Bee emerges from her room, holding her phone up to her mouth. ‘Hang on, Mum,’ she says to the phone. ‘What?’ she says to me.
‘The kitchen looks like a bombsite.’
‘Sorry, Gertrude. William is away for work this week, so I thought I’d take the chance to do a little washing.’
Oh, is Gertrude there?A tinny voice comes through the phone.
‘Yes Mum, she lives here.’
I thought you’d said she’s moved in with a boy.
‘No, Mum, that was El. Gertrude and I have lived together for ages.’ I met Bee’s mum, Vera, for the first time over a decade ago. And then we met for the first time thousands of times since. Each and every time we meet she reaches out a hand to introduce herself. The first few times, I ran with it. Then after Bee corrected her mother one time, I started timidly saying, ‘We’ve met, actually.’ Poor Vera was mortified each time (not mortified enough to remember it later though) and cursed her ‘face blindness’ to the skies. But then one time I ran into Bee and Vera at the IGA and Vera thanked the girl at the checkout for helping her find the lightbulbs the previous week. Exclusive face blindness? Face blindness save for service relationships of one interaction’s duration?
Presumably Bee has to specify ‘Gertrude…my housemate?’ every time they speak. If I ever come up.
Have you told her about the party?
‘Not yet; she just got home.’ I have been home for two hours. Playing on my computer with my headphones in, but still.
‘What party?’ I ask obediently.
‘William’s friend is having his fortieth at Rannalla Upstairs this Saturday.’
Divine,Vera adds. Everything is divine to Vera.The oysters are to die for.
‘Are we working it?’
‘He asked me to go with him!’
He’s clearly very serious about you, darling.
Bee says that being in your late twenties–early thirties is kind of like being a tween again. Shots. Then a wedding. Dancing all night. Attending a baby shower. Wearing platform high heels. Going to an up-market fortieth birthday party at a restaurant where you’re paying for the beach views more than the food.
I’ve never really felt like that applied to me, but I suppose I’ve gone from a twenty-second birthday to a fortieth in the space of a few weeks, so maybe I’m a normal twenty-something now. Just in time to turn thirty. It probably leans down the lower end of the age scale to realise that I’m a plus two to the fortieth birthday of someone I’ve never met, invited by someone I hardly know.
‘Are you sure it’s okay that I’m coming?’ I yell down the hallway as I zip up my old formal dress and thank whatever deity that it still fits. The dress code is black tie: masquerade.
‘Of course it is!’ Bee yells back.
‘Did William actually ask the birthday boy if it’s okay, or are you just telling me it’s okay?’ We should probably learn the birthday boy’s (man’s?) name sometime before we crash his party and eat his fancy canapes.
‘He asked! Don’t worry!’
‘Do you actually know that, or are you just telling me that to shut me up?’
Bee responds in garbled mouthwash speak that I can’t understand. The bell goes, and Bee shouts, suddenly clear-mouthed, ‘Can you get that? I’m almost ready.’
I greet William, looking sharp in a bottle-green suit, andhe follows me to the living room. I think this might be the first time we’ve been alone together. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ I ask. ‘The wait could be either two minutes or twenty, so up to you.’
‘Do you have any scotch?’ he asks. I wander over to our bar cart, and pick up an ancient bottle of discount label-free whisky from that time we tried to get into whisky sours.
William scrunches up his nose. ‘I’ll just have a water, thanks.’ I get myself one too, and we sit there for a few minutes, opposite each other, silently sipping water.
‘So, how’s work?’ I ask finally.
‘End of month is always hectic,’ he replies.
I nod like I know what that means. ‘That must be really stressful.’
