4. Katja

They may not be talking,but their silence is speaking volumes.

I opted for a relatively easy starter – Panzanella - so I"ve looked over at them more than a handful of times as I salt the tomatoes, dice garlic and chop basil. The long dining table they"re sitting at one end of does them no favours as it only emphasises how solitary they look. However, I did note that Amara moved the place setting so they could sit closer to each other - Wren at the head of the table, and Amara to their side around the corner – rather than opposite one another. Yet they"ve barely said more than five words to each other since they sat down after I handed them two honey and ginger champagne cocktails.

As I start to whisk the tomato juice, garlic and seasoning, I know I should be thinking about my next steps to prepare the sushi and getting the cheesecake base of my dessert done in time, but instead, I find my gaze keeps drifting over to watch Amara and Wren, their silence increasingly deafening.

Until suddenly, I"ve had enough. The starter is not yet ready – the bread needs another few minutes - but I want to at least try and encourage them to relax, to talk. I can't have this dinner being a disaster. I need that big payout, and a good review wouldn't hurt either.

"How are your cocktails?" I ask as I approach, wiping my hands on the tea towel I always have hanging over my shoulder.

"Delicious!" Amara enthuses, turning towards me with a relieved look.

"Great," Wren adds, but I notice they"ve barely touched theirs.

"The starter won"t be long and then I"ll prepare your sushi course, so you have plenty of time to… to talk," I stumble over the words when I see Wren"s face fall. They were attractive when I first walked in, in their slightly sweaty sports clothes and messy hair, but now they are utterly striking in a sharply tailored pair of suit trousers with a matching black shirt that is tucked in. Wren's biceps push up against the sleeves of the shirt and I have had to stop myself looking at their lithe, almost sinewy forearms more than a few times. At a glance, you'd think they look smart and confident, but upon closer inspection, their sloped shoulders, skittish light brown eyes and tense jaw reveal a very different story.

In contrast, Amara"s eyes are pinned on me, a too-big smile stretching her mouth, and I know then that what Wren told me earlier was true. This dinner is important. But not in a celebratory or milestone sense. Rather in the make-or-break sense. This is a couple in crisis, and I know only too well what that looks like.

"Would you like to know what your other courses are in advance? Or would you like to be surprised?"

They both speak at the same time.

"Surprised," Amara says.

"I"d like to know," replies Wren.

They look at each other and while Amara looks like it"s getting painful holding onto that grin, the corners of Wren"s mouth barely twitch.

"Whatever you want, darling," Amara offers, sliding her hand over and placing the tips of her fingers on the back of Wren"s hand.

"No." Wren shakes their head. "No, it"s fine.Let"s be surprised."

If I thought Amara"s smile looked painful, it"s nothing compared to Wren"s attempt which is much more of a grimace.

"Are you sure you don"t mind?" Amara asks Wren. "I know how much you like food and cooking. Maybe you"d even like to watch Katja prepare some of the food?" She turns to me. "Wren loves to cook." Amara beams and my own cheeks are starting to hurt just looking at the pitch in hers.

"But I"m no chef," Wren says modestly and some colour rushes to their cheeks. It strikes me how it really doesn"t take much to make Wren feel self-conscious and I can"t help but wonder why that is.

To look at them, you see nothing but a strong-looking person. They"re tall, with a stocky but muscular build and their face matches this, with a prominent jawline that is possibly softening a little with age, and two caramel-coloured eyes that are quite intense not only in how they take in the world around them, but also in the experience you get when looking directly in them. They were the second thing I noticed about them, after their short chestnut hair which is shaved on all sides apart from a longer flop folded over to fall on one side, down to their ear which has studs in it all the way up. Yes, Wren is a striking-looking human, but again I can sense their slightly severe appearance could be hiding or masking a softness or a sensitivity that goes much deeper.

Schei?e, Katja, was machst du? H?r auf, dir den Kopf zu zerbrechen. Stop worrying about them.

But isn"t it my job to worry about it? At least for tonight…

"I"ll be pairing the wines so I could tell you those and then maybe you could make some guesses," I offer.

"That sounds fun." Amara squeezes Wren"s hand and I don"t miss the quick flinch that creases their face, and when Amara withdraws her hand, I know she didn"t miss it either.

"Let me go and get the bottles to show you," I say, and turn after they each give me a terse smile.

As I walk back to the kitchen, I hear some mumbling from their table and it takes considerable willpower not to turn my head to try and catch what they"re saying. I"m also strict with myself and don"t look over to Amara and Wren as I pull the white wine out of the fridge and grab the bottle of red that I"ve already opened and have aerating. By the time I make my way back to their table, bottles in hand, their conversation has halted and Amara looks like she"s about to cry while Wren"s eyes are fixed on some indecipherable point out of the window.

I mean, it is an incredible view with miles of London's skyline stretched out in front of us, but there is nothing appreciative in Wren"s gaze which is fast becoming more of a glare.

"So, here we go, the wines," I say and then I launch into a brief description of each one. I explain how I have Sardinian Vermentino wine for their starter, a Slovakian Grüner Veltliner for their sushi course, a deep and smoky Valpolicella for their main course, which will be wagyu steak although they don"t know that yet, and the final wine is a late harvest Gewürztraminer and Moscato blend from the Trentino region that will go perfectly with the honey and passionfruit cheesecake I have planned for dessert.

Amara seems to pour all her energy into listening, and responding accordingly with polite smiles, enthusiastic nods and the occasional "lovely", "delicious", "sounds perfect". Wren is less keen with their reactions, but they do grit out a few smiles and a couple of comments that I don"t quite catch. They read the labels on the bottles as I place them down so I know they are interested and this is confirmed when they ask me a question just as I finish talking about the dessert wine.

