The friends arrived empty-handed to a table already laid out, and I quietly closed the fridge.
Simon, are you sure three kilograms of pork shoulder will be enough? Last time they cleared out everythingeven mopping up the gravy with bread. And Lucy asked for a takeaway, for her dog she said, but then posted a picture of my roast as her own culinary masterpiece on Facebook.
Helen anxiously fiddled with the edge of a tea towel, surveying what her kitchen had becomea battlefield. It was only midday, but she already felt ready to drop. Shed been on her feet since six: first the local market for the freshest cut of meat, then the supermarket for decent wine and some nice deli bits, then endless chopping, boiling, and roasting.
Simon, Helens husband, stood at the sink, peeling potatoes with a certain melancholy. The pile of peelings grew, as did his quiet annoyance, though he did his best to hide it.
Helen, how much more do you reckon theyll eat? he sighed, rinsing off another potato. Three kilos for four guests and the two of usthats half a kilo each. Theyll burst! Youve pulled out all the stops: smoked salmon, prawn cocktail, mountains of salad. Its not a wedding, just a belated housewarming.
You dont understand, Helen said, stirring a thick sauce on the hob. Its just that its Sarah and Victor, and Millie and Tom. We havent seen them for ages, theyre coming all the way from the other side of town. Id feel awkward if the table looked stingy. Theyll say we got above ourselves now weve bought a place.
Helen had always been this way. Hospitality was in her blood, inherited from her gran who could rustle up a feast from nothing and feed an army. For her, an empty table was an insult. If you were going to have guests, you did it properly. If it was a celebration, the table had to groan under the weight of food. She had spent a week planning menus, scouting out recipes, squirrelling away money to buy that particular Cognac Victor liked, and the exact Bordeaux Sarah preferred.
They could bring something themselves for once, Simon grumbled. Last time it was Toms birthday, we carried a pricey present, brought our own wine, and you baked a cake. What did they put on? I remember having tea brewed from a bag and dry old biscuits.
Oh, dont be petty, Simon, Helen said, reproach in her voice. They were going through a hard time: new baby, mortgage, everything. Besides, things are better for them now. Victors got a new job, Millies bought herself a fur coat and was bragging about it. Maybe theyll bring something this timea dessert, or some fruit. I hinted to Sarah that the puddings on them.
By five, the house was shining, and the table in the dining room looked like a shop window in Fortnum & Mason. Centred on a platter was a gleaming glazed ham, surrounded by vibrant saladsno cheap ready-made stuff, but the proper homemade kind with lobster, not spam! There was beetroot-cured salmon with caviar, platters of home-cooked beef and smoked meats. The pork shoulder was roasting away with rosemary potatoes and mushrooms. In the fridge, bottles of Sipsmith gin, that expensive Cognac, and three bottles of wine waited to be chilled.
Worn out but satisfied, Helen put on her finest dress, did her hair, and perched on an armchair, awaiting the knock at the door.
Im nervous, she admitted, as Simon did up his shirt. First time in our new place. I want everything to go perfectly.
At exactly five, the bell rang. Their friends were as punctual as ever.
Helen rushed to open up. On the doorstep stood the noisy group: Sarah, in the new mink coat that mustve cost half Helens renovation, Victor in a leather jacket, Millie sporting heavy makeup, and Tom, whod clearly already started the party elsewhere.
Hurrah! New homeowners! Sarah burst in, enveloping Helen in a cloud of cloying perfume. Right thenshow us the palace!
They all tumbled into the hallway, carelessly dropping coats into Simons arms as he scrambled to hang them up. Helen, smiling, scanned their hands out of reflex.
All four stood empty-handed. Not a bag, not a bakery box, not a bottle of plonk, not even a bar of Dairy Milk.
But where Helen started, then stopped herself. Maybe theyd left something in the car? Or had something in a pocket?
Youve lost weight! Millie said, kissing her, not even taking off her shoes as she strode inside. And the renovation! Well, its simple, but clean, I suppose. Wallpaper you paint yourself? Honestly, it looks like an office. Shouldve gone for something with a bit of luxury.
We prefer minimalism, Simon replied curtly as he ushered them in. Come on, dinners served.
They swept into the dining room. Victors eyes gleamed at the sight of the spread.
Cor, now THIS is what I call a feast! He grinned, rubbing his hands together. Knew youd come up trumps, Helen. Weve been saving ourselves all day for your roast!
