Death and Tea at Three

13 Harold and the Dinner Invitation

The kettle whistled, and Harold knew two things were certain: his tea was ready, and it was three o'clock. Harold anxiously anticipated Isobel's arrival. No sooner did the thought enter his mind than he heard the inevitable knock on the door.

A grin stretched across Harold's face. He bit his lip to suppress any feelings of happiness that may have been bubbling up from within. He wasn't sure what pleased him more: to have company that he didn't actually hate, or that the girl was becoming increasingly punctual – a trait Harold held in high regard.

He quickly jettisoned his tea making and rushed to open the door. In front of him, however, was not Isobel - though the woman looked a lot like her. Standing in the doorway, wearing a beige cardigan and light blue jeans, was Arianna, Isobel's mother. Her golden-brown hair fell past her shoulders. It was the same shade as Isobel's but where Isobel had curls, Arianna had waves. The last time Harold had seen her, she had looked exhausted and harried. Now, standing in his doorway, she seemed relaxed. And for a moment, Harold, too, felt at ease.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Francis, but I was making dinner for Isobel and me... and I thought it would be nice if you joined us," she said, brushing her hair behind her ear. Her smile was eager and nervous, but her gaze was direct.

Harold's eyes, on the other hand, refused to meet hers. He was unsure what to make of the offer. Was she voluntarily inviting him to dinner, or did she feel obligated? Perhaps she had simply made too much food? Was this something neighbours did nowadays? He stared blankly at Arianna, lost in thought.

"Um... Mr. Francis?" she said, tilting her head.

"It's Harold. You can just call me Harold. No need for formalities... Dinner?" He questioned, as if the word itself was foreign to him.

"Yes. Sorry. I just thought it would be nice to make food for you. You've been great to Isobel, and she seems really fond of you. And, I guess... I just wanted to say thank you."

"Oh, well... you're welcome? If you have a plastic container you can drop the food off later. Just knock."

"No, Mr. Francis..."

"Harold," he replied, unintentionally stern.

"Sorry, Harold. I meant that if you would like, you can eat dinner with Izzy and I."

Harold froze. He hated eating with other people, and now he was being asked to eat dinner with his neighbour and this Izzy fellow. "Who's this Izzy person?"

"I'm sorry. Izzy is Isobel. I sometimes call her Izzy for short," Arianna said. She shook her head, her gaze slowly shifting away from Harold and toward the floor.

"You shouldn't call her Izzy. It sounds like a pet, or worse, one of those hipster people I keep hearing about."

"Well, I think it's cute. And she used to insist I call her that when she was younger... it's just a -" said Arianna.

"That's nonsense," Harold interrupted. "That's the same as me calling you 'Anna' or 'Ari'. I bet you wouldn't like that much, would you?"

"Actually, most people do call me Ari," she replied with the shrug. "I really quite like it. It's just easier to say."

"God... I see why your daughter talks so much," Harold said, chuckling awkwardly.

Seemingly unsure whether Harold's statement was meant to be cruel or joking, Arianna let out a chuckle of her own, before clearing her throat.

The two of them stood silently in the doorway. Harold was unsure what his next move should be. Normally, he had a response to everything. Some would argue that he was a bit of a know-it-all, but Harold felt that he was simply mentally prepared for anything.

"Well, that's all beside the point. So, you want me to eat dinner with you?" He finally said.

"Yes."

"Okay. When? Where? And what should I bring?" Harold rattled off quickly and authoritatively.

"Well, dinner will be ready around six, and you don't have to bring anything. Just... bring yourself," Arianna said nonchalantly, as if not to overstep.

"Okay, six it is." Harold smiled and slowly closed the door with Arianna still in the doorway.

Harold could hear her trailing voice as she tried to say a few more words through the door, but he was done with the conversation. He hated making plans, and if he had to see someone, even someone as tolerable as Arianna, he wanted to spend as little time with them beforehand as possible. Too much time with anyone made Harold anxious and annoyed.

Julia had made a name for this frustration: IPS – Irritable People Syndrome.

Harold walked back to his armchair and looked around at his own personal fortress of solitude. He was far too anxious to sit. This was the first time he had made plans with anyone in several years. And so, he paced around the room, thinking about the dinner and muttering to himself about potential conversation topics until it was time to leave.