My mates turned up empty-handed to a well-laid table, and I shut the fridge door
Tom, are you certain three kilos of pork shoulder will be enough? Last time they gobbled up everything, wiped the sauce from their plates with bread, and Claire even asked for a container for her dog. Then she posted snaps of my roast on Facebook like it was her own culinary triumph.
I was twisting the edge of the tea towel nervously, looking around the war zone my kitchen had become. It was only midday, but I was absolutely shattered. Id been rushing around since six: started with the butchers for the freshest meat, then off to Waitrose for decent booze and posh nibbles, then ages chopping, simmering, frying.
Tom, my husband, stood at the sink, peeling potatoes with a look of distant irritation he did his best to hide.
Sarah, honestly, do they need more? he sighed, rinsing another spud. Three kilos of meat for four guests plus us two? Thats half a kilo each. Theyll pop. Youve done loads: smoked salmon, prawn platters, bowls of salads. Were not hosting a wedding, just a delayed housewarming.
You dont understand I huffed, stirring a thick sauce in the pan. Its Claire and Harry, and Emma and Dave. Old mates. We havent seen them in ages, theyre travelling in from the other side of London. Wouldnt do for the table to look meagre. Otherwise, theyll think weve got notions now weve bought a flat and are stingy with it.
Hospitality ran in my blood. My gran could feed the whole street with half a loaf and a leftover bone, and shed always say a table thats not groaning is an insult to your guests. For me, hosting is an occasion. Proper feast, no half-measures. Id spent a week planning the menu, scouring recipes, tucking away money from my wages to buy Toms favourite Scotch and that Bordeaux Claire always bangs on about.
Would be nice if they brought something along for once Tom muttered. Last time at Daves birthday we brought a pricey gift, our own bottle, and you baked that cake. And when we dropped in to see them that time? Builders tea and a couple of stale biscuits.
Dont be petty, Tom I chided. They were just going through a rough patch, what with their mortgage and all the refurb. But now things are on the up. Harrys got a new job, Emmas boasting about her new fur coat. Maybe they will bring something. Cake, perhaps, or fruit. I even left dessert out, so Claire would bring something sweet.
By five oclock you couldve eaten your dinner off the floor, and the spread in the dining room couldve come straight out of a Fortnum & Mason window. There was a magnificent jellied tongue in the centre, surrounded by artful bowls of saladsproper job, none of your cheap hamhomemade cold cuts, smoked fish, and rustic bread. Roasting in the oven was the pork shoulder with roast potatoes and wild mushrooms. In the fridge chilled a bottle of Beluga vodka, fancy brandy, and three bottles of wine.
Exhausted but proud, I threw on my best dress, did my hair, and slumped into the armchair, waiting for the bell to ring.
Feeling unusually nervous I confessed to Tom as he buttoned his shirt. Its our first time having everyone round here. Want it to go just right.
The bell went dead on five. Punctual as ever.
I rushed to the door. Standing there was a lively crowdClaire, swanning in with her mink on, easily the price of half our kitchen refit, Harry in his leather jacket, Emma with full makeup, and Dave, already half cut.
New homeowners! Claire yelled, breezing in and surrounding me in a cloud of powerful perfume. Go on then, show us the palace!
They crashed about, tossing coats at Tom, who just about managed not to drop them all, while I smiled and, without meaning to, eyed their hands.
All four? Empty. Not a single carrier bag, not even a box of Mr Kiplings, no bottle of red, not even a token Dairy Milk.
So, wheres the I started, but stopped. Too awkward to ask. Maybe they left things in the car? Or had something small tucked away?
Crikey, Sarah, youve lost weight! Emma air-kissed me, walking in without taking her shoes off, eyeing the place. Nice flat! Bit plain, though. Magnolia walls? Reminds me of an office. Have you thought about wallpapering? Silk finish is well in this year.
We like it minimalist Tom said neutrally. Through to the dining room, please. Tables set.
They barreled into the lounge. Harrys eyes lit up sinisterly at the sight of the table.
Blimey, now thats what I call a spread! he rubbed his hands. I knew itd be worth it coming to yours. We havent had a bite since brekkie, saved space for your roast.
