wrinkled up his nose at her choice of words, which actually made Jennifer giggle for a second and broke the tension a little.
‘Muuuuuuuuuuuum,’ yelled Polly from upstairs. ‘I’ve got wee wee on my sock.’
‘Yours,’ said Max.
Jennifer tutted before turning on her heel, faintly wondering if she’d get away with quickly locking herself in the spare room, so she could finish what she’d started earlier. Hmm…probably not.
Half an hour later the doorbell rang meaning the people she couldn’t be bothered to see, let alone entertain, had arrived.
Taking a deep breath and summoning up a smile she opened the door.
‘Hello everybody, come in, come in,’ said Jennifer, ushering them all into the house and down the hallway. ‘It’s so lovely to see you all. Oh my look at James, hasn’t he grown and doesn’t he look so like you, Henry?’
‘He’s a chip off the old block all right,’ agreed Judith, immaculate as ever in tasteful navy, which she’d offset with funky ‘weekend’ jewellery and ballet pumps. ‘No questioning who his dad is.’
Jennifer agreed totally, because actually James really did look exactly like Henry, only given that he was only ten years old, looking like a gone-to-seed, middle-aged man wasn’t necessarily a good thing. ‘So how was your journey?’ Jennifer enquired brightly, snapping out of her reverie before anyone noticed her staring.
‘Fine,’ said Judith, kissing her on both cheeks and handing her a bottle of wine. ‘Sorry we’re a bit late. Work’s been sooooo manic this week I simply had to have a bit of a chill out this morning. I bet Max did too, we’ve literally been working like Trojans this week.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Jennifer, quite wanting to punch her.
An hour and a half later than planned, lunch was finally on the verge of being served up.
The children were all starving despite having been fed various ‘just to keep you going’ snacks and were getting fractious. Judith and Henry had polished off two entire bags of Kettle Chips and had already had an argument about who was driving home. Oscar, their eighteen-month-old baby, was having a sleep upstairs and they were well into a third bottle of wine. Meanwhile, Max was sucking up to Judith so much it was making Jennifer’s skin crawl. She herself was worryingly pissed given that she still had to get lunch on the table.
As Judith roared with laughter at yet another dull work anecdote of Max’s, Jennifer flinched. The way Max was giving her his undivided attention was grounds for jealousy quite frankly, only she couldn’t be bothered to make a fuss. Instead she just felt saddened that every time she tried to join in with a vaguely witty remark he barