3rd March
If Im being honest, today has been absolutely exhausting and not in a particularly satisfying way. My friends were due round for a belated housewarming, and somehow, as always, I found myself wondering anxiously if three kilos of pork shoulder would actually suffice. Tom, are you sure three kilos will be enough? Id asked, remembering with some dread how ravenously everyone descended on the table last time, even mopping up the last drops of sauce with bits of bread. And then there was Becky, who once asked for a container for her dog, only to post photos of my roast online as if shed made it herself.
I fiddled with the corner of the tea towel, taking in the chaos that used to be my kitchen. It was barely noon but I already felt wrung out. Id been up since six: first, the local butcher for the freshest meat, then to Waitrose for the good plonk and the posh bits, and then hours of dicing and stirring and roasting.
Tom, practical Tom, was at the sink peeling potatoes, his exasperation quietly building along with the mound of peelings in the bin. Liv, dont go overboard, he said, rinsing another spud. Thats half a kilo of meat per person, and thats not even counting all the extras. Youve made enough for a wedding, not a housewarming.
He didnt understand. These were our oldest friendsBecky and Mark, Sophie and Davecoming all the way over from another side of town. We hadnt seen them in ages. The least I could do was lay on a spread. How mortifying if they left thinking wed gone all tight-fisted after managing to buy our own place.
Its in my blood, this urge to feed people properly. I inherited it from Gran, who could apparently feed an army with whatever she found knocking about in the pantry. To me, a meagre table is a personal affront. Id spent a week stewing over menus, working out what I could afford, saving from my salary for Marks favourite single malt and that French wine Sophie likes.
Wouldnt kill them to bring something, though, Tom muttered. At Daves birthday, we brought a pricey present, a bottle, and you even baked the cake. When we popped over to theirs? Weak tea and stale biscuits.
Dont be so petty, I chided, as I fussed with a saucepan of thick gravy. They had a rough patch thenmortgage, the kitchen in bits. Things are better for them now. Marks got that new job, Sophies forever showing off her new coat. Maybe theyll bring something this timea cake, or some fruit maybe. I did hint to Becky that dessert was on them.
By five, the flat was gleaming, the table rivalled any boutique delis. A centrepiece of poached tongue sat surrounded by generous salad bowls (luxury crab and prawn, no rubbery ham in sight!), and a lavish array of cold cuts made from scratch. Roasted pork and country-style potatoes with mushrooms were finishing in the oven. The chilled drinks included a bottle of Grey Goose, Toms whisky, and three bottles of red.
Utterly spent but just a tiny bit smug, I wriggled into my nicest dress and perched in the lounge, nerves jangling. First big get-together here, I whispered to Tom as he buttoned his shirt. I just want everything to go well.
The bell rang punctually at five. I hurried to open up and was hit by a wall of perfume and chatter. Becky swept in wearing her new fur, which mustve cost as much as our bathroom refit. Mark was in leather, Sophie had gone all-out with make-up, and Dave well, Dave already looked half-cocked.
Hurrah, the new homeowners! Becky shrieked, barging in and choking me with an over-sweet waft. Go on, lets see these palatial digs!
Everyone shrugged off their coats, dumping them onto poor Tom, who darted back and forth with hangers. Trying not to be too obvious, I glanced at their hands. Every single one of them empty. No bag, not even a bottle of Sainsburys plonk, not a supermarket cake. Not even a bar of Dairy Milk.
I almost said somethingbut couldnt. Maybe theyd left a present in the car? Or had something small stashed away?
Olivia, youve lost so much weight! Sophie pecked my cheek, still in shoes, and marched straight into the corridor. The place is nice, but its a bit stark, dont you think? Painted wallpaper? Looks a bit office-y to me. Shouldve gone for something fancier.
We like minimalism, Tom said stiffly, ushering everyone into the lounge. Come through, dinners ready.
The mob surged into the dining room. Marks eyes glinted when he saw the table. Now, THATs a spread! he crowed. Knew we picked the right place, didnt touch a bite all day so we could dig into your special roast.
They flopped into chairs while I dashed back for the starterscreamy mushrooms in tiny pots. A faint hope still lingered: perhaps theyd hand over an envelope, cash for a housewarming? That’d explain the empty hands, wouldnt it?
Back in the dining room, I found them already digging in, not even waiting for a toast.
Mmm, this salads a winner! Dave slurred, mouth full. Tom, mate, fill up our glasses, will you?
Tom poured vodka for the lads and wine for the girls.
To your new home! toasted Mark, raising his glass. May the walls stand firm, the neighbours stay dry, and all that. Lets get stuck in.
As the food began to vanish at shocking speed, complaints cropped up too.
The prawn things a tad dry, Becky pronounced, loading yet another portion. You gone easy on the mayo to save money?
I made it from scratch, its lighter, I replied defensively.
Lighter, she says! Sophie snorted. Supermarket stuff tastes better, honestly. And this caviaryou got the cheap kind, didnt you? Shouldve paid more for the stuff with bigger pearls.
Tom caught my eye across the table, his jaw clenched.
So, hows life? he tried, in a bid to shift the mood. Sophie, I heard you went to the Maldives?
Oh, it was divine! she gushed theatrically. Five-star resort, champagne at breakfast, lobster every night. Brought back a real Louis Vuitton bagtwo grand, but worth every penny. Mark grumbled but I insistedyou only live once!
Tell me about it, women and their handbags, Mark chimed in, helping himself to Toms whisky without asking. Im getting a new Range Rover soon, by the way. We never bother with renos, better to spend on good cars and nice things.
What, you dont do up your house? I asked.
