might have appreciated it more. She would have tried to remember at least three things about his face in motion (the intelligent flick of his eyes, his jaw as he masticated, the way he cocked his head to ask ‘too hot?’ in relation to her coffee, and ‘shall I get more?’ when she spilt her sugar packet with a misjudged tear). Instead, she was distracted as the hot cheese from the toastie scalded the roof of her mouth. To cool her tongue, she made a sucking noise on each subsequent bite, much to the consternation of Mr Dixit – why on earth was she making such a racket? She stopped immediately.
At eight minutes to nine, they arrived hand in hand at the department store. The shutters were only half raised, and a security guard stood on the other side.
‘We’re not open for another ten minutes,’ the guard said, through the shutters, although the Dixits knew the advertised time meant the store should be open in exactly eight. Mr Dixit nodded politely, however, and they waited.
Inside the store, the washing machine sales assistant wagged his index finger between the Dixits.
‘And you are…?’
‘Married,’ Mr Dixit replied, and took his wife’s hand again. She squeezed it. They were used to this rigmarole after nineteen years of marriage. Mrs Dixit was only eight years older than her husband, but most people presumed more, due to the uniform whiteness of her hair compared to his complete lack of grey. Mr Dixit’s parents had emigrated to England from India, while his wife’s family had rarely made it past the M25, their lineage not going much further either. This combination of an age gap and differing heritage often resulted in quizzical looks. An occasional concerned citizen asking Mrs Dixit if she was ‘alright’ – if Mr Dixit was bothering her? Or how it worked, the couple being from such different worlds? (For the record, they had both lived their whole lives in Chomley, a district in the north-east of London.) Not to mention the jokey comments about whether he was her ‘toy boy’.
‘Kids?’
They both shook their heads and hoped that would be enough.
‘We want one that’s as quiet as possible,’ spoke Mr Dixit. ‘Good value, eco-friendly, easy on delicates, but really, noise is our main concern.’
‘Our neighbour,’ Mrs Dixit chipped in. ‘She complains about the spin cycle.’
This wasn’t true. Mrs Rampersad, their upstairs neighbour, a retired postmistress, had never once said a word about their current washing machine, but it was very noisy, and how could they justify complaining about all the noise she made if they didn’t replace it?
‘This one is practically silent,’ the sales assistant said, walking them to a machine.
‘Can we turn it on to listen?’ Mr Dixit asked.
The sales assistant blinked in surprise.
‘On a cycle, you mean? It’s not hooked up to the mains.’
‘A spin then?’
‘It won’t make the same noise without clothes inside.’
Mr Dixit looked bewildered. He was always good to his taxi customers, never overcharging them and going the extra mile when he could – often literally – so of course he expected the same in return.
‘Why don’t we put our coats in?’ Mrs Dixit offered helpfully, starting to take hers off.
‘Not possible,’ the sales assistant replied, smacking the top of the machine, and making the Dixits jump involuntarily. ‘You’ll just have to take my word for it.’
That was enough. They left, Mr Dixit muttering about checking the Which? recommendations instead. The trip had been in vain.
As they walked back to the station, they were met by an opposite flow of oncoming shoppers. All the stores were open now, and loud pop music could be heard from each, the long avenue filling up with large groups and noisy couples, many with children, and the downstairs food court was already heaving.
‘Not a minute too soon,’ Mrs Dixit said, shaking her head in exasperation as they scuttled down the escalators to escape.
Back in their pebble-dashed house in Chomley, having just avoided the rain, Mrs Dixit made a tuna and cucumber sandwich for her husband to eat at work. He was planning a long shift, returning after 10 p.m. She gifted him the wrapped sandwiches, and reminded him to check the air pressure in the tyres of his cab. Mr Dixit, on his phone, grunted – Mrs Dixit wasn’t sure if it was in response to her, or because he’d been outbid. Perhaps both. A few moments later, she heard the garage door open, and his taxi pull away – the amber sign switched