Girls’ Night In. Jessica Adams
there. And he had a migraine that night he left her stranded in Soho in the early hours. It had been OK. She’d found a cab almost immediately, just a street or three away. And Brett had phoned the next day to explain that he suffered from migraines. That they made him do strange things. Like leave people in the centre of the city at an unseemly hour. Of course, of course. All forgiven.
‘Brett gives me a fucking migraine,’ Sally said, peering into the oven and wondering if it was the slightly grimy door that made the Marks & Spencer luxury cheese puffs look golden or if they were indeed ready. ‘How long?’
‘Three months, must be,’ said Chloë distractedly, rocking against the radiator as if forgetting how hot it was each time her bottom met it.
Sally stared at her. ‘The cheese puffs,’ she said with theatrical kindness, raising an eyebrow at Polly and fixing Chloë with a look of exaggerated pity.
‘Oh, them,’ said Chloë in a bid to patronize Sally for ranking cheese puffs higher in the grand scheme of things than Finty and Brett, ‘almost eight minutes.’
‘But they look ready,’ Sally protested, saliva shooting around her jaw and her stomach reminding her that crisps and a pot of coleslaw at lunch had not hit the spot.
‘You leave them be for another four minutes,’ Polly warned, brandishing the empty carton for emphasis and opening a bag of hand-cooked vegetable crisps in a futile bid to lure Sally away from the oven. ‘Here. And wine while you wait. It’s my bloody oven.’
It was Polly’s turn to host the Gathering. Though, as hostess, her responsibilities were minimal apart from ensuring that ready-made luxuries were in the oven, that the corkscrew was foolproof and that any live-in lovers had been banished. The Gathering was a monthly institution, founded instinctively three years ago when all four girls found themselves dumped and depressed and desperate to do voodoo. They had convened with a need to exhaust their repertory of expletives, to drink much vodka and perform a cleansing ritual Chloë had read about which entailed the burning of a bunch of sage and much chanting. The swearing and the smoke from the sage gave them giggles, they soon found themselves quite drunk on spirits bottled and natural, and their sense of personal justice and order in the world was restored. Where their hearts had hurt at the beginning of the evening, now their sides ached from laughter. They decreed that such a restorative tonic should not be restricted to times of crisis but should become a mainstay of every month. Raucous in Richmond at Polly’s place or dancing in Dean Street until the proprietor told them to leave; chilling out at Chloë’s or conversing animatedly at a Conran restaurant; a few sniffs rapidly devolving into mass sobbing at a chick-flick at the Leicester Square Odeon, or getting stoned and saying not a lot at Sally’s. Wherever they were, their sense of togetherness could make a month make sense. In or out, they’d shake it all about, kiss each other liberally at home time and look forward immensely to the next gathering.
‘I think I’m planning my life, and doing the things I’m doing, safe in the knowledge that I can always Workshop-Through-It at our Gathering,’ Polly had once said, to much nodding all round. Which was why Finty’s absence was so unfathomable. Rather insulting. Just a little worrying, too.
‘Don’t like,’ said Chloë, wrinkling her nose.
‘I’ll have yours, then,’ said Sally, fanning her mouth and eyeing Chloë’s cheesy puff.
‘Brett,’ Chloë said. ‘Don’t like him.’
‘You’ve only met him once,’ Polly protested.
‘As have you,’ said Chloë, ‘and did you like him?’
Polly gave Chloë a swift smile of defeat. ‘No.’
‘Ditto,’ said Sally who’d burnt the roof of her mouth but couldn’t possibly admit to it and therefore took another cheesy puff. ‘I don’t like what he’s doing to her.’
‘Do you mean that he’s taking her away from us?’ Polly, who feared this to be the case, asked.
‘No,’ Sally said, ‘not that. More, I feel that he’s detrimental to her self-confidence; which is why she jumps to his beck and call.’
‘Forsaking us for him,’ said Polly.
‘Yes,’ Sally clarified, ‘but I can’t believe it’s because she deems him preferable, nor that she’s taking advantage of us.’
‘I think he’s a harmless creep,’ said Chloë, ‘way way out of Finty’s league. I think she’ll figure that out soon enough. When the novelty of new sex abates.’
The three women fell silent.
‘However, I, for one, cannot believe that sex with him can make up for his questionable personality,’ Chloë continued, ‘nor for it taking precedence over the Gathering.’
The three women fell silent.
Was their concern for their friend’s welfare with this man? Or that they rued the fact that their hitherto sacred coven might be fallible? An era ending? If they conceded that this was the case, weren’t they investing a harmless creep with more power than they felt he warranted?
‘My point is,’ Sally said, using her hands for emphasis to prevent herself from succumbing to a fourth cheesy puff, ‘Finty should be here, not there. I think it’s indicative of a floundering relationship that she isn’t. It’s only one night a month. She has a duty. I mean, when have any of us ever rejected a Gathering?’
‘You did, you old tart!’ Polly cajoled. ‘When you first started seeing Richard. When he was going to seduce you with his culinary skills.’
‘Yes,’ Sally said patiently, ‘but he did. And then I married the man.’ She peered into Polly’s fridge and brought out reduced fat guacamole and humous. ‘See me now – banning husband from home on a monthly basis – grounds for divorce, surely! Mind you, if he ever objected – well, grounds for divorce, surely.’
‘Oh God!’ Chloë exclaimed. ‘Please don’t let Finty marry Brett!’
The girls made noises and gesticulations of a mass vomiting session and then giggled guiltily. Perhaps Finty really was in love with the man. Perhaps he was a really lovely chap who wasn’t very confident in company. Or merely had an awkward manner, rather than no manners at all, which is what they all suspected. Perhaps he was to be on the scene for months, even years. He would remain great gossip fodder – as long as Finty remained oblivious to the fact. Suddenly, along with the vegetable crisps and rather luminous guacamole, the three women also passed around a smile steeped in slight suspicion and discomfort. It occurred to them that perhaps their own partners had been the subjects of such unfavourable scrutiny. Maybe still were. No. Surely not. Richard was such great company. William was sensitive. Max always had them laughing. And the fundamental difference was that these three men were openly at ease with their respective partners and her friends. Whereas Brett had stiffened when Finty had kissed him in front of them and he’d squirmed when Sally had burped, when Polly had sworn, when Chloë had touched his knee in a bid to extend welcome, to establish familiarity.
‘Where was he taking her anyway?’ Chloë asked, uncorking a bottle of Semillon and giving Polly the thumbs up at the bumper bag of oven chips held aloft for their approval. ‘Where have they gone that could possibly be preferable to oven chips, low fat dips and our delectable company?’ She burped under her breath, as demurely as she could. Sally responded with one that made the rafters tremble.
Peanuts. Finty detested peanuts. She hated the taste and she couldn’t abide the smell. And now Brett reeked of peanuts. But more loathsome than this was what he was doing to them. He was snatching little handfuls by contorting his fingers over the bowl like the hands of an Action Man doll. He was then bouncing his clutch up and down in his palm as if panning for gold, before pushing his whole hand against his mouth. His trousers. He was wiping his fingers over his trousers, leaving salt there, before doing Action Man Hands and reaching for the bowl again.
This