‘Come on,’ she says, ‘you’re a better cook than me!’ I am, apparently, a rat in a chef’s hat. ‘Seems a bit rude to ask you to help me cook and then not let you stay to eat.’ That’s true, it is. ‘And plus it then becomes a dinner party, which is just way more sophisticated. William’s like thirty-five; he’s used to fancy shit like that.’
‘Because at twenty-eight we’re basically children.’
‘Excuse me, I’m still twenty-seven. Come on!’ She drags out theon.‘Have a grown-up dinner party with me! Please?’ She drags out thepleasetoo.
Who could say no to that?
It isn’t uncommon for us to see something on a cooking show and become convinced that we could do it ‘way better than them’—be they reality-show contestant or Michelin-starred professional chef—and, as with any creative endeavour, the results are mixed. The steamed whole barramundi with papaya salad and a sticky chilli ginger sauce was a winner. The Skittle vodka technically worked but looked cooler than it tasted. If I ever wanted confirmation that Skittle flavours are a scam, that did it. And afterthe incident, we banned each other from ever using dry ice again.
Past culinary adventures notwithstanding, logic would suggest that when inviting for dinner a gentleman in whom one is interested, the woman in question would choose something simple but tasty, low on auxiliary clean-up, something that wouldn’t take five hours to prepare, plus overnight marination.
Logic? We’ve never heard of her.
At nine a.m., we’re in the kitchen preparing dessert. Every spoon we own is used in this endeavour.
By eleven o’clock, we’re drinking mimosas and dancing along to an old Zumba playlist. (‘I can still do the merengue!’ I yell before spilling my mimosa on the floor.)
By one o’clock, we’re drinking iced coffees, and the sink is full—both sides.
By three o’clock, everything is prepped, and Bee has abandoned the kitchen to prep herself. I’m left standing in the sticky patch of my spilled mimosa, cursing both of us for choosing an old apartment with no dishwasher.
At five o’clock, the kitchen is clean, the table is set, and all the dust and grime in the house seems to have migrated to my skin and hair. How am I still so sticky?
At five-thirty, Bee comes barrelling into my room. She is wearing a crisp pair of blue jeans with the new jumper she bought the other day paired with ballet flats, all artfully chosen to look like she has just thrown them on. Apparently this is something called ‘quiet luxury’ and is somehow related to Gwyneth Paltrow. The velcro roller is still in the front of her hair, giving her the appearance of a startled modern angel, and she clutches a mascara wand. How is she still not ready?
‘Gertrude! We have to get the chicken in the oven! And put the charcuterie together!’ I look down at the towel covering my body, then look at Bee’s fully dressed form.
In the kitchen, I pour the first of what will likely be many glasses tonight if I’m prepping in the nude.
‘And don’t forget to arrange the salami like little roses the way I showed you!’ Bee yells down the hall.
At six o’clock, the doorbell rings and I am very much still in a towel. I race back to my bedroom and slam the door. Hair pulled back in a quick bun. Moisturiser for the face, mascara and brow gel because that will have to do. Jeans, one leg at a time (no one wants an accident). Big comfy jumper with a goose on the front. Fuzzy socks. What does it matter? No one will be looking at me anyway.
‘There you are!’ Bee says in the lower, slower voice she usually reserves for client meetings. Her eyes move over me, and there is an almost imperceptible shrug of one shoulder: disappointment mixed with resignation.
‘You remember William, right Gertrude?’ she says. He looks artfully scruffy, the guys’ version of no-makeup-makeup. Effortfully effortless. His hair is tousled to look like he has just woken up, but a small glob of mousse gives him away. His stubble suggests he hasn’t shaved in a few days, but the clean edges hint at a recent visit to the barber. The one-button-too-far unbuttoned shirt gives a teaser of perfectly manicured chest hair. His hands look actually manicured.
‘I do,’ I reply. Don’t call him Will. Don’t call him Bill. Billy. Anything at all. ‘Lovely to see you again.’
‘You as well,’ he says, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek.I’m assaulted by a waft of his cologne. It’s lovely.
‘And look!’ Bee squeals. ‘He brought flowers!’ Under normal circumstances, that might be wonderful, but Bee is in fact allergic to most flowers (ironic given her choice of profession). This information is not offered up, but I do notice that the flowers remain on the coffee table a solid metre away from her. Hey, I got flowers for my room today!
‘And I brought wine,’ a new voice says from behind me. Arthur, brandishing a bottle of pinot noir. I nod in thanks and walk into the kitchen to pour it into four glasses.
‘I like your jumper,’ Arthur says, following me. He picks up two of the full glasses to take them back out into the living room. I raise an eyebrow. ‘What?’ he says. ‘Doyounot like your jumper?’
‘Ilovethis jumper. But it’s also a jumper that prompted a man on the tram to give up his seat for me, so I am suspicious of the compliment. Especially from a…frenemish acquaintance co-chaperone?’
‘Frenemish acquaintance?’ he asks, head tilting to the side as we both walk out with the wine.
‘Well, we kind of reached a nice peaceful place on the last date, and we don’t know each other well enough to be frenemies, so I landed there. But we’re definitely not friends.’ He laughs and hands a glass to Bee. I offer one to William. We clink glasses and sit on the couches surrounding the coffee table. This feels quite grown up.
‘Wow, you went to so much trouble,’ Arthur says as he cuts a large chunk of brie with our cheese knife, which is fashioned to look like a tiny axe.
‘It was nothing,’ Bee replies lightly, like we totally do this sort of thing all the time.
‘I hope you got a photo of that masterpiece before Art hacked into it,’ William says. I did, and I have already sent it to Bee for her next reel. The group conversation dissolves into two sets of two during the first glass of wine. One set is talking. The other comprises two individuals inspecting their cuticles and wiping imaginary dust off the side table, respectively.