Everyone plonked themselves down. I dashed to the kitchen for the first round: mushroom vol-au-vents. Thought swirled: Maybe theyre giving us money, in a card? Thats why the empty hands?
By the time I got back, theyd already attacked the salads, forks flashing, not even waiting for a toast.
This potato salads cracking Dave mumbled, mouth full. Tom, pour us a drink, mate. Gagging for something.
Tom poured vodka for the blokes, wine for us girls.
To the new home! Harry toasted. May you lot be happy here, the walls sturdy, and no dodgy neighbours above. Cheers!
He downed his shot in one go, wiped his nose with his sleeve (never mind the linen napkins), and instantly went for the smoked salmon.
Hey, Sarah he said, mid-bite whys the vodka warm? Shouldve chucked it in the freezer.
Its just out the fridge, Harry I replied, feeling annoyance beginning to build. Its five degrees, just as it should be.
Doesnt feel icy to me Eh, close enough. Any cognac? Great for afters.
Theres some, I agreed. Perhaps lets eat first?
One doesnt exclude the other! Dave guffawed.
Dinner shifted into high gear. Food was disappearing fast, like theyd been locked in a basement for a week with only dry toast. Didnt stop them criticising, either.
This herrings a bit dry, Claire observed, helping herself to a third helping. Been skipping on the mayo? Watchin the pennies?
I made mayo fresh, its lighter that way I said, defending myself.
Oh, dont bother, Emma waved me off. Just get the stuff in a jar from Sainsburys. Dead easy. And the caviars tiny. Pink salmon, yeah? Next time, try king. Much better.
I exchanged a look with Tom. He turned red, clutching his fork as if he might snap it.
So, how are you all? he tried to steer the conversation. Claire, you were in Dubai, werent you?
Was I ever! Claire declared, rolling her eyes up. Magic! Five-star hotel, all-inclusive, lobster for breakfast, champagne by the jugful. Got a real Louis Vuitton bag there, paid two grand for it. Worth it! Harry complained, but I told him: YOLO!
Women, eh? Never save Harry chipped in, pouring himself brandy unasked. Ive got my eye on a new Range Rover. Nearly sorted. We havent bothered wasting money on nonsense like redecorating.
Sorry, nonsense? I asked, confused.
Walls are walls, Emma elaborated. Weve lived with Mums old wallpaper ten years. Means we can afford a holiday every summer, proper threads, nice meals out. You lot, always doing DIY, dead boring.
Speaking of eating out, Dave chimed in, dabbing his greasy lips, dropping the napkin straight on the table We were at Hawksmoor last night class food. Bill was over two hundred, but you get what you pay for! Beats slaving over pots at home. Whens the main coming? Salads are for rabbits; I want some meat.
I stood to clear plates. My insides were shaking. Theyd just boasted about two-grand handbags and lavish restaurant bills, yet turned up here without so much as a potted plant or a biscuit. Not even a bar of chocolate for afters.
I slipped out to the kitchen. Claire followed, not so much to help as to gossip.
Sarah, honestly she whispered, leaning in great spread and all, but you can tell youre not flush. That wines a bitbasic. I only drink that at the allotment. Couldve splashed out for the occasion.
Its a French Bordeaux, twenty quid a bottle I replied, slamming mugs in the dishwasher.
Pull the other one! They mustve mugged you. More sour than vinegar. Got any leftovers? Well have a hangover tomorrow and I cant be bothered to cook some meat, a bit of salad, whatever. No way you two can eat all that, itll only go off.
I froze, plate in hand. Slowly, I turned.
Youre asking me to pack you up a doggy bag?
Well, why not? We always do! Saves money, innit? Claire grinned By the way, is there pudding? I could murder some cake. Got any?
You said youd bring cake I reminded her.
Me?! Never! Im on a diet, I dont buy sweets. Thought you’d do your lemon drizzle, or at least grab something. We came empty-handed cos we figured you two were sorted. Rolling in it now, with your mortgage and the flat!
I put the plate back down. The clink was sharp.
You assumed we had everything? That we’re loaded?
Well, yeah! If youve sorted the place out, must have cash to burn. Were saving for the Maldives, scraping by. Now, bring out the meat, the lads are banging their knives and forks.
