Chapter 18
SAMMIE
Cooking dinner for everyone seemed like a great idea – until we started actually trying to throw something together.
The plan was simple really: cook up a storm, keeping the love’s young dream illusion alive, lulling our parents into a comfortable security with each other while simultaneously trying to outdo their affection for each other.
That way, they’d be sick of us, happy to stay together without us, and tell Nico and me that we’re free to leave – or, go somewhere alone together, leaving Nico here, and I’m free to leave.
Either result would be a victory for me.
It is a terrible plan.
‘Right,’ I say, standing in the galley with my hair tied back, sleeves rolled up and the most determined look on my face that I can muster.
Nico leans against the counter opposite me, holding a packet of spaghetti in one hand and a courgette in the other.
‘Is pasta a bit… simple?’ Nico asks.
Luckily our parents are dressing for dinner, so we don’t have to give off an air of perfection just yet.
‘Unless you have soufflé skills, it will have to do,’ I say snippily.
‘Should we not have courses? Make it decadent…’
‘I bought profiteroles,’ I tell him. ‘And, if you think we need a starter, you could slice some mozzarella and some tomatoes, use some of the basil, make a caprese salad. I don’t think you can start any fires doing that.’
‘Don’t listen to my dad – I have a perfect fire safety record,’ he replies. ‘So salad, bread, pasta, dessert – covered, right?’
‘And the wine,’ I remind him.
‘I’ve got a bottle of Ruinart chilling, to start the evening off, and a nice bottle of white to go with the meal,’ he says. ‘We make a pretty decent team in the kitchen.’
‘Yeah, easy to say when you’re not the one actually doing the cooking,’ I point out.
I look at the ingredients, trying to figure out what order to do things in. Well, if I were doing this at home, step one would almost definitely be ‘open the jar’.
We have pasta, tomatoes, garlic, prawns, basil, lemons, olives, bread, a block of parmesan, two courgettes and an aubergine. To make a sauce, you basically just bung it all in a pan and simmer the life out of it, right? I can do that.
‘So, spaghetti in tomato sauce with prawns,’ I say. ‘Bread on the side. Easy, right?’
Nico stares at me.
‘What?’
‘If you say it’s easy, then yeah, easy,’ he replies.
He puts the courgette down, then moves to the drawer where the knives are stored.
‘Okay, boss, tell me what to do,’ he says.
‘You crack on with the starters, I’ll set about the sauce,’ I reply. ‘Wash the tomatoes,’ I remind him.
‘Yes, chef,’ he replies. ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t wash them?’
‘I know you like to live dangerously, so you never know, maybe you’re gung-ho about stuff like that.’
‘Well, I’m not, so please cook my prawns fully,’ he replies.
‘Yes, chef,’ I say, mocking his voice.
The kitchen is not really built for two people to cook at the same time.
It’s probably designed for one competent person to move neatly through a small space, not for two clowns with no idea what they’re doing.
Every time I turn, Nico is there. Every time he reaches for something, I’m in the way.
We move around each other in awkward half-steps, apologising and then immediately undoing the apology by bumping hips, shoulders, elbows – at one point our entire bodies collide, slapping together.
‘Sorry,’ he says.
‘Quite all right,’ I say ever so formally.
‘I need the olive oil,’ he says.
‘Be my guest.’
We separate again, Nico grabbing the bottle of oil, taking it back to his post.
‘They’re a little thick,’ I say, noticing the slices of tomato he’s prepared.
‘They’re fine.’
‘They’re like four centimetres thick,’ I reply. ‘Half that would be plenty.’
‘Focus on your sauce,’ he says.
‘It’s simmering and it’s perfect,’ I tell him. ‘Here, let me help.’
I take a tomato from the bowl, set it on the board and demonstrate.
‘Like this.’
‘Wooow,’ he says sarcastically. ‘Can you do it again? In fact, can you do it all, if you’re so much better at it…’
‘Do it for you, essentially,’ I clap back.
He shrugs.
‘You’re the one who thinks I’m messing it up.’
‘How about you open the champagne,’ I suggest. ‘I’m sure even you can’t mess that up.’
Nico grabs the bottle from the chiller while I chop the tomatoes.
It’s hard to say exactly how things go so wrong so quickly.
I suppose Nico is standing behind me, and I’m not expecting the cork to pop so loudly, right as I’m chopping a tomato.
I almost chop my finger off, somehow quickly whipping my hand away at the last second, but as I do I jolt backwards into Nico, who falls forward, grabbing something to steady himself…
instead he smacks the saucepan handle with his hand, sending sauce flying everywhere. Shit.
‘Wow,’ he says after a few seconds of silence. ‘My dad does say my failure rate in the kitchen is 100 per cent… Glad to keep the record going, I guess.’
‘I mean, there’s no salvaging this, is there?
’ I say softly. ‘Because, even if we did have enough ingredients left, we definitely don’t have enough time.
I feel like all we’ve really done is proven that we’re shit adults, that we need our mummy and daddy – this isn’t how we earn our freedom, is it? ’
‘Hmm,’ he replies, thinking it over. ‘Reckon you can clean this up?’
‘Bloody charming,’ I blurt. ‘Technically you knocked it over.’
‘Technically you shoved me into it,’ he replies. ‘But what I mean is, if you can clear it up, destroy the evidence, then I can run out and grab us a takeaway. We can pass it off as our own cooking. They won’t know.’
‘If it’s good, they’ll know,’ I reply.
‘They’ll be so happy we’re getting along, they won’t even question it,’ he insists. ‘What do you think?’
‘Okay, fine, run out, I’ll clean this up,’ I tell him.
