The friends turned up empty-handed to a groaning table and I shut the fridge door.
Simon, are you absolutely sure that three kilos of pork shoulder is going to be enough? I asked. My voice was wobblier than my jelly trifle at the last street party. Last time they cleared us out, including the bread, and Lucy even demanded a Tupperware for the dog, then put pictures up on Facebook claiming my roast was her culinary masterpiece.
Emma was nervously fiddling with the corner of the tea towel, surveying her kitchen, which now resembled the floor of a Bake Off tent after the showstopper round. It wasnt even noon and already she felt ready to topple onto the nearest settee. Up since six, shed dashed to the market for the freshest meat, then run to Waitrose for a decent bottle or two and fancy bits. By half ten, she was lost in a sea of slicing, dicing, boiling, and frying.
Simon, her husband, was moodily peeling potatoes by the sink, his mound of peelings growing by the minute, as did his silent irritation (not that hed ever admit it).
How much more do they need, Emma? he sighed, rinsing another spud. Three kilos between four guests and us two? Thats half a kilo each. Theyll explode. Youre going overboard: smoked salmon, prawn cocktail, bowls of posh salads. Its just a belated housewarming, not the royal wedding.
You just dont get it, Emma waved him away, stirring a rich sauce. Its Sally and Graham, and then Becky and Dave! We havent seen them in ages, and theyre coming all the way from the other side of London. If the spreads stingy, well never hear the end of it. Theyll say we got fancy with our new flat and stopped sharing.
Emma had always been the hospitable sortinherited from her gran, who could feed an army on a handful of carrots and a one-pan stew. For her, a meagre table was deeply shameful. If she had guests, it was a feast. When it was a party, she wanted the table to physically sag under the weight. Shed spent all week planning the menu, trawling recipes, saving from her salary for the fancy bit of single malt that Graham liked, or the special French wine Sally preferred.
Wouldnt hurt if they brought something themselves, Simon muttered. Remember Daves birthday? We carried a lovely gift, our own bottles of drink, you even baked the cake, and when we popped over to theirs that one time? Bagged tea and biscuits old enough to remember the Olympics.
Dont be petty, Simon, Emma chided. They were sorting the mortgage then, busy with renovations. Its different now: Grahams got that new job, Becky was bragging about her fur coat. Maybe theyll bring something. Dessert, maybe. I even hinted to Sally that she should bring the sweets.
By five oclock, the flat gleamed and the dining table looked like Selfridges food hall at Christmas. Glazed ham with a parsley crown sat at the centre, encircled by bowls of salad (done properly, mindnot with cheap ham, but roast beef and crayfish tails). Salmons, home-cured gammon, home-baked breads. The famous pork shoulder was roasting with crispy potatoes and mushrooms. In the fridge: frosted vodka, posh cognac, and three bottles of wine.
Knackered, yet pleased with herself, Emma donned her best frock, tweaked her hair, plonked herself in the armchair and awaited the bell.
I feel nervous, weirdly, she confessed while Simon, looking every inch the gentleman (apart from a potato peel stuck to his sleeve), buttoned his shirt. First get-together in our own home. I just want it to go perfectly.
At exactly five oclock, the buzzer sounded. Punctual as ever.
Emma darted to open the door. There they stood: Sally in that mink coat (which cost more than Emmas renovation), Graham in a shiny new leather jacket, Becky in bold lipstick, and Dave, already looking half-sozzled.
Wahey! The new homeowners! Sally squealed, enveloping Emma in a cloud of perfume strong enough to stun a horse. Well, show us the palace then!
A tornado would have left less mess. Coats flung everywhere (all dumped on Simon, of course), noise and natter echoing around the flat. Emma, smiling bravely, found her eyes wandering to their hands, scanning for even a humble bottle of prosecco. Not a bag. Not a box of Mr Kipling. No bottle. No Dairy Milk. Nothing.
Erm, did you? Emma started, but cut herself off. It sounded awkward. Maybe it was still in the car? Tucked in a pocket?
Emma, you look so much slimmer! Becky kissed herstill in her shoesand barrelled through to the corridor. But the flatoh dear, well, its clean anyway. Paintable wallpaper? Tacky, reminds me of my old office. You shouldve gone silk print.
