by Poppy Dolan
Cripes. So now I can add ‘Freelance journalist’ to ‘Eleanor: Ad seller, nifty baker, wife, daughter, friend, broody baby avoider.’
Ros brings over the big, juicy deli sandwich and the subject instantly changes to food. She and Sam start swapping notes on actual New York delis and I mostly fixate on the deliciously crisp and refreshing pickle that I’m chewing. Its vinegary tang prickles the back of my throat as my thoughts go a thousand miles a minute.
Joe’s not shy, so I’m pretty certain he’ll be up for it. And he can sweet-talk a few others, too, with that treacly charm of his. It’s all good for Crumbs AND the CV. I can ask Hannah to check my spellings. This is a good thing.
The lump in the pit of my stomach is probably just too much time spent in the Play Kitchen, too much free food passing my lips.
I put down my half of the sandwich.
Ros tilts her head to one side, ‘Too much for you, love?’
She doesn’t know how right she is.
Chapter Thirty-Three
My kitchen skills are hard to beat. And I don’t mean the cooking part, actually, I mean kitchen survival skills: always cutting away from you, naturally; watching out for the sharp bit inside a ring pull; compacting the bin so you don’t have to be the one to take it out. If this was an Olympic sport, I’d be Steve fricking Redgrave. I can go for weeks without so much as looking at a new bin liner.
I’m exercising my medal-winner rubbish smooshing as Pete comes through the door. He won’t be able to ignore me in favour of spreadsheets and Internet banking tonight: Lyds and Guy are coming to dinner. And I am busy hiding my Waitrose containers, now I’ve jotted down all the cooking times. The mince pies and brandy butter we have for pudding and the spiced biscuits to go with coffee are all me, though. So I’m only feeing forty-five per cent guilty. I’ve done a totally twee Nigella table display, letting my Christmas glee run wild: red tablecloth with chocolate coins scattered all over; tall (fake) gold candelabra with ivory candles, a random sprig of holly stuck into a vase in front of our gas fireplace. And a Lindt reindeer guarding the mantelpiece. We haven’t got our tree up yet but it’s on my list for the weekend.
‘Hey, P-Diddy.’
‘Hi, love,’ he kisses the top of my head as I stand elbow-deep in the kitchen bin. ‘I could take that out, if you want?’
We’ve known each other too long for me to feign surprise or try and turn down the offer out of courtesy. This is marriage, people.
‘Cheers dears. You hungry?’
‘Hmmm,’ says his back, as he strides to the front door.
I’m going to need a lot more brandy butter to loosen this one. Or just neat brandy. ‘How about a drink to start things off?’ I holler, and reach for the Jack Daniels.
Two drinks have softened Pete slightly, which I am slightly regretting now: he’s on the sofa, feet up, while I chase around finishing off the last details. 6.57 p.m. Well, at least I can count on Lyds’s traditional fifteen-minute cushion of lateness. I’ve still got time to heat the oven up, warm the curried parsnip soup for starters, slice up the French bread. Oh poo, I haven’t looked at my make-up. I rub an index finger under each eye and come away with a worrying inky line of mascara sludge. Funnily enough, I think I make more effort with cosmetics for seeing my friends than I do Pete these days. Since he’s told me he loves me ‘looking natural’ and assures me I’m gorgeous even first thing in the morning, and in contrast Lyds has never told me the same, I assume I should (and I like to, anyway) make a bit of effort for her. Plus, me looking drab will only add to her file of evidence labelled ‘Once you get married your soul starts dying away’.
I dash to the bathroom, skidding as my socks meet the lino. I have that electric-blue liner I saw recommended in Stylist as a new season trend. Might dabble a bit in that, see what Lyds thinks.
Ooooh, the blue really opens up my eyes. Though it does show my own blue peepers are turning a touch greyish-blue these days. Thanks, nature. Because the grey hairs weren’t quite enough, eh?
Whatever Pete’s watching on the telly has a door bell ring like ours in it.
‘Ellie! Door!’ he shouts.
But that’s not right. I look at my watch. 7.01 p.m. Jim Davidson’s arse, they’re early. Well, on time. But same difference.
As a lack of heavy footsteps means Pete is expecting me to answer it, I shove my make-up away and nip to the front door.
‘Whoah,’ Guy says as the hall light falls on his rugged chops. He has some incredible stubble: like Sawyer from Lost or a post-Angelina Brad Pitt.