Everyone took a seat. Helen dashed into the kitchen for the hot startersproper mushroom gratin in fancy ramekins. She couldnt stop thinking, Maybe they decided on a cash gift in an envelope? Thats why they came empty-handed?
Back in the dining room, the guests were already tucking into the salad bowls, forks flying, without a single toast.
Hm, good potato salad this! Tom mumbled, mouth full. Simon, get the drinks going, mate! What are we waiting for? Parched, we are.
Simon poured out gin for the men and wine for the women.
To your new home! Victor declared, raising his glass. May the walls never crack, may the neighbours never flood you, and may it all be alright. Bottoms up!
He downed it, wiped his mouth with his sleeve (despite the linen napkins), and immediately speared a slice of cold salmon.
Helen, he said between mouthfuls, shouldve stuck the gin in the freezer. Its a bit warm.
It was in the fridge, Victor, Helen replied softly, feeling her irritation begin to simmer. Five degrees; thats how youre meant to serve it.
Yeah, well Real gin should nearly freeze. Oh, well. Itll do. Got any Cognac?
There is some, Helen replied. But lets eat first?
Why not both? Tom laughed.
The meal went on with gusto. Food vanished at an alarming rate; the guests ate as if they hadnt seen bread and cheese for a fortnight. All the while, the criticisms kept coming.
The beetroot salmons a bit dry, Sarah sniffed, helping herself to thirds. Holding back on the mayo? Being thrifty?
I made it myself, so its not as greasy as shop stuff, Helen explained.
Oh, forget all that faff, Millie waved her hand dismissively. Just get a jar from Tesco and drown it. Easy and tasty. And the caviars tiny. Shouldve bought salmon roeits bigger.
Helen exchanged a glance with Simon. His face was reddening; he was gripping his fork tightly.
So, go on then, what have you all been up to? Simon tried to steer the conversation away. Sarah, didnt you go out to Dubai?
Oh, it was heaven! exclaimed Sarah, rolling her eyes blissfully. Five-star hotel, Champagne on tap, lobster every night. I bought a Louis Vuittonfor two thousand! Worth every penny. Victor grumbled, but I said, You only live once!
Women, eh? Victor grinned, pouring Cognac without asking. Ive got my eye on a new SUValmost there. We save by not splashing out on nonsense like redecorating.
What dyou mean nonsense? Helen asked, confused.
You know, walls are just walls, Millie explained. We never bothered with oursgrandmas old wallpaper does the job. Means we can splash out on holidays and smart clothes and fancy meals. You lot live so boringalways spending on paint and bricks!
Speaking of restaurants Tom interrupted, wiping his greasy mouth and dropping the napkin on the tablecloth, we were at Sketch last night. Incredible stuff. Bill was nearly a grand, but worth it for the level! Not like home-cooked grub. Helen, is the main coming? Salads are all very nice, but we want meat.
Helen got up to clear plates. She was seething. These people bragged about designer bags and dinners costing hundreds, but couldnt bring so much as a bunch of daffs to her housenot even a bar of chocolate.
In the kitchen, Sarah followedostensibly to help, but really to gossip.
Oh Helen, honestly, she whispered, leaning in the doorway, lovely spread, but its a bit well, tired. And the winefeels like barbecue fare. For a special do, you could spring for a top shelf bottle.
Sarah, its French Bordeauxforty quid a bottle, Helen retorted, loading the dishwasher.
No! Youve been muggedsour as vinegar. Listen, have you got any leftovers you could pack up for us? You know what its likehangover tomorrow, no time to cook. Meat, salad, whatever youve made loads, itll just go off.
Helen stopped, plate in hand, and turned slowly.
So, you want me to box up food to take home?
Well, why not? Sarah giggled. We always do. Saves on the weekly shop! Oh, is there pudding? I really fancy something sweet. Did you get a cake?
You said youd bring the cake, Helen said softly.
Me?! Sarah looked astonished. Dont be silly! Im on a diet, dont touch cakes. I thought youd make one of your famous Victoria sponges. Or at least buy a decent one. We didnt bring anything because we assumed you had it all covered. Youre homeowners now!
Helen set the plate down, the clink echoing round the kitchen.
So, you just assumed we have everything. And that were rolling in it.
Of course! Youre paying a mortgage, did up the flat. Must have buckets to spare. Were scraping by, hoping to get to the Maldives next year. Anyway, bring on the meat; the men are growling in there.