We prefer minimal, Simon said flatly as he followed them. Come on through, the tables set.
The group bustled into the lounge. The sight of the spread nearly made Grahams eyes pop out.
Oooh! Get a load of this! he rubbed his hands together. What a spread! Im glad I didnt eat all dayneeded to save room for your roast, Em.
They plonked themselves down. Emma dashed to the kitchen, grabbed the mushroom vol-au-vents. In her head, she rationalised: Maybe theyre giving us cash? Card? Maybe its a surprise?
Upon her return, they were already halfway through the prawn cocktail, not waiting for a toast.
Mmm, this potato salad is cracking! Dave mumbled, his mouth full. Simon, lets get the drinks going, mate. Im parched.
Simon dished out the vodka for the men and wine for the ladies.
To your new home! Graham toasted. May your walls stay up and neighbours stay down. Bottoms up!
He downed his shot, wiped his mouth on his sleeve (linen napkins lay untouched), and immediately reached for the salmon.
Oi, Em, he called, chewing. Whys the vodka warm? Didnt fancy the freezer?
It was in the fridge, Graham, Emma replied, her eye starting to twitch. Five degrees, British Standard.
Nah, should be a proper freeze. Oh well, close enough. Got any cognac? Help it down.
I do, she forced a smile. Shall we eat first?
One doesnt interfere with the other! Dave cackled.
The meal started swinging. Food disappeared faster than coats at a car boot sale. The group tucked in as if theyd only eaten air since last Sunday and all the while, they grumbled.
Bit dry, this dressed herring, Sally pouted, helping herself to a third portion. Wheres your usual lashings of mayo? Being stingy for the new mortgage?
I made homemade, its lighter, Emma said, almost apologetically.
Oh, just buy the jar, love! Becky snorted. So much easier. By the way, the caviars a bit small. Pink salmon? Shouldve got sturgeon, you get more for your money.
Emma glanced at Simon, who was gripping his fork like a man waiting for Glastonbury tickets to drop.
So whats new with you lot? Simon tried, desperate for a subject change. Sally, didnt you go to Dubai?
Oh, it was divine! Sally gushed, rolling her eyes dreamily. Five-star hotel, champagne on tap, lobster galore! Bought a real Louis Vuitton bag for two grand. Worth every penny. Graham whined, but I said, life is for living!
Typical, eh? Graham topped up his glass with Emmas best cognac. Ive got my eye on a new Range Rover, taking it next week. We dont waste money on pointless things like, you know, paint.
What, like home repairs? Emma asked, squinting in disbelief.
Yeah, Becky piped up. Walls are walls, arent they? Our wallpapers the same as when we moved in; but we holiday in Spain every year and only eat out. You two are so dull, putting your cash in concrete.
Speaking of food, Dave leant back, dabbing his greasy lips and tossing his napkin straight onto the tablecloth. We were at The Savoy yesterdaytop tier. Posh nosh, bill was a bomb, but totally worth it! Not like, you know, this. Wheres the main? Meat soon?
Emma rose to clear plates, hands trembling. These people just boasted about buying bags costing her annual bonus, yet waltzed into her home without a single bloom or box of chocolates. Not even a token for the trouble.
She took refuge in the kitchen. Moments later, Sally slunk in, to help, which naturally meant to gossip.
Em, you went all out, honestly, Sally hissed, leaning on the doorframe. Bit obvious you maxed yourselves out, though. The wines a bit Tesco, isnt it? Thats BBQ stuff, not guest quality.
Sally, its French, two hundred a bottle, Emma said through gritted teeth as she loaded the dishwasher.
Really? You were ripped off! It tastes like vinegar. By the way, can I take some bits for tomorrow? Well be hanging and cant face the shops. Some pork and salads, youve got loads, itll only go to waste.
Emma paused mid-plate. She turned, very calm.
You want me to box up the leftovers for you?
Well, obviously, Sally giggled. Everyone does it. Saves us a fortune! Speaking of, is there pudding? I fancy something sweet. A cake?
You said youd bring the cake, Emma reminded her quietly.
Me? Dont be daft. Im on a diet, I wouldnt. I assumed youd make your famous pavlova or at least buy something nice. We didnt bring anything, cos, you know youre sorted now, arent you? Youre homeowners!