‘Hey… Ellie,’ Lydia says slowly, as if struggling to remember my name. ‘Smells’ was probably on the tip of her tongue and she didn’t want to expose our embarrassing nicknames in front of Guy so soon. I could throw out Chlamydia and she knows it.
‘Come in!’ I trill, hugging Lyds and deciding to hug Guy too, not just cheek-kiss. Well, it is Christmas. And he’s quite hunky, if I’m honest.
‘Something for you,’ Guy holds out a big, enthusiastically wrapped parcel in that red foily paper that stubbornly resists sellotape. He’s tied it up with a lovely navy ribbon.
‘Oh wow,’ I take the large, football-shaped present. ‘It’s not a giant potato, is it?’
Lydia’s eyes widen.
‘Eleanor!’ Pete chides from the living room door.
This is the most rubbish thing I’ve ever said. It’s not even remotely funny. Why, Eleanor, why? Haven’t you fluffed enough dinner parties this year?
‘It’s a panettone,’ Guy says in a flat voice. ‘For Christmas.’
‘Sorry, shit. Sorry – I was trying to be … just ignore me, I’m not always a knob. Well, not most of the time. Ha ha. What would you like to drink, Guy? Can I call you Guy, by the way?’
As he frowns at me, Lyds steps in, ‘What else would you call him?’ she is baffled and annoyed. As am I.
‘Wine, please. Red, if you have it.’ Guy nods and follows Lydia into the living room. Pete murmurs something and then all three of them laugh. Brilliant. Cheers, Pete. Leave me to drown out here, won’t you.
I huff off to the kitchen to get my fake roast going.
Pete, in the company of a fellow bloke (rather than a woman who has a name his wife interprets to be a bloke’s) is enjoying grilling Guy about the benefits of running a stall over a bricks and mortar business. Lydia is chipping in too and I’m beginning to realise that while I’ve had my head in the sand over babies and family and husband issues, she’s been steaming ahead with You Don’t Need It, not only making loads of cool, edgy things but selling a truckload of them too.
‘I mean, the great thing for me is that I can take my business to Love Box, to Glasto, even Coachella for a whole week if I wanted. It’s completely portable and what I’m selling travels really well too.’
‘Especially the Oyster Card holders!’ It’s like I’ve been possessed by the spirit of Basil Brush. Lydia tsks at me, but then follows it with a candyfloss-pink smile.
‘I mean the notion of what’s fashionable travels, Ells, I don’t need to market myself at each new venue. People see what I’m selling and if they like it, they buy it.’
‘And they’re really liking it.’ Guy squeezes her knee proudly. ‘I could hardly see her through the crowds round her stall last weekend. And that model – the one with the big eyebrows—’
‘Cara Delevingne,’ Lydia and I say in unison.
‘Yep, well there was a rumour that she was there, in this bright green beanie. And she went nuts for Lydia’s stuff.’
Lydia throws her arms up in angst. ‘I was on a tea break! Can you believe it, Smells? I missed her! I could have got her photo wearing one of my scarves, talked to her about being a brand ambassador, or just bribed her to Four Square us. Ugh. Sod’s law. Anyway, enough of the fash talk, how’s the baking course?’ Lydia spears a stuffing ball and chomps it in one. I pass her the gravy boat, in case it has trouble going down. They are a bit dry. And for once it wasn’t my fault – it was Delia’s. For shame,
Delia. For shame, Waitrose. You have ruined my fake roast.
‘Good, thanks. Learning some new stuff, polishing up on the basics. I think my pastry is that bit better now. But you can sample my mince pies later, tell me what you think.’
Lydia nudges Guy in the ribs cosily. ‘Ellie is just the best cook. I mean, she’s done this whole Christmas dinner, homemade pastry for the mince pies, I bet there’s some sort of treat to go with coffee too. And all without breaking a sweat. She’s one of those wholesome cooks that give other people a massive complex because they can’t juggle it all and not dry out the turkey. Which is amazing, by the way.’
Guy happily smothers his second helping in gravy. ‘It really is, you know. My dad is going to do some turkey baps on the stall next week but making them really tasty is always a struggle. What did you put on the skin? Sea salt, I can tell, but what’s that … not rosemary, is it thyme?’
Oh, crap.
Guy looks at me, waiting. Lydia’s looking too.
