Chapter 14
We only get access to the school sports hall from 6pm because a Year 10 basketball competition is taking place immediately beforehand. This means that a crack team of parents has just one hour to transform the entire sweaty cesspit into ‘an intimate and atmospheric space.’ Those are the words of Denise Dandy, as part of the lengthy instructions she left on the WhatsApp group, like a turd on my doorstep, before disappearing to Paris.
I shouldn’t rise to this. But, given that she’ll be scrutinising any photos posted at the first opportunity, I am determined to make the place look like The Ivy. A bit of dim lighting should help; she doesn’t need to know about the lingering whiff of old trainers and armpits. Still, an hour, it turns out, is not a lot of time for such a transformation.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ says Jeff, taking off his coat and placing it on the back of a chair as he looks me up and down. ‘Love the outfit.’
‘First thing I threw on,’ I say, which is true, albeit this is a staple: wide-leg trousers from S é zane, white pumps and a satin shirt.
‘Oh, as if .’
‘Okay, you got me,’ I say. ‘I went for a full body massage this afternoon, had my hair and nails done, then I spent a looong time browsing my walk-in wardrobe to curate my outfit . . .’
‘Well, you look like it and that’s all that counts. Anyway, that’s enough compliments. We’ve got cheese to organise. What can I do?’
Jeff and I first met through our respective 10-year-olds, when they were much younger. His daughter has been one of Jacob’s best friends ever since his first week at juniors, when he came home and told me, ‘Bella has two dads and three cocker spaniels.’ I’m not sure which he’d considered the most impressive. I get on well with most of the parents around here, but Jeff is one of the few I’d consider a true friend, someone I’d go out of my way to spend time with even if we hadn’t been thrown together at the school gates.
He is an accountant, but that’s about the only boring thing about him, no disrespect to accountants. He is one of those rare men who turn more heads in their late forties than in their twenties, though even Jeff admits – proudly – that looking as good as him requires a lot of effort. He works out religiously, owns more cashmere jumpers than anyone I know and has an edgy haircut and immaculate goatee that he models on David Beckham.
‘The beer needs to be brought in,’ I suggest. ‘Unless you’d prefer to do the table centrepieces?’
‘Think I’ll give the flowers a go,’ he decides.
‘Great. There’s your material.’ I gesture to a bucket of foliage standing next to one of the chairs but he looks underwhelmed. ‘What am I supposed to do with a bucket of twigs?’
‘Hannah’s mum supplied them. They’re from some ornamental tree in her garden. She reckons she often arranges branches around a few tealights for dinner parties and they look lovely.’ He looks sceptical. I can understand why. ‘Admittedly, you might need to work a bit of magic.’
‘Who do you think I am, Harry Potter?’
‘Just do your best, Jeff.’ I pat his shoulder reassuringly and head off in search of some platters.
With half an hour to go before the guests arrive, the room takes on the frantic air of a Great British Bake-Off finale. As I’m trying to find someone to wash and dry the side plates, the double doors open. There, in the unforgiving sports hall glare, stands Zach Russo.
Good God. He actually came.
He’s wearing a monochrome sweater, cotton trousers and desert boots, that posh watch loose at his wrist. I wonder if this was the first thing out of his wardrobe too, because somehow it’s both nothing special and the perfect off-duty ensemble all at once.
I raise my hand and wave awkwardly. His face breaks into one of those heart-stopping smiles as he walks towards me. There are a few odd seconds in which I don’t quite know where to put my eyes, so I keep frowning down at my clipboard, as if there’s something terribly important on there. Yet my gaze is repeatedly drawn back up to him until he’s standing right in front of me.
‘Nice place,’ he says, looking about.
‘The hottest nightspot around right now.’
He laughs and a series of little lines fan out from his eyes.
‘What are you doing here? Seriously?’
‘I bought a ticket,’ he says, innocently.
‘I left the cash you gave me on your desk. Under your keyboard. I thought I’d made it clear that I had been joking about tonight. It was an off-the-cuff comment. I know you Americans aren’t supposed to understand sarcasm, but still.’
I’m teasing, though I wonder if he’ll realise.
‘I do know when someone’s being sarcastic. And patronising. But I had nothing better to do tonight. I’m the new kid in town and I know virtually nobody around here. And it was clearly the only way I was going to get to speak to you before you see Krishna. So, I thought, what the hell?’
‘You’re mad. I’m not going to be able to talk about work any time soon. I’m way too busy.’
‘I can see. It’s why I came early; thought you might need some help. I know how these things work.’
‘I doubt that, somehow,’ I say.
He stops and narrows his eyes, scrutinising my face.
‘Do you really not want me here?’ he says. I detect genuine hesitancy now. ‘Because if this is some kind of privacy infringement then . . . I don’t want to be that guy. And I’ll just go.’
I open my mouth to respond, without knowing exactly what I’m going to say, as one of the attractive Year 4 mums – Jessica or Sarah or somebody – passes by and touches Zach on the arm.
‘Could you come and help me with the wine crates? I can’t carry them all by myself. It’d be such a help. Follow me,’ she urges him.
Then she marches off in her skin-tight jeans, a thick ponytail of dark, glossy hair swishing behind her.
He looks back at me, waiting for a cue.
‘Don’t be silly, Russo,’ I say, nodding after her. ‘Roll up your sleeves and get stuck in.’