I stared at Claire. Memories flashed: when I lent her cash for her last-minute holiday, getting it back six months late and never a thank you; Harry roping Tom to help with their move, didnt even offer a fiver for petrol; always coming to ours and eating like kings, but inviting us round once in a blue moon for Birds Eye fish fingers.
I went to the oven, opened the door. The roast filled the kitchen with its golden, garlicky aroma. That beauty was the result of half my day and a stack of money.
I looked at the fridge, where a giant meringue cake with berries waitedthe surprise Id splurged on, despite agreeing we wouldnt do dessert.
I shut the oven. Switched off the hob. Closed the fridge tight.
Therell be no meat, I said, loudly.
What, burnt it? Claire asked, baffled.
No. Just no. Im not serving it.
I went back to the lounge. The men were in their element drinking and arguing about politics. Tom looked utterly miserable.
Dear guests, I said, voice cold as steel The party is over.
Everyone fell silent, turning to stare. Harry paused, shot glass in hand.
Sarah, what are you on about? Over? We havent had the roast! You promised!
I did promise I replied but Ive changed my mind.
What dyou mean, changed your mind? Emma snapped. Were starving! Veg and mayo wont fill us; bring out the main!
The roast is staying in the oven. And thats where itll stay. Time for you all to put your coats on and head home. You like restaurants so much? Hawksmoor will feed you, for the right price.
You drunk or something? Dave stared in disbelief. Tom, tell her to quit the act. Were your guests!
Tom stood up slowly. He looked at me, then back at the so-called friends. He saw me shaking, eyes waterlogged. And he understood.
Sarahs not drunk Tom said, firm as a judge. Shes had enough. You waltzed in, brought nothing, drank my Scotch, mocked my wifes cooking, called our home a DIY disaster, and still expect more?
We were only kidding! Claire protested. You lot cant take a joke? We just forgot the cake, thats all! We brought good company thats enough!
Good company on our tab? I shot back. No, thank you. That table cost me half my salary and a hard days graft. I wanted you to have a nice time. But youre just users, spongers who go to Dubai but cant bring a Cadbury bar for the host.
Thats how it is, is it? Harry jumped up, knocking his chair over. Throwing bread in our faces? Choke on your roast, then! Out, everyone! Youll never see us here again!
Collect your things Tom said quietly, opening the front door. And dont forget your containers. Empty ones.
They stormed out, Claire shrieking that shed never speak to me again and would tell everyone I was a stingy maniac, Emma hissing about her ruined evening, the blokes swearing.
When the door shut for the last time, silence rang through the flat. I stood in the wreckage of my beautiful table. Leftover food everywhere, red wine stains on the cloth, scrunched up napkins.
Tom came and put his arm round my shoulders.
How are you? he asked softly.
Still shaking I admitted. Tom, was I tight? Should I have just fed them and let it go, since they were guests?
Youre not tight, Sarah. At last you respect yourself. Im proud of you. Honestly, Id have kicked them out even sooner. They went too far.
I breathed out and hugged him.
The roast Tom smirked after a moment Is it actually in there? Smells incredible, Im drooling.
I laughed, the first proper laugh of the evening.
It is, Tom, and theres cake too. Big one, with fresh berries.
We sat together at the messy table, pushing aside the dirty crockery. I brought out the sizzling roast, sliced it up, and served us proper helpings. I cut the cake, poured us both a glass of that apparently vinegary Bordeauxwhich, truthfully, was gorgeous and velvety.
To us Tom toasted. May our home always be open to those with big hearts, not empty hands.
We savoured the roast, luxuriating in the calm and each others company. It was the best dinner of my life.
An hour on, my phone buzzed: You absolute cow! Were at McDonalds, eating burgers because of you! Hope youre proud! from Claire. I blocked her, and then did the same with Emma, Harry, and Dave.
My contacts shrank by four, but the flat immediately felt lighter. Plus, the fridge was full of fabulous leftovers for us to enjoy for days. And not a morsel of it would go to anyone who didnt deserve it.
If this evening taught me anything, its that friendship needs to go both waysand sometimes, closing the fridge is the best way to hang onto your self-respect.