And so is Pete, though now I haven’t said anything for thirty seconds, his eyebrows are lowering in that serious way.
They all look at me.
And I can’t do it. I can’t lie. Not at Christmas. Not when Lydia has just falsely sold me as the world’s best ‘from scratch’ cook. When in fact I’m ‘from packet’ this time.
‘Aha ha. Ha. Ha ha. Yes, the funny thing is … I don’t know.’
‘Sorry?’ Oh Guy, how I irrationally hate you right now, as if you’d been the devil on my shoulder at the till, saying, ‘Go on, do it! No one will EVER know. Hee hee!’
‘Um, I didn’t make the turkey. Or the potatoes. Or the little sausages with the bacon. Or, even, the gravy.’ Guy puts down the gravy boat he’s been holding like I’ve just said it’s been made out of Saddam’s own secret stash of plutonium. ‘I … er … really hate doing Christmas dinner, so I cheated. I let Delia do it, via Waitrose.’ As my nearest and dearest – and also Guy – give me their coldest stares, I just gabble into a tin foil dish of shame. With a side serving of factory-made misery.
‘I knew it would be nicer for you guys, and much easier for me. Plus, I thought I’d get away with it, you pesky kids!’ The Scooby Doo impression and fist shake isn’t really helping matters. ‘Sorry, I’ve just been so busy, with work, this new project, the classes, the wedding cake for Rich and Skye …’ I peter out, my excuses running as thin as the store-bought custard I would now not dare serve with pudding. ‘Sorry, guys, but you liked it, hey?’
After a beat, Pete says, ‘No wonder you were keen for me to take the bins out tonight.’ He says it in that tight, smiling tone that could be a hard joke or a joking insult, I’m not sure. ‘You guys sit on the sofa, I’ll get the kettle on.’
‘Oh, yes.’ My heart is in my stomach and my eyes are swimming in salt water as we move into the living room.
Unlike the dinner with Laurie and Hannah, wine does not make things better. Also, and maybe crucially, Pete is not about to throw me a social lifeline. And so we all sit like the most miserable AA meeting ever for the next thirty minutes: no drinks, no laughs and many, separate feelings of regret about being in this particular place. Guy perhaps feels a little bit guilty for dragging my confession out of me and singlehandedly keeps conversation going, punctuated by the odd ‘Oh, yeah,’ ‘Hmmm,’ and ‘sure, sure,’ from Pete. Lydia looks at her grape purple nails and fiddles with her pendant – a glued-together, rolled-up tape measure. When Guy finally draws breath after recounting his 2003 trip to Costa Rica, Lydia stands up in one stiff movement.
‘Time to go.’
‘Oh, really?’ I mumble. ‘We haven’t had the biscuits.’ The gingerbread robins with their big red breasts sit in an untouched stack on a plate on the coffee table. Like horrible porn for birds.
‘No, we should make a move.’
‘OK.’
Pete does handshaking, tells Lydia he’ll see her soon and then plops back down on the sofa, switching on the telly. Well, thank you, Pete. Thanks so much.
Guy is already walking down the outside stairs when Lydia turns back to me and coolly says, ‘You were the one who suggested Christmas dinner. We would have been happy with… pasta bake. I just wanted you to meet him. Because this might, might be something. Maybe. This might be a real thing, so I wanted one of your real dinners. Not for the food, Eleanor, but for the … the moment.’ She shakes her head, the waves of her dip-dyed hair absorbing the movement.
‘I … I am sorry, I didn’t mean to upset anyone. He’s great. You’re great together. Please come again and everything will be legit. Promise. Potatoes dauphinoise, your favourite. Chocolate bread and butter pudding. The works.’
She bites her lip. But it’s like I’ve just listed the ingredients in a Peperami to her.
‘No… it’s not about the food. Shit, it’s not always about food, Ells!’
I don’t think I’ve heard her voice go like this since … well, ever. It’s too loud and too shrill for Lyds. It’s like I don’t recognise her in this moment.
‘You know, I came here tonight because I want you to be part of how my life is changing, where it’s going. I’m finally taking myself seriously. I wish you would too. But, anyway. I’ll see you soon.’ Lydia turns to go.
I have a bucket of quicksand in my gut. ‘Hang on! Hey! I do take you seriously, you know I do. I’m so proud of you, running the stall.’
