Chapter 5
When I went to retrieve my place at the table in the dining room, I found George’s seat taken by Harry’s wife, who’d obviously seen her chance to be reunited with Ash’s wife on George’s left, and seized it.
‘Oh, have we lost George?’ I said for something – anything – to say to the two women who, huddled together in whispering conversation, obviously came as a pair.
‘Lost him?’ Suzy Sattar (now that was a name to juggle with) turned somewhat unwillingly in my direction, looking me up and down as she did so, her eyes resting for too long on the just visible trainers beneath the white starched tablecloth.
Suzy uncrossed and recrossed her legs pointedly, her black Louboutins flashing their smirking red soles in my direction.
‘George is a law unto himself.’ She sniffed.
‘He’s probably left, gone clubbing or something. Out on the pull anyway.’
‘I’m not convinced he’d be able to pull anything, the amount of alcohol he’s put away this evening,’ I replied, smiling.
‘He’ll have gone hunting for Mina,’ the other sister-in-law said, her thin red lipsticked mouth pursed in a moue of disapproval.
‘Mina?’ I leaned forward: I might as well be in on the Sattar family gossip if I was going to be working with Kamran.
‘Model. You must know Mina.’ Rachel’s eyes were wide, her voice scornful. ‘Everyone knows Mina.’
Everyone obviously didn’t.
Suzy picked up her glass of wine and immediately replaced it. ‘Jesus, the calories in wine. So, Janice…’
‘Jess.’
‘Right, yes. So, Mina is only the UK’s top model. Think a younger version of Kate Moss…’
‘Who?’ I wanted to laugh. Ask me to name all the UK’s top chefs and judges on MasterChef and I’d be in with a chance. ‘OK,’ I relented. ‘Kate Moss – yes, I know her.’
‘Right, well, Mina – I guess you know you’ve reached the pinnacle of your career when you’re known just by the one name…’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that!’ The white wine and Dean’s hand now burrowing under cover of the tablecloth towards the blonde were rendering me combative. ‘I mean Taylor Swift isn’t just Taylor, is she?’
‘Cheryl Cole is Cheryl these days,’ Rachel came back at me.
‘Sir Keir Starmer isn’t Keir though, is he?’ I was beginning to enjoy myself.
‘I wouldn’t know!’ Suzy almost shuddered. ‘Odious little man, batting for the wrong side.’
‘What? He gets on the wrong bus?’ Rachel’s eyes were wide.
‘Wrong bus? What bus?’ Suzy shot her sister-in-law a look of irritation. ‘No, he’s not gay, he’s just after my children’s inheritance. Not to mention the school fees that are going to bankrupt us.’
‘Get them into the state system then.’ I grinned. ‘Have a word with my sister, Robyn, over there. She teaches at St Mede’s in Little Micklethwaite – I’m sure she’ll put in a good word for you.’
‘Now you really are being ridiculous!’ Two pinpoints of red appeared in Suzy’s cheeks and she flashed me a look of utter contempt.
‘How,’ she went on, once she’d apparently got over the shock of my suggestion, ‘a stunning man, a famous man, a world-famous barrister like Fabian Mansfield Carrington can condone his… his…’
‘Partner?’ I put in helpfully.
‘Can condone his girlfriend teaching down there in that den of iniquity.’
‘Well, not for much longer,’ Rachel put in almost cheerfully. ‘George will see to that.’
‘George?’ My head shot up. ‘What’s George got to do with St Mede’s?’
‘OK, Josie…’ Suzy sighed somewhat theatrically.
‘It’s Jess…’
‘So, when George isn’t being led a merry dance by Mina – you know, will she, won’t she…?’
‘Will she, won’t she what?’ I frowned.
‘Well, marry him, I guess,’ Rachel put in.
‘I mean, he’s very good-looking, isn’t he?
Probably the best out of all the Sattar brothers.
’ She glanced across at her husband, Ash, one down in age to Harry, frowning slightly as he patted his rather too-well-fed stomach in anticipation of the fish pie Beau was now serving.
‘If Ash doesn’t stop eating, he’s going to end up as…
well, as padded as Shirl.’ She glanced disapprovingly at her husband, then at Shirl before deliberately moving her eyes towards my too-tight best dress.
‘George? Good-looking? Is he?’ I shook my head crossly at Rachel’s intimation that I, myself, was over-padded. What was I? A bloody armchair? ‘Can’t say he’s my cup of tea.’