‘I know the perfect place,’ he says. ‘Stick the pan on the hob, whack the lid on it, and if Dad and Chrissy come in just send them outside for the champagne and tell them it’s still cooking – say I’m getting ready. I’ll sneak back with the food.’
‘This will work, right?’ I say.
‘It has to,’ he says with a smile. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Nico dashes off to do, arguably, the fun bit, while I stay here and tidy. To be fair though, his bit sounds more athletic, so rather him than me.
I scrape as much as I can into the bin and then make a start cleaning up the worktops and the floor. Then I light candles on the deck, next to the open bottle of champagne and glasses. I don’t pour them – I’ll have Hank do that.
‘Wow, something smells amazing in here,’ Mum says as she and Hank enter the room.
‘Thanks,’ I reply – it actually does smell incredible, it’s a shame we’ll never get to try it. ‘I’ve got a bit left to do, so head outside, grab some champagne. Nico is just having a shower, he’ll be out in a minute.’
‘Okay,’ Hank replies. ‘So he didn’t cause chaos in the kitchen?’ he checks.
I cackle out a laugh.
‘Of course not,’ I say – because technically it was a team effort.
I step out onto the deck with the starters because if the food is going to arrive hot, better they start eating this.
Mum looks up from where she is sitting beside Hank, both of them glowing in the golden evening light, looking like a picture from a brochure for the yacht.
‘Everything all right?’ she asks.
‘Wonderful.’
‘You look warm,’ she says.
‘Yeah, cooking in there, it’s steamy,’ I insist.
‘Are you sure it’s just from cooking?’ Hank says, wiggling his eyebrows.
I laugh awkwardly.
‘Anyways, enjoy your starters, Nico and I are finishing up the main, so we’ll eat ours in there,’ I lie.
‘What are we having?’ Mum asks.
That’s a very fucking good question, because I have no idea until I see what Nico returns with.
‘Wait and see,’ I say mysteriously.
I head back inside as the other door opens. Nico appears carrying a large serving platter of grilled fish and roasted vegetables – arranged so beautifully that we would do well to move it over to one of our plates and rough it up a little.
‘Life saver,’ I tell him. ‘This looks amazing.’
‘Come on, let’s get it out there, before it goes cold,’ he replies.
He looks warm too, probably from running – I hope Hank doesn’t say anything, because I know where his mind is.
‘Dinner is served,’ Nico announces as he places the plate down in the centre of the table.
Hank gives him a knowing look but doesn’t say anything.
‘It looks lovely,’ Mum says. ‘But, do we have knives? We only have forks and spoons.’
‘Sorry, my bad, I got distracted,’ Nico says. ‘The spoons are for dessert – I’ll get the knives.’
‘Distracted, eh?’ Hank calls after him.
I criiiinge.
But… you know what? It’s worked. We all sit down together and eat. Mum and Hank compliment the food, Nico and I joke around together, bounce off each other, up the cuteness.
Is this pivoted plan actually going to work? Because it seems like it.
‘This really is delicious,’ Mum says.
‘Thank you,’ I reply.
‘It was all Sammie,’ Nico says, squeezing my hand above the table. ‘She smashed it.’
‘I knew it wouldn’t have been you,’ Hank says with a laugh.
‘Actually, Nico made a great sous-chef,’ I inform him. ‘Turns out, in the kitchen, we come together nicely.’
The second the words leave my lips I realise my mistake.
Mum clears her throat.
‘That’s what I was worried about,’ Hank replies. ‘So long as you wash your hands…’
Sooo awkward. But, if it’s working, I can stomach it for a little longer.
Against all odds, it’s going great. Everyone seems happy, comfortable (or pretending they are, in my and Nico’s case).
The food is great – as it should be; a chef made it – the conversation is flowing, Nico is keeping the glasses topped up. We’re actually having a great time which… Is that part of the plan? They’re supposed to have a good time, but they’re supposed to want us to leave them to it.
Nico has his hand on the back of my neck.
He’s massaging me and, truly, it feels amazing.
I’m a little tense from the cooking, and the stressing, but his touch is so soothing.
I can’t help but lean into it, and the weirdest thing is how natural it feels, how okay I am with his hands on me now.
The lying is coming so easily now too – even I forget when I’m bullshitting and when I’m serious.
One thing that is definitely very real is our teamwork. Yeah, okay, we make chaos together, but we put things right too. Neither of us alone could have pulled off the dinner switcheroo. I buried the bodies, and he secured our cover story. We nailed it.
‘This was so thoughtful,’ Mum says, reaching across to squeeze my hand.
I do feel a little guilty… but why? Okay, so my feelings for Nico might not be real, and we didn’t strictly make every part of the dinner, but the great night was totally genuine.
Hank looks between Nico and me.
‘You make a good team,’ he tells us.
Nico’s knee brushes mine under the table. An accident, I think, unless it was a little victory nudge.
‘It’s a shame it wasn’t a romantic dinner for two, hmm?’ I prompt them. ‘If you two want more time alone, we could…’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Hank insists. ‘You two made this evening what it is.’
‘But you can get good food like that from a restaurant,’ Nico points out, keeping a straight face. ‘You must want some time alone…’
‘Honestly, I’m loving having you both with us,’ Mum says. ‘It’s such a beautiful moment, when you realise your kids are all grown up, that you can socialise with them like friends.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Hank says. ‘I’m proud of you, son. And, Sammie, you’re a credit to your mum.’
Hank turns to my mum and gives her a big smile.
So… let me get this straight… the plan hasn’t worked. In fact, if anything, it’s made them want to spend even more time with us. Shit.
Still, it’s hard not to smile. I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed myself too, even when it was just me and Nico – the move with the takeaway? Genius. I got a real buzz out of the two of us getting away with it.
I guess he’s not all bad… but it’s back to the drawing board as far as the plan goes.