by Jane Green
I leap up as my mother sniffs again. “Is that burning I smell, Libby?”
Fuck. Fuck, shit, and fuck again. I open the oven door to reveal eight lumps of charcoal steaming away, and I groan because I know exactly what my mother’s going to say. I don’t even have to go back into the dining area to hear her say it, because there she is, right behind me.
“I knew I should have brought the salmon mousse,” she says.
And saved by the bell, or key turning in the lock in this case. We all freeze as Ed comes bounding down the stairs calling, “Helloooo? Hellooo? Anyone home?”
He sniffs as he walks into the kitchen but obviously decides to refrain from commenting—so much, I think, for coming home to good old-fashioned home cooking and immediately shakes hands with my mother and father.
“Thank you so much for coming,” he says, his public school accent suddenly sounding ridiculously loud and affected next to my parents’ suburban-but-trying-hard-to-escape accents, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so I decide not to make an issue out of it.
Besides, I know they drive me up the wall but they are my parents, and I suppose, if I’m pushed, I’d have to admit that I do love them.
“Thank you so much for having us,” says my mother, and I can’t say I’m exactly surprised to notice that her accent has also gone up a few notches. Not in my estimation, I have to add.
“No, no, it’s nothing. Think nothing of it. Can I give you a top-up?”
“Why thank you,” says my mother, patting, yes, actually patting her hair as she holds out her glass. “That would be splendid.”
Splendid? Splendid? Since when has the word “splendid” been a part of my mother’s vocabulary? Even my dad looks slightly taken aback, and as I catch his eye he does his customary eye roll to the ceiling and I have to stifle the giggles.
“Did you find the house all right?” says Ed. “Did you drive?”
“We didn’t have any problems, did we, Da—” She stops, having just realized that it’s not quite the done thing to refer to Dad as Dad in the company of someone like Ed. “Alan?”
For a second there I wonder who she’s talking about, because I don’t think I’ve ever heard her call my dad anything but Dad.
“No, Jean,” says my dad, putting a tiny emphasis on the word “Jean,” because he seems to think it’s as odd as I do. “No worries.”
My mother gives my father a curt shake of the head, which my father and I understand to mean, don’t say phrases like that, but Ed doesn’t notice, and just hands them back their glasses.
“Da—Alan, don’t have another one. You’re driving.”
“Oh, what a shame,” says Ed. “I’ve got a lovely wine for dinner. I thought, as this was a special occasion, I’d open the 1961 Mouton Rothschild for dinner. You’ll have some, won’t you, Mrs. Mason?”
“Oh, call me Jean,” my mother giggles. “Everyone else does.”
“Mais bien sur,” chuckles Ed along with my mother. “Jean.” And I want to kill him, except my mother seems enormously impressed with these three words of craply accented French.
“Ooh,” she exclaims. “You speak French?”
“Juste un peu,” Ed laughs. “Et vous?”
“Moi?” My mother thinks this is the funniest thing she’s ever said, and I go back to the stove to avoid watching any longer. Christ. Why oh why did I ever agree to this?
“Would you like to sit down at the table?” I say, in my most gracious hostess manner, because I figure the sooner I serve, the sooner we’ll be finished, and the sooner they can go.
And obviously the bruschetta is a bit of a non-starter, as it were, so I bring the chicken to the table with rice and vegetables, and everyone holds their plate up as I serve them and Ed goes to bring the wine up from the cellar.
“He’s absolutely charming,” whispers my mother hurriedly, the minute he’s left the room, still speaking in her “posh” voice. “And perfect for you.”
And, despite myself, I breathe a sigh of relief, because finally someone, albeit only my mother, whose opinion I take as much notice of as Ross Perots, someone has given me their seal of approval, has told me exactly what I wanted to hear. That Ed is perfect for me.
