I would have enjoyed myself more had I been eating cold baked beans out of the tin, hiding in the back of a musty wardrobe. I know this to be a fact because I have done it.
‘So.’ Five minutes later, Eddie’s wife Fleur gave up pretending to nibble her soufflé. ‘You’re the one who finally managed to tame Perry Upperton. Wherever did he find you?’
I took a deep breath, but before I could reply, Perry answered. ‘We met at HCC. About two years ago. But it took more than half that to persuade her to come for dinner with me.’
‘Really? How fascinating. You’re a member of the Club?’ Her eyes flicked across my faded T-shirt and back to my never-been-facialled face.
‘Yes.’ I am now. It was an engagement present. I think my in-laws-to-be probably bribed someone to let me in.
‘How very old-school. Are your family from around here?’
‘My mum grew up in Brooksby. Are your family local?’
‘Well, you could say that. Do you know Teppington Hall?’
Yes, actually. I worked there as a cleaner once…
As we slogged through our starters, I struggled to pay attention.
Eddie and Perry swapped increasingly flash stories about their triumphs in the business world, name-dropping and backslapping as they tried to impress Lucas Dedicoat. Fleur, no doubt an expert at wooing one’s husband’s boss, batted her eyelashes, simpered, and even stooped to titter at a particularly unamusing story about beating a rival company during an award ceremony dance-off. We all pretended not to notice Lucas spoon-feed the soufflé into his girlfriend’s mouth, shuffling his chair around so his back was turned to the rest of the table, and murmuring into her neck repeatedly as she giggled and told him to behave. A faint scorched smell began to waft out from the kitchen. However, unsure of the dinner party rules, and unable to find a natural pause in Eddie’s current monologue about how the company’s core competencies included cost containment, I stayed put, hiding my agitation behind a fake smile.
Eventually, Eddie finished, muttering something about not having the distraction of girlfriends next time so they could actually get some work done. Leaping up, I dove into the kitchen to find a dried-up, hissing disaster where the paella used to be.
‘Oh no, no, no, no, no.’ I whipped the pan off the hot hob and grabbed a spoon to inspect the damage. Scraping beneath the surface of the rice, I found a thick black layer of carbonised sludge.
I skimmed off the top layer, dumped it in a serving bowl and chucked in some water from the kettle, stirring it maniacally in a vain attempt to rehydrate the non-scorched rice.
‘Argh!’ Some water splashed out of the bowl and landed on my pale-blue T-shirt in a greasy, grainy splodge, right in the middle of one breast.
‘Well. At least I hadn’t boiled the kettle first.’ I used a teaspoon to scoop up a rice blob and taste it.
‘Hmm. Well. It’ll taste better hot.’
I shoved the bowl into the microwave, taking a frantic minute to figure out how to turn it on before realising it wasn’t plugged in, and then sponged at the mark on my top with a dishcloth.
Lovely. I now had a much larger, brown circle covering my chest. For a second, I contemplated adding a second circle to the other side to balance it out, before a wave of forced laughter through the dining-room wall yanked me back to the situation at hand.
The microwave pinged. I dumped the now sizzling bowl back on the side, plucked a few leaves from a shrivelled basil plant on the windowsill, and scattered them across the top.
‘Perfect. No one will even notice.’
I looked at the leaves bobbing about in the grey liquid, surrounded by flecks of ash.
‘It’s a new trend. Scorched – no – seared paella. Yum. Only someone totally out of style would admit to not loving it!’
Hot humiliation prickled my eyes. This wasn’t funny. It was Perry’s big deal-making dinner, and I’d fried it to a frazzle.
Perry smiled at me as I brought through the bowl of charred slop, carrying it awkwardly in an attempt to hide the stain on myshirt. I looked at the guests in their chic, smart-casual outfits, their nails manicured and teeth bleached. On the wall behind the table, a huge mirror reflected back my fraught face: red cheeks, out of control hair, a smear of sauce on the side of my nose, eyes red-rimmed. For a second, I was back in the pigeonhole I had put myself in for so many years – one of them, not us.
Huh. I glanced down at the bowl and back up again. I had a lot to hide. A burnt paella and messy top didn’t even register on the secrets scale.
I placed the bowl on the table, slightly harder than intended.
‘Okay. This is burnt, and is, quite frankly, inedible. There’s nothing else in the cupboards except for dry pasta and a sachet of custard. Charlie’s Chips, however, is open until eleven. They do an excellent battered sausage. Oh, and the stain on my boob is burnt paella juice.’
The silence hung above the table for a couple of seconds. Then Lucas coughed and said, ‘I’ll have a haddock and chips. Lots of vinegar and mushy peas, please.’
Fleur blinked a couple of times. ‘Um. Do they do anything gluten-free?’