Emma put the plate down. The clang was like Big Ben at midnight.
So, you thought we had it all, Emma repeated. And that were loaded.
Course! Youve got a bloody flat! Were just peasants saving for the Maldives. Now, about that roast
Emma walked over to the oven, opened it, and inhaled the herby scent of golden pork, glistening and fat and worth every minute. Her gaze flicked to the fridge, where a giant berry pavlova awaiteda fiver from the posh bakery, just to surprise everyone, despite the supposed arrangement.
She closed the oven. Switched off the gas. Gripped the fridge door.
Therell be no main course, she said, firmly.
Eh? Sally blinked. It burned?
No. Its not coming out. Thats all.
Emma returned to the living room. The men were onto their drinks, discussing politics. Simon looked haunted.
Ladies and gents, Emma called out. Her voice made them all freeze, like a school mistress about to assign detention. Dinners over.
The room went dead. Graham, glass raised mid-pour, stared.
Emma, whats this about? he squawked. We havent had the main yet. You promised a roast!
I promised, Emma nodded. But Ive changed my mind.
Hows that then? Becky snapped. Were starving! These salads are nothing but leaves. Bring out the meat!
The meat stays in the oven. You can all get your coats. Or head to The Savoy, or your McDonalds if you like. This partys done.
Youre off your head! Dave blurted. Simon, get your missus to pack it in. Were the guests!
Simon stood up, slow and solid. He looked at Emma, then at the group. He saw the tears brimming in his wifes eyes. He realised, finally, how far things had gone.
Emmas not losing it, Simon said, voice steady. Shes fed up. You turned up without as much as a Kit Kat, got stuck into my whisky, slagged off my wifes cooking, our wine, our home. And now you want more meat?
We were only joking! Sally shrieked. Cant you take a bit of banter? So, we forgot the cake! At least you got good company! We brought the fun!
Fun at our expense? Emma laughed dryly. No thanks. Ive spent all morning slaving at the stove and burned through half my income on this dinner. I wanted you to feel welcome. Instead, you showed up like freeloaders. Jet off to Dubai but cant buy an own-brand biscuit for your hosts?
So thats how it is? Graham leapt up, knocking over his chair. Counting crumbs, are we? Stuff your pork! Lets go! Not coming here again! Miserable lot!
Gather your things, Simon said flatly, opening the door nice and wide. And dont forget your Tupperware empty, obviously.
The guests thundered out, coats and complaints flying. Sally shrieked that Emma was no friend of hers, that shed tell everyone what a selfish drama queen Emma was. Becky muttered about ruined evenings. The men cursed.
When the last guest slammed the door, a blissful silence fell over the flat. Emma stood midst the chaos: empty plates, wine stains, crumpled napkins.
Simon came over and hugged her.
How are you holding up? he asked gently.
My hands are shaking, Emma admitted. Was I out of order? Maybe I shouldve smiled and fed them, anyway. After all, they were guests
You werent out of line. You finally stuck up for yourself. Im proud. Honestly, I was about to boot them out myself. They were out of order.
Emma sighed and hugged her husband.
So, the roast? Simon smiled mischievously. Is there really some left? Im about to start gnawing the furniture.
Emma burst into proper, cathartic laughter for the first time all evening.
Theres loads. And the pavlova. Huge, full of berries.
They sat down together, sweeping plates aside. Emma brought out the sizzling roast and the gloriously over-the-top pavlova. She poured them both a generous glass of that vinegary French (in fact, a silky Bordeaux).
To us, Simon toasted, clinking glasses. And to only letting in the right peoplethe ones who come with open hearts, not just open mouths.
They tucked in: the pork melting in their mouths, the peace even sweeter than dessert. Best meal theyd had in years.
An hour later, Emmas phone pinged. Message from Sally: You cow! Were eating dry burgers in McDonalds because of you! At least have the decency to apologise!
Emma grinned, hit block, then did the same with Becky, Graham and Dave.
Her contacts list was four names lighter. Funnyshe felt lighter too. The fridge was packed, and she and Simon would have gourmet leftovers for a full week. Not a single crumb for those who truly hadnt earned it.
If theres a lesson here, its that friendship should be a two-way street. Sometimes, shutting your fridge door is the most dignified thing you can do.