And Ed comes back, opens the wine, and my mum and dad sit there watching us, waiting for one of us to start before picking up their knife and fork. Eventually I pick up my fork, so my mother picks up hers and takes the first mouthful.
I swear, I’ve seen cartoons where people go bright red and smoke starts pouring from their ears when they’ve eaten something hot, but I never thought it actually happened in real life.
Everyone stops, forks halfway to their mouths, and we all just stare at my mother as she drops her fork and sits there gasping, flapping her hands around.
“Here, here,” says my father, holding up the wineglass because that’s the only liquid on the table, and my mother gulps the whole thing down in one. “What’s the matter?” says my father. “Did it go down the wrong way?”
Now there are tears streaming down my mother’s face, and for God’s sake, isn’t she just overreacting a little bit? She’s trying to speak but can’t seem to get the words out, so she points to the food, furiously shaking her head.
“Mrs. Mason?” Ed’s jumped up and gone over to her, terribly concerned, and I wonder how it is my mother always manages to make herself the center of attention. “Jean?” he continues. “Can I get you anything? Is it the food?”
My mother nods.
“Perhaps I’d better taste it,” says Ed, going back to his plate and gingerly taking a tiny amount on his fork while I feel more and more of a failure. He tastes it, sits for precisely two seconds while it hits his tastebuds, then jumps up and runs to the kitchen, and the next thing I hear is the sound of the tap running.
“What is the problem?” I practically shriek, taking a forkful of food. “My cooking isn’t that bad,” and while my father’s still comforting my mother and Ed’s still in the kitchen, I take a mouthful.
Aaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!
I run into the kitchen, shove Ed out of the way and lean under the sink, sticking my entire mouth under the water. It feels like my mouth is about to burn off, and I stay there for about three minutes, and the only good thing is that right at this moment I’m not thinking about the embarrassment, I’m far too busy thinking about cooling down my mouth.
Eventually, when I’m fairly certain there’s no permanent damage and I think I can talk again, I walk back to face the music.
“What did you put in that?” My mother’s face is puce.
“I only put four chilies in.”
“That’s not four chilies,” she says. “What kind of chilies?”
“Well the recipe said four large ones, but I couldn’t get them so I put sixteen small ones in.”
“Sixteen?” Ed looks at me in horror as my father starts giggling.
“What? What? What’s the problem? Four small chilies equals one large one.”
My mother’s looking at me as if she can’t believe I’m her daughter.
“Libby,” she says, after nudging my father, who quickly stops laughing and tries to make his face serious, “small chilies are four times the strength of large ones.”
“Oh goodness,” says Ed, looking slightly disconcerted. “I thought you said you could cook?”
“I can cook!” I say. “But how was I to know that about chilies?”
“I’m sorry, darling,” he says, kissing me on the forehead, which seems to perk my mother up no end. “I know you can cook. What about dessert?”
I fling my napkin on the table and go to fetch the chocolate mousse, and the minute I open the fridge door I know it’s a complete disaster. It’s basically just a big glass bowl of chocolate-colored slop, and I don’t even bother bringing it to the table. I just tip the bowl so the whole lot slides into the dustbin.
“Umm,” I say, coming back to the table. “There’s been a bit of a problem with pudding.”
“You
know what I really fancy?” says Ed. “I’d really like a Chinese takeaway,” and my parents both say what a brilliant idea, as I sit there too embarrassed to say anything.
And half an hour later there we sit, my parents in their smartest clothes, at the table that I’ve beautifully laid with table mats, Irish linen napkins and even flowers in the center, surrounded by tinfoil tubs of Chinese food, and it really isn’t so bad, although I know my mother will never let me live this one down.
Ed seems to keep the evening going by telling my parents all about his investment banking, and my parents look completely riveted, although I’m sitting there half proud of him for making sure there are no uncomfortable silences and half bored to tears.