Lydia’s arms flap at her sides, her fists hitting her thighs. ‘That’s just it! You call it a stall, like it’s just a muck-about, a fad. But I’m building it into a business, I want to open at other locations, take the brand on the road. I was going to ask you tonight if you want to sell cupcakes or brownies alongside me, diversify. But you look at me like …’
‘Like what?’
‘Like I’m a bit of joke. And then I bring Guy,’ she lets her voice drop, ‘who clearly isn’t just another two-week fling to me. And you give us fucking turkey out of a fucking packet. Thanks a whole lot, Ellie.’
As her words seem to stun every cell in my body, she starts down the stairs.
But she turns back. ‘And I’m not sure the Clockwork Orange thing is working, hun.’ She shrugs coldly, then she’s gone.
Sad, shocked and aching behind my ribs, I turn back into the hallway. And see in the mirror hanging there the blue eyeliner around just one eye as it brims full of tears.
‘Hahahaha! Busted!’ Smug brothers are only more annoying on Skype – you can’t physically hit them when they are talking to you via fibre-optic cable.
‘Mike! I’m looking for a bit of sympathy, yeah?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Oh chill out, Stinker.’ I’ve never been happy with this progression of my normal nickname. ‘It’s just another London life drama. I cooked a pre-packaged meal. I used a plastic shopping bag. My child didn’t wear pants to school today. Wah wah!’ He rubs his eyes in a baby pantomime. ‘Out here, no one would give a flying fuck, seriously. Oooops.’ He looks over his shoulder. ‘Alfred, go out and find your sister. Cherchez vous … sœur, s’il vous plait. Underlay underlay!’
‘That’s Spanish,’ I huff.
‘But it’s better than swearing and my wife chopping my balls off. Right, he’s gone. Look, sis, Lyds is a top girl, your best mate, she’ll forgive you. And I’m sure Pete found it funny.’
‘No, she’s really cut up. I’ve been so stupid and oblivious. And Pete’s not really in a laughing mood, actually.’
Mike scratches his week-old beard. ‘Yeah, now you mention it, he seemed a bit off last week.’
‘What?’
‘When I spoke to him. He was a bit … quiet, I suppose.’
‘You spoke to Pete last week?’
‘Ye-es,’ he draws out the syllable into two, as if I’m a grade-A moron.
My eyebrows scrunch together. ‘What did you talk about?’
‘Sorry, Eleanor Redford, didn’t realise I needed a subject to talk to my brother-in-law about on Conversation Mastermind. Sheesh.’
‘Mi
ke. What?’
‘We just chatted about stuff. God, if you’re this naggy no wonder he’s got the hump with you.’ Mike sips nonchalantly at his massive mug of latte, as if he isn’t just seriously insulting me as a wife and general human being.
‘Is that what he said? Was it the thing with the wedding money?’
Mike looks at me, his face momentarily blank. ‘Might have been. And other stuff. Bloke stuff. If you want to know, I think you should take it up with him. I’m not your spy, Judi Dench.’
I stick out my tongue. ‘I’m going to take that as a compliment, she’s a very dignified woman. So in your fa—’
But just as I am about to hit end call and flip him a bird in goodbye, he cuts in, ‘You should. She’s got much less of a baggy eyes thing going on than you have. Gutted!’ And he hung up.
Bloody brothers.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Lydia’s still not answering my calls, or my emails. I’ve tried grovelling, begging, offering any kind of gift or baked enticement. No bites. She’s either working so hard she can’t answer me back, or she’s trapped under a colossal pile of upcycled paperclip necklaces. Or maybe I should face the truth: I have been taking her for granted and now I’m getting the cold shoulder I deserve. I’m going to have to plot something excellent to make this right. I just don’t know what that is right now.
So in the meantime I decide to start my policy of working extra hard on the pregnancy project by flipping through magazines at home. I should write my own business book: Nice Girls Sit on the Sofa, then Get the Corner Office. But, actually, it’s a pretty important part of my task: not just to see what companies are advertising in these pregnancy and new baby magazines, but also to get inside the heads of the readers, women who are genuinely excited and interested in motherhood. As opposed to me, the woman who simultaneously longs to have a baby and also runs screaming from one on the street. A specialist magazine for me would most likely be called Split Personality Weekly, with a special pull out on Disappointing Your Husband and Mother in Five Easy Steps!