Helen stared at her friend. Memories flashed bylending Sarah money for that last minute deal (paid back in six months, never a thank you), Simon helping Victor move house without so much as petrol money, them always eating like horses at parties but hosting only once in a blue moon and serving Icelands finest sausage rolls.
Helen approached the oven and opened the door. The smell of rosemary-roasted pork filled the air. It was perfectgolden and juicy, mushrooms and all. It had cost her a days work and a small fortune.
She looked at the fridge. On the top shelf sat a huge pavlova, which shed ordered specially for fifty quid, planning a surprise pudding despite the their job to bring dessert plan.
She closed the oven. Turned off the gas. Shut the fridge door firmly.
Therell be no pork, she said loudly.
What do you mean? Sarah asked, thrown off. Did it burn?
No, not burnt. There just wont be any.
Helen stepped into the living room. The men were topping up glasses and arguing about rugby. Simon looked entirely defeated.
Right, everyone, Helen announced, her voice ringing out clear and taut. The partys over.
All went silent, turning to stare. Victor froze mid-swig.
Helen, whats up? Over? Weve not even had the main! You promised pork!
I did, Helen nodded. But Ive changed my mind.
Whatwhat do you mean? Millie complained. Were starving! Salads arent proper food. Get the meat on!
The porks in the oven, and its staying there. Now Id like you all to get your coats and go home. Or perhaps youd rather try Sketchtheyll fill you up for a grand a head.
Youre joking! Tom blurted out, looking to Simon. Mate, sort your wife out! You cant behave like thiswere guests!
Simon slowly stood up. He looked around at Helen, then at their friends. He saw how Helen shook with rage, her eyes glassy close to tears. He understood.
Helens not lost her mind, he said calmly. Shes just had enough. You all walked in here with empty hands, drank our Cognac, picked apart her cooking, called our wine vinegar and our home an office. And now youre demanding meat?
We were only joking! Sarah wailed. Dont you have a sense of humour? We just forgot a cake; who cares? At least we showed up! Brought some fun!
Fun at our expense? Helen muttered. Thats enough. I spent my morning sweating over this meal, spending half my salary to make you all happy. But youyoure just freeloaders. The types off to Dubai and yet cant bring a fivers worth of chocs for your hostess.
Oh, is that how it is? Victor jumped up, knocking his chair over. Counting crumbs? Stuff your roast! Lets godont expect to see us back here!
Please do, said Simon, holding open the door. Dont forget your empty Tupperware on the way out.
The guests huffed, shouted, and left in a clamour. Sarah called Helen a mean, hysterical cow on her way out; Millie hissed about the ruined night. The men just swore.
Once the last door banged shut, the flat was quiet again. Helen stood in the lounge, gazing over the storm of empty plates, wine-stained cloth, crumpled napkins.
Simon put his arms round her.
You alright? he whispered.
Im still shaking, she confessed. Simon, was I a terrible hostess? Should I have just served them, kept quietfor the guests sake?
No, youre not terrible, Helen. Youve finally learned to respect yourself. Im proud of you. Honestly, I should have thrown them out after five minutes. They crossed every boundary.
Helen let out a breath and leant on him.
What about the pork? Simon asked after a moment, grinning. Because it smells so good, Im salivating here!
Helen laughed for the first time that eveninga genuine, bright laugh.
Its there. And so is the pavlovaabsolutely massive, smothered in berries.
They sat at the table, shoving dirty plates to the side. Helen brought out the pork shoulder, golden and steaming, and the huge pavlova. She poured out the much-maligned wine, which was in fact a wonderful, velvety Bordeaux.
To us, Simon toasted, clinking glasses. And to a home filled only with people who come with open hearts, not empty hands.
They ate, savouring every bite, basking in silence and togetherness. It was the best dinner of their lives.
An hour later, Helens phone pinged with a message from Sarah: You cheeky cow! Were at McDonalds because of you, scoffing burgers. You really should apologise!
Helen simply smiled and blocked the number. She did the same with Millie, Victor, and Tom.
Her contact list was four names shorter, but her world was suddenly much lighter. The fridge was full, enough food to last Helen and Simon a weekand not a single leftover for those who hadnt earned it.
This story is a reminder that friendship, like any good meal, is best when both sides bring something to the tableand sometimes, the closed fridge is the first real act of self-respect.