But my parents don’t seem to mind. Actually, make that my mother doesn’t seem to mind. My mother’s sitting there listening to every word, smiling encouragingly and making all the right noises in all the right places, while my father just looks slightly uncomfortable, but then I suppose my father doesn’t say much at the best of times.
And finally Ed and I see them to the door, while my mother makes big eyes at me, and I know she’s simply dying to get me on the phone to do the postmortem, and presumably to have a go at me about the chilies, and Ed is as charming as he always is and walks them to their car, and thank God it’s over.
“I’m really not that interested,” Jules says, getting up to make another cup of tea.
“But Jules!” I make a face. “You said he’s tall, handsome, sexy and funny. How can you not be interested?”
She turns and faces me. “Libby, I still love Jamie. I don’t know what’s going to happen with us, but the one thing I do know is that I don’t want anyone to confuse the issue further.”
“But it’s only one night, for God’s sake. And you don’t have to do anything. Anyway, you did give him your number.”
She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. “I know,” she moans. “I didn’t know what else to say when he asked. Jesus. You go to a work party expecting to stay for twenty minutes, and some bloody bloke comes along who would have been exactly your type if you weren’t married, and . . . I don’t know. I’m not interested in going out on a date with him. I just didn’t know what else to say.”
“One date isn’t going to hurt you. And if you and Jamie don’t get back together, at least you’ll know there are other men out there.”
“But I’m not sure I want other men.”
“You did say that, what was his name? Paul?” She nods. “Paul was the first man you’d met since you’d been married that you’d found attractive.”
“But that doesn’t mean I want to sleep with him.”
“Who said anything about sleeping with him?”
“Go out with him, then.
“Oh, why did he have to bloody phone,” she moans, bringing a fresh pot of tea over to the sofa. “Why couldn’t he have been like all those men you used to meet who’d take your number and never phone?”
“Because he’s not a bastard,” I say, smirking. “And anyway. You never know. You might have a nice time.”
“I’ve just finished the interview with the Mail, and I was passing so I thought I’d pop in and see if you wanted to have a coffee?”
Amanda, as usual, looks a vision of B-list loveliness, in a hot-pink trouser suit with chunky gold earrings, and a huge pair of Jackie O sunglasses, and evidently she’s enjoying her newfound fame. Well, fame-ish, because Amanda has been “stepping out” with one of television’s brightest actors thanks to me, and suddenly the papers are taking a huge interest in her.
There’s no question of there being any romance, because once the actor in question is away from the cameras he’s as camp as Amanda’s suit, but naturally he’s spent his whole life in the closet, and the news that he’s gay wouldn’t exactly help his status as a heartthrob.
So I organized that Amanda should accompany him to a film premiere, and the cameras flashed away, and Amanda even stopped to tell a journalist that they had no comment to make on their relationship, which was as good as telling them they were shagging, and it made page 3 the next day in several of the tabloids.
And she, of course, is over the moon. They’ve now been written about as TV’s most glamorous couple, her haircut has been analyzed over and over again by the women’s pages, and his macho masculine image has been more than confirmed in the public eye.
The Telegraph even phoned me last week and asked if they could do a feature on Amanda, which, as far as she’s concerned, is the mark of true fame, and now I really do seem to have become her best friend.
I have to speak to her every day because the calls requesting interviews, photo shoots, sound bites, have been coming in thick and fast, and I really am starting to like her more, even though I know our friendship is a transient one, and I still have to slightly watch my guard.
“I’m so busy setting up your interviews,” I laugh, extending my cheek for her to air-kiss. “I’m not sure.”
“Amanda! Darling!” Joe Cooper walks out of his office and gives Amanda a huge kiss. “What do you think of all the coverage our Libby is getting for you?”
“It’s wonderful!” she gushes. “You’re doing the most amazing job. I came in to see if Libby would go for a coffee with me.” She tells Joe that the Telegraph interview went fantastically, and Joe says of course I can go, so off we trot, Amanda still in her sunglasses, despite the weather being distinctly overcast.
