chef uses for sword practice. Behind it is a small cupboard. She bends over and reaches for the handle.
— Do not do that, a voice comes sharply from behind her. She turns quickly, and Chef is standing in the doorway with a samurai sword in his hand. She freezes, mimicking the expression on his cold, immobile face.
The week passed without Kendra returning any calls, but Stacie was not unduly perturbed. Kennie could be a moody girl, she reasoned. A lost dog, new boyfriend, bad menstrual cramps, running out of Xanax; anything could do it, she’d joked to Stephanie. Besides, they knew where she would be come 12.30 p.m. on Friday. Stephanie, however, was a bit more concerned. How would she break the news to Kendra about her seeing Trent? It would be a tough spin. She worried that her friend had already somehow learned of this burgeoning romance, and that this was what the big sulk was all about.
Stacie and Stephanie meet on Clark. It is still hot, but the temperature has fallen a little. Smoky clouds hide the sun and the air feels heavy and muggy. When they get to the restaurant, the closed sign is up. The place seems deserted, but then the door swings inwards, and a grinning Chef emerges to greet them.
— Are you, like, open? Stacie asks.
— Always open, but only for special customers, Chef points at them. — Min go sick, in heat. Fall sleep at music concert in park. Have bad sunburn. Akiro back in Japan for funeral for one week. Only me here, but I cook very special dish for you.
Stephanie looks at Stacie, then at Chef. — Eh, have you seen Kendra?
— Oh yes, Chef smiles, — she will be here. Come!
The girls go into the restaurant and sit down, Stacie feeling more privileged than Stephanie that Chef has opened up exclusively for them. However, by 12.45 Kendra still hasn’t appeared. — It isn’t like her to be late, Stephanie muses, checking her watch, thinking that sashimi would be a good call in this heat. No rice; carbs after noon was a disgusting habit. — Probably a crisis at work. She said that bitch Marilyn had been bending her flaps, she snorts, as her thoughts turn to Trent. One more makeout session would probably close the deal and consign catwoman Pallister to the trash can of dating history.
— It’s terrible when you don’t get on with your co-workers, Stacie says.
How the fuck would you know? Stephanie thinks. — Well, condo developments. I ask you, she acridly observes. Trent pops into her mind again. An architect’s practice; a serious upgrade on Todd. No more twentysomething loser musos, their numbers as prolific as sparrows as they hopped around the city from apartment to dive bar to gig. No more feigning interest at unsolicited disclosures of ‘exciting projects’. And Stephanie and Trent had a ring to it. At family gatherings, perhaps a Thanksgiving up at the cabin in Wisconsin. Trent and I can make it in a couple of hours if we take the convertible. Poor Kendra. But omelette, eggs, breaking.