"This red is very heavy," they say, still looking at the label. "That suggests we"re not having an overly heavy meat dish but almost certainly some red meat."

"That"s possibly true," I reply, leadingly.

Amara cranes her neck to look at the wine. "Oh, do you remember that Valpolicella we liked in that restaurant in Lucca?"

Lucca?They've been to Tuscany! I bite back my smile, realising this may well mean they recognise the starter.

"Yeah." Wren flashes her the briefest of looks but they move so Amara can see the front of the bottle.

"It tasted like chocolate," Amara tells me, her dark brown eyes sparkling as they meet mine. "Decadent, dark chocolate."

Not for the first time since meeting her, I think about how attractive Amara is. She is perfectly put together with her make-up enhancing her strong nose, deep eyes and full mouth. Her hair is slicked into place and with golden-brown skin covering long, elegant limbs, Amara has been blessed with excellent genes, and a talent for making the most of them.

"So that also suggests we"re not having a chocolate for dessert?" Wren ponders out loud.

"Unless we are," adds Amara. "It could be a double bluff."

I smile as they share a conspiratorial look. It"s the first time I"ve seen them almost smile at each other in a way that isn"t forced or contrived.

"I"ll leave you to discuss," I say, feeling a little triumphant and more than a bit hopeful that that"s what they"ll do as I take the wines back to the kitchen.

Once they"re put away, I get the bread out of the oven and start to assemble the panzanella. I glance over at Wren and Amara as I add some more salt and pepper, and much to my disappointment, silence has returned between them. Wren is staring out of the window again like their life depends on it while Amara is inspecting her nails.

As I wipe down the sides of the plates, I feel my jaw tense and harden as I rack my brain, trying to think how I can get them talking again. Clueless, I tell myself it"s not my problem as I pick up the plates. This is just a job. Maybe if they were a straight couple, I wouldn"t be overthinking this so much. Just because they're queer like me, doesn't mean I need to try and save them. Just because I couldn't save my own relationship, doesn't mean I need to try and save theirs. Besides, I have enough to think about with my pending move. That"s what I"m reminding myself as I serve their starter.

"Panzanella, a classic Tuscan bread and tomato salad," I say proudly, I have to admit. I wait for their thanks and their praise, but much to my horror, Amara is staring down at her plate and a tear is slipping out of her eye and down her cheek.

"Oh," I say, which is the least helpful sound I could make in this moment, and yet it"s still not as unhelpful as what Wren is doing, which is putting their elbows on the table and holding their head in their hands, completely silent.

"Oh," I say, again but still it does nothing to relieve the tension in the air.

"I"m sorry," Amara says, but her voice cracks and it seems that her speaking is like breaking the dam that was holding her tears back. She starts to sob in earnest, bringing her hand to her mouth as if to catch each harrowing noise she makes.

"Amara," Wren says, glancing at their wife and looking anguished.

"It"s… it"s this dish," Amara says through her tears.

"I know," Wren replies softly, and I find myself willing Wren to reach out and touch Amara, a hand on her arm or a finger to wipe away the tears on her cheeks, but they don"t. They seem frozen in place.

"I"m so sorry," I offer. "I didn"t know… I… Shall I take the plates away?"

"No!" Amara calls out and she sniffs. "You"ve gone to so much trouble and it looks wonderful, it smells delicious. I just… I just didn"t expect to react like this."

"It…"Wren begins, their voice tense. "It"s a dish we used to make together when we spent some time in Tuscany a few summers ago."

Amara looks at Wren, the sobs slowing but the tears still flowing. "You remember?"

Wren"s liquid honey eyes seem to grow bigger. "Of course, I remember. I remember… I remember it all."

"It was such a good summer," Amara says.

"It was." Wren sighs. "But Ama, it wasn"t…"

And then they stop speaking and I feel almost as disappointed as Amara looks because it felt like they were about to say something important, something significant.

Their eye contact breaks and they both look down at their food, helplessly and hopelessly. Stupidly, oh so stupidly, my heart almost feels about ready to break. I stand there for a few more seconds, confused and uncertain about what the best thing to do is, but then an idea shoots into my head like an arrow, precise and clear, making all the sense.

"I have an idea," I declare with a clap of my hands. It prompts Amara and Wren to turn and look at me. "You are going to come and help me make your sushi."

"We…" Amara sniffs. "We are?"

"Yes." I nod. "It"s none of my business, of course, but I can"t help noticing there"s some tension between you both?—"

Wren snorts, loudly.

"And I think doing something physical would maybe help take your minds off… it. It will get you out of your heads, so to speak."

"It"s not a terrible idea," Amara says, wiping her face with her fingers. Her cheeks have darkened to a dusky pink and her eyes are moist and it"s all kinds of fucked up that I suddenly think she looks more beautiful like this - less composed and more vulnerable - and a little bit like she would maybe look had she just been fucked, hard.

After berating myself for having such a depraved thought, I look at Wren. They"re looking past me, at the door that leads through to the main entrance in fact, and I want to shake my head at them.

Nein, Wren, nicht jetzt. You"re not getting away from this that easily.

"What do you say, Wren?" I challenge them.

Wren looks at me and I see that square jaw harden, the muscles working, but I also see the depths of their light brown eyes and how very, very lost they look.

"Fine," they grunt.

"Good." I clap my hands again. "Eat your starter and then after I clear your plates, we will make some sushi together!"

I turn before I can see how unenthusiastic little lost Wren is or how utterly shattered poor sweet Amara looks.