And on our way to the Italian caff round the corner, which is the only place around here, a woman stops dead in her tracks when she sees us. She walks over and taps Amanda on the arm.
“Excuse me?” she says. “But aren’t you Amanda Baker?”
Amanda nods graciously.
“Oh, I love you on TV. I watch you every morning.”
“Why thank you,” says Amanda, fishing around in her bag. “Would you like a signed picture?” And while I look on in amazement Amanda draws out a large glossy black-and-white photograph of herself as the woman stares in delight.
“To?” says Amanda, pausing regally as she looks at the woman.
“Jackie,” she says. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell my friends I’ve met you, and you’re much more beautiful in the flesh.”
“Thank you,” says Amanda, scribbling away as the woman thanks her profusely and scuttles off.
“Jesus,” I say. “Does that happen a lot?”
“All the time,” she sighs. “It drives me mad.”
But of course it doesn’t drive her mad. She loves every minute of it. This is exactly what she’s been waiting for, and she knows that, now she’s got it, the mark of true stardom is to complain about it.
We order cappuccinos at the bar and sit down by the window, and Amanda finally takes her sunglasses off, and checks the room just to see if anyone’s looking at her, but of course the Italian waiters are here all day, and don’t have a chance to watch breakfast television.
“So,” she says, running her fingers through her perfectly coiffed hair. “How are you?”
“Really well,” I say. “Actually, I’m extremely well.”
“Oh? How are things going with Mr. McMann?”
And I find myself telling her that he met my parents, and that everything’s almost perfect, and that I think I may well have found myself Mr. Right.
“You’d better hang on to him,” she says, when I’ve finished. “Because there are plenty of women who’d love to get their hands on Ed McMann.”
She doesn’t say she’s one of those women, but then I suppose she doesn’t have to. It’s written all over her face, and the fact that she would so obviously love to have a shot at him makes me even more determined to make this work. To be Mrs. Ed McMann.
Oh? Did you think I might keep my name? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no cachet in ringing up Nobu to book a table under the name Libby Mason, but there’s a hell of a lot of cachet in booking a table as Ed McMann’s wife. It’s like those tests they do every few months on newsmagazine sho
ws. Mr. and Mrs. Joe Bloggs ring up the ten top restaurants in town and ask for a table for two that night, only to be told they’re fully booked for the next three months. And then one of the researchers rings up, saying that Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt are flying in, and they know it’s short notice but could these same restaurants possibly squeeze them in, and naturally the restaurants fall over themselves to accommodate them, and say of course, whatever time would suit them.
Not that I’m suggesting that Ed McMann is in the same league as Elizabeth and Hugh, but anyone worth their salt ought to know who he is. And Jules did ask me whether I’d feel the same way if he were, say, Ed McMann, welder, but I got out of that one by saying that what he does is part and parcel of who he is, so I honestly couldn’t answer that one.
Although I think you know what the answer is.
And when I get back to the office there’s a message from Jules and a message from my mother. I ring Mum first, who can hardly contain her excitement, and spends twenty minutes telling me how wonderful he is, and how he’s the best catch I’ll ever have, and how she can see he adores me, and thank God she doesn’t mention the cooking.
Just as I’m about to pick up the phone to ring the Telegraph to check they’re happy with the interview and sort out the photo shoot, my phone rings again (trust me, the life of a PR is all about phone calls, personal or otherwise), and it’s my father.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” My father never, ever calls me. In fact, it took me a while to recognize his voice, so rarely does he actually speak.
“I just thought I’d phone to thank you for last night.”
“Oh! Well, Mum already phoned. Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes. It was very nice. Are you happy with him, Libby?”
What is this? First my father phones me at work, and then he asks me about the state of my relationship. I need to get to the bottom of this.
“Why, Dad?”
“I know that your mother’s over the moon because he’s obviously very wealthy and very keen on you, but I just wondered whether you were very serious.”