‘It was nothing, really...’ Therearesome perfectly nice people around here, I decide. Then I catch Radish Sue peering at my couscous and muttering, ‘I’m not sure about sultanas in anything that’s not a cake.’
I bite savagely into a sausage roll.
‘Same here,’ Colin agrees. ‘And what’s that stuff you’ve sprinkled on everything, Kate? It’s like an explosion in a potpourri factory!’ He guffaws at his own joke.
‘It’s a garden herb that Agata brought round,’ I reply brightly.
Agata turns to me, carrot baton brandished in mid-air. ‘Oh, is that my lemon balm?’
‘Yes. Looks good, doesn’t it?’ I beam at her, relieved that I rescued it from our salad drawer before it tipped over into the realm of inedible mush.
She smiles tightly. ‘I was thinking more that you’d use it for tisanes.’
I blink at her. ‘Tisanes?’
‘Kate, do we have any more beers?’ Vince calls out above the chatter.
‘Yes, in the cupboard where they usually are,’ I reply.
‘You know,tisanes,’ Agata clarifies. ‘Herbal teas. Lemon balm’s great for anxiety and stress.’
‘Oh, is it really?’ Perhaps I should stop self-medicating with cheap Sauvignon and brew myself some right now.
‘What flavour crisps are these?’ Colin barks, as if it matters.
Boiled testicle,I want to say,with an arsehole tang.‘Ready-salted,’ I reply.
‘Aw, d’you have any of those black pepper ones?’
‘But they won’t be chilled,’ Vince announces, appearing at my shoulder.
‘What?’ I spin around and glare at him.
‘The beers. They’ll be room temperature.’ In terms of a national emergency this ranks alongside a lack of macadamia massage oil at the spa.
‘Put ice in them then,’ I suggest.
‘It’s not really a sprinkling over salad sort of herb,’ Agata says, frowning.
‘Oh, isn’t it?’
‘Ice?’ Vince barks. ‘In beer?’
‘Yes, why not?’ He never used to be this fussy. Shortly after we first met, I watched him straining a bottle of ‘bitty’ wine through the gusset of his flatmate’s tights stretched over a bucket. He didn’t demand buffets back then. He didn’t bleat about booze not being at the correct temperature.
My attention is caught now by Gail, who’s just offered an excitable Jarvis a piece of bacon quiche. My mind flashes back to the vet’s instructions about his feeding regime – ‘No table scraps!’ – but too late. He’s chomped it down. I hand out insufficiently chilled beers and do a sweep of abandoned plates as Deborah brags that her new fire pit ‘only’ cost £750.
‘You should get one, Vince,’ she announces.
‘We should,’ Vince enthuses. ‘I’ve always wanted one.’ Has he really? I suspect that, if Deborah were to suggest, ‘You should get a trough of steaming manure’ Vince would reply, ‘We should!’
‘Kate?’ He waves over to me.
‘Yes?’
‘Gail and Mehmet fancy a coffee.’
A third glass of wine has rushed to my head. But instead of making me feel more buzzy I’m now overcome with exhaustion. Everyone’s shouting over each other and asking if there are any clean glasses and accidentally stepping on Jarvis’s tail. Couscous is scattered across the worktop, and there’s a spillage of unacceptable bought dip on the floor. I rush to wipe it up before Jarvis can get to it.
