‘Sure,’ she calls out.
‘I’ll text you a list,’ I add and can hear her groan. ‘Pay off for taking the car tonight,’ I say.
‘Stop having dinner parties, then,’ she yells.
Tell your father that, I think grimly. He’s the one who keeps organising things for every weekend.
I turn to my darling son.
‘There’s a box in the corner cupboard up high, Joey. Don’t forget to put the bowl in the dishwasher after, honey,’ I say, which is half for me and half for him. I have to stop doing everything for him. When he clatters his bowl into the dishwasher, I give him a big hug. He’s such a pet. Ten years old, still happy to hug me.
The same age as Bea’s Luke. I hope he’s still hugging her, I think.
Poor Bea – proof that being beautiful means absolutely nothing in the lottery of life. Bea’s stunning, and has the best work ethic of anyone I know – she’s had to single parent her son, after all. But we were on the phone this week when I asked her here tonight and she admitted – rather reluctantly – that she was going on a blind date the following week.
‘Two of my girlfriends set it up and you probably think I’m crazy –’ she begins, but I stop her.
‘No! I think it’s wonderful!’ And I do. The thought of beautiful Bea with someone makes me so happy. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s her.
Nate walks into our bedroom and looks at me as if I am stark raving mad as I pull garment after garment out of the wardrobe, put it on and find it wanting.
Clothes litter the bed like the end of aneverything-must-go sale day in a posh shop.
He’s wearing chinos, aT-shirt and a light sweater, all of which took precisely two moments of effort, but now that he’s dressed, he’s staring at me.
‘Dejunking?’ he says mildly.
‘Yes, that’s exactly it,’ I say with heavy irony from under acoral-coloured top that was cheap but somehow draped well. I drag it down. Once clingy, its cheapness means too many washes have shrunk it, so I pull it off.
‘Okey doke, I’ll go down and open the wine.’
He plants a kiss on my head and leaves, at which point I sit on the bed on my coral top, in just my bra and slimming black jeans and tell myself that crying won’t help. I know this is stupid but I can’t look bad in front of Finn’s new girlfriend/friend. I have to look like my best me.
I don’t want her to judge me. It’s bad enough to feel so beneath Angie, even though yes, it’s not her it’s me, but still. I can’t have another person in my house making me feel inadequate. Why am I like this anyway? I never used to feel so unsettled.
‘Mum?’ Joey is at our bedroom door.
I am frozen. Shame floods me. I’ve been trying to bring up my son and daughter to feel good about themselves and how are they going to do that if they see me rejecting every item I own in case I look fat in it?
‘Hi, honey,’ I say, trying for breezy. I grab aT-shirt and pull it on. ‘Come in.’
‘The bed’s all junky,’ he says.
‘I was tidying up,’ I lie. ‘The wardrobe was untidy.’
‘The bed’s untidy now,’ says Joey. ‘You really messed up, Mum.’
He turns and heads off.
I stare at the pile of clothes and my eye catches a blackT-shirt thing that was supposed to be either a dress or go over trousers but looked wrong as both.
There’s the one I lost the receipt for so I couldn’t take it back. A shameful purchase: full price, had us eating very, very carefully for a week because I blew so much of the housekeeping on it. Turns out that silver sequinned blouses are only flattering in the shop’s lengthening,low-lightdressing-room mirror. The bed is littered with my sartorial disappointments, my dreams as wrinkled and crushed as the cottons and silks.
It’s nearly time for everyone to arrive and there’s a ring at the doorbell.
My heart sinks but I take a deep breath and put my game face on.
Nate whisks the guests into the kitchen and it turns out to be Angie, who is wearing an entirely wet blouse and holding out the remains of a bouquet of flowers at arm’s length.