No point, Sophie shrugged. Weve still got Nans old wallpaperten years on. But we go abroad every year, eat out, buy designer stuff. Lifes for living, not faffing with interiors.
Speaking of eating out, Dave wiped his greasy mouth and lobbed the napkin on the tablecloth, we were at The Ivy last night. Blew £150 on dinner, but worth every penny! Beats home-cooked grub. Liv, whens the main coming? Got to be honest, these salads dont fill a man up.
As I cleared up, rage and embarrassment flickered inside me. All this boasting of luxury dinners and pampered lifestyles, but here at my table, they hadnt even brought a daffodil or a cheap box of biscuits.
I escaped to the kitchen, only for Becky to follow, ostensibly to help, but really just for a gossip.
Honestly, Liv, your tables impressive, but you can tell youre worn out. The wines distinctly averageI only ever serve that stuff at the barbecue. You could splurge a bit for guests, you know?
Thats a Bordeaux, cost me nearly thirty quid, I snapped, stacking plates in the dishwasher.
No! Someone pulled a fast one on you! Tasted like vinegar. Say, have you got any leftovers you could pack for me? I wont want to cook with a hangover tomorrow. Meat, salads you made loads, theres no way youll finish it all.
I froze, dish in hand, and turned to Becky.
You actually want to take food home?
Why not? We always do. It saves money! she giggled. So, whats for dessert? Did you make a cake?
You said you were bringing the cake, I reminded her.
Me? Never! she feigned surprise. Im on a diet. I just assumed youd bake one of your showstoppersor at least buy something decent. Turns out you lot have everything now, flash flat and all.
I put the dish down rather more forcefully than necessary.
So, you assumed wed handle everything, since were so rich now?
Obviously! Becky shrugged. Youve got a mortgage and all that, must be rolling in it by now. Were just scraping by, saving for holidays. Anyway, bring out the meat. The blokes are banging their forks in there.
Memories flashed upher borrowing a couple hundred for a holiday and only repaying it months later after much chasing. Mark asking Tom to help move house and never even covering petrol. Them always tucking in at our celebrations, rarely inviting us back and then suffering through limp sausage rolls.
I went to the oven. The pork smelled glorious, glistening with roast veg. There was the massive berry pavlova Id secretly ordereda treat, despite the arrangement.
I quietly shut the oven. Switched off the gas. Closed the fridge, pressing the door shut carefully.
Therell be no meat, I said, voice louder than I intended.
What do you mean? Becky frowned.
It hasnt burnt, I replied. Ive just changed my mind.
I strode back to the lounge, where the blokes were guffawing over politics.
Everyone, the partys over, I announced, voice taut as a tightrope. Marks hand froze mid-toast.
What do you mean, over? We havent even eaten the main! You promised a roast! he protested.
I know, I said. But Im not bringing it out.
You cant be serious! Sophie gasped. Were starving! Salad doesnt count, Liv!
The roast stays in the oven. And in a few minutes, youll all collect your coats and head home. Or maybe to The Ivy, where I hear theyll feed you for a hundred quid a head.
Are you pissed or something? Dave blinked at Tom. Sort her out, mate. Were your guests!
Tom got up slowly. He looked at me, then at our so-called friendsall red in the face. Livs not drunk, he said quietly. Shes done. You came to our house, brought nothing, drank my whisky, mocked my wifes cooking, called our wine vinegary and the flat boring, then demanded more food?
It was only a bit of banter! Becky whined. We just forgot the cakehonestly! Cant you just enjoy the company? We brought the fun!
Fun at our expense? I murmured. Enoughs enough. I spent half my wages on tonight, planning every detail. All youve done is take, with zero thanks. Its always the sameyoull fly to the Maldives but wont buy a thirty pence chocolate for the host.
Is that how its going to be? Mark thundered, knocking his chair back. Throwing your generosity in our face? Keep your bloody roast, then. Come on! Not coming back here, I swear!
Dont forget your containersempty, this time, Tom added, flinging the front door open.
They left in a stropBecky loudly renouncing our friendship, Sophie muttering about a ruined evening, the blokes swearing under their breath.
The flat was silent again. I stood among the chaosdirty plates, wine stains, crumpled napkins.
Tom sidled over and wrapped me in a hug. You alright? he murmured.
Hands are shaking, I confessed. Was I too harsh? Maybe I shouldve just fed them and let it go. They were guests, after all
You werent harsh, Tom replied. You just finally respected yourself. Im proud of you. Truth is, Id have booted them out sooner if you hadnt spoken up. They crossed the line.
I sighed and pressed my head to his shoulder.
What about the roast? Tom asked after a moment, mischief in his grin. Is it really lurking in there? It smells amazing, love.
For the first time that whole evening, I found myself laughingreally laughing.
Oh, its there. And the pavlova, too.
We ate together among the dirty dishes, shifting them aside. I pulled out that melt-in-the-mouth, crackling pork. The pavlova. I even poured us both a glass of the vinegary winea glorious, velvety Bordeaux.
To us, Tom toasted. To only having people in our home who bring open hearts, not just empty bellies.
We ate that roast, savouring the silence and the joy of being together. It was the best meal I can remember.
An hour later, my phone buzzed. A text from Becky: You absolute cow! Here we are in McDonalds, stuffing our faces with burgers because of you! Hope youre proud of yourself.
I just smiled, pressed Block, and did the same for the rest.
The contact list on my phone shrank by four, but the air in my life grew much lighter. The fridge was full to bursting with delicious food, enough to last Tom and me the whole weekand not a scrap would go to those who didnt deserve it.
Ive realised tonight that friendship truly goes both ways, and sometimes, the best thing you can do for yourself is to keep the fridge firmly closed.
