Twenty-Five
The next morning, I’m up early, strangely excited for my parents to meet Sir John and for me to finally get to be honest about something. The sun is shining, and Mrs Jenkins has taken the request for a roast dinner in a few hours remarkably well. However, I ended up softening the request considerably to the point it seemed more like a plea to supervise me while I made the dinner.
At breakfast, Sir John is up and on his second cup of coffee, looking dapper in one of his less moth-eaten suits, but this time, he’s wearing his favourite ancient tie and shiny silver cufflinks of little, tall ships.
“Sir John! You look very smart!” I exclaim. He clears his throat, glares at me and goes back to his paper. I hope he’s a little more talkative with my parents. Fortunately, Mrs Jenkins is in a better mood, although as I start preparing the roast under her beady eye, her smile takes on a more rictus-grin quality.
“Have you ever peeled a potato before?” she asks cheerfully, having watched me wrestle with a Maris Piper for ten minutes and emerge the loser. I catch my breath and say slightly more aggressively than I should, “Yes. I think it’s this thing that’s the problem…”
“The potato peeler? Give it here, love.” Mrs Jenkins takes over and ploughs through the potatoes like a root-vegetable version of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre . I am assigned next to peeling the carrots – which proves as challenging as their fat cousins and almost costs me my finger. Two of the carrots don’t make it, thanks to spinning off the counter and disappearing under the fridge. Instead, Mrs Jenkins suggests it might be better for her to tackle them too, “now that I’m in the flow of peeling.”
“Should I do something with the joint?” I ask, glancing at the oven.
“No!” Mrs Jenkins says a little too sharply. “I mean, no, no – let it be. What would be a big help is if you can, erm…”
“Make the gravy?”
“No, no. Count out the vegetables, dear. So, we know we’ve got the right amount for four people. I’ll tell you what we need in terms of parsnips, cauliflower and the surviving carrots. You can make four piles.”
“Are you sure this is a real task?” I ask suspiciously.
“Oh yes. Very helpful,” says Mrs Jenkins soothingly.
The rest of the preparation goes smoothly – though for large chunks of it, I’m left sitting in a chair out of the way, counting things like the five-year-old Mrs Jenkins clearly thinks I am.
At 12:25pm, my parents arrive. It’s a good start, as Sir John abhors anyone who doesn’t abide by military precision. I can see they’ve also dressed to impress, my mum in a flowery dress, and my dad in his chinos, with a nice shirt and his loafers. Despite their reservations that he’s a sinister sugar daddy, they manage to greet him warmly.
“Lovely to meet you, Sir John,” Mum says in her speaking-to-Cheshire-gentry voice.
“A pleasure,” says Sir John, smiling, and I can’t help feeling relieved that he hasn’t just said harumph.
Things noticeably relax when I show my parents my self-contained flat within the house – as far removed from a sugar baby’s boudoir as you could get.
Two bottles of wine and four Sunday roasts later, miraculously, everyone seems to be getting on like a house on fire. So far, they’ve discussed agricultural politics (not something I could rise to join), their mutual love of the Lake District, and Sir John’s clay pigeon shooting trophies. It’s funny watching him talk to people he clearly considers adults, such as my parents, versus the way he deals with me and poor Mrs Jenkins, the help. I’m learning more about him from this lunch than I feel I have in weeks of living with him. We haven’t delved into the personal at all since our accidentally alcohol-fuelled brunch. But still nothing too personal. He doesn’t mention Laura or Ophelia, and my parents don’t ask about family. Is he too ashamed? My mind can’t help cycling back to this strange scandal in his past, but I don’t like thinking badly of Sir John, particularly when he is going to so much trouble to welcome my parents.
“Shall we have pudding, then?” he asks, summoning poor Mrs Jenkins without waiting for an answer. We all nod, and Sir John decrees that we should all have an Irish coffee to go with our desserts. The day has been an undeniable success, and the fact that I’ve managed to unravel this lie and tell my parents the truth has given me a bit of a boost at the prospect of coming clean to Ryan.