‘Well, no, obviously.’
Obviously?
‘Anyway, it’s George who’s been put in charge of the Frozen plan to knock down St Mede’s in order to build a new factory there. And a jolly good plan it is too. As far as I can see, there’ll be no problem getting it through planning.’
‘But what about the kids who go there? It’s their centralised hub.’ (Centralised hub? Had I just made that up?)
‘Centralised hub?’ Both Suzy and Rachel stared.
‘So, what about the kids? The teachers?’ I went on hurriedly.
‘Oh, they’ll go somewhere – jobs and school places will be found for them all.
And I bet your sister will be more than happy to give it all up.
Spend more time looking after that devastatingly gorgeous man of hers.
’ Both Rachel’s and Suzy’s eyes swung almost longingly towards Fabian, Suzy fanning her brow theatrically as they did so.
‘Fabian Mansfield Carrington is one very hot man. I can’t for the life of me imagine why he wants to give up his vocation as a barrister in London to move up to Yorkshire to open a new restaurant with Kamran.
I followed him on the news when he was defending the Soho Slasher and—’
‘He adores my sister,’ I interrupted angrily.
‘Does he?’ Suzy broke off as a beautifully garnished and presented plate of Fabian’s fish pie was put in front of her. She glanced down at it, smiling somewhat whimsically. ‘Fish pie? At a special dinner party? How original. Mind you, it’s all the rage these days, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ I snapped.
‘You know, dumbing down on formality. It’s all kitchen sups these days, isn’t it?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said crossly, turning away in order to give my full attention to my plate.
‘No,’ Suzy said, the catlike smile still on her face, ‘I don’t suppose you would.’
Turning my back on the two Sattar sisters-in-law on my left (who would, forever more in my mind, be dubbed the SS), I moved instead back towards Shirl, who was tucking in with alacrity, seemingly uninterested in any of the conversations around her.
I proceeded to eat my way slowly through the fish pie, savouring every mouthful.
Heavens, but it was good. Every restaurant, I reckoned, should be known for its signature dish, and this, I envisaged, could be The White House’s.
There was a restaurant somewhere over in East Yorkshire that was known solely for its steak and kidney pie and, of course, The Ritz in London had Crêpe Suzette.
I had the chance to be part of Fabian and Kamran’s dream for heaven’s sake!
I felt a frisson of excitement and poured myself more wine in my own little celebration of this realisation.
What could I bring to the party? Puddings were my thing: I could invent a pudding for The White House and have it named after me, like peach Melba; eggs Benedict; Caesar salad.
Who the hell was that last one named after?
I thought tipsily as I downed more of the white wine that complemented the food so beautifully.
That was a point! Did either Fabian or Kamran know anything about wines?
I certainly didn’t, apart from that this one was going down very, very nicely indeed…
I squinted at the bottle in the wine cooler in front of me, trying to decipher what it actually was, but the label seemed to be upside down.
I lowered and turned my head almost 100 degrees but that just made me feel dizzy.
I righted my head and began scraping the remaining gorgeously gooey and stringy bits of cheese from around my plate with my fork but then caught Robyn’s eye who was looking across at me somewhat strangely.
‘Who invented Caesar salad?’ I mouthed across at her. ‘Who was it named after?’
‘Someone once had a dog called Caesar who nicked the salad…?’ Robyn mouthed back, and I started to laugh loudly at that while Robyn frowned, and several people, including Dean – finally distracted from the blonde – stopped eating and talking, turning heads in my direction.
Oops, I was being a bit loud. Talking too much.
Time to shut up. I poured myself more white wine, downed most of it, and tried to appear unaffected by the unused-to alcohol.
I stuck a beatific – reverential, almost – look on my face and gazed round at the other guests, nodding almost regally with solemn grandeur towards those who continued to give me funny looks.
The SS didn’t appear to want to include me in their conversation any more, if they ever had in the first place.
Anyway, it was all about gyms, dry robes (what the hell was a dry robe?) and something called Sirtfood which apparently involved eating foods high in polyphenols, such as red wine, dark chocolate and apples and which would magically make fat disappear.
Well, that sounded all right: I reached for the red wine, pouring a hefty amount onto the dregs of the white in my glass. Now, where was the dark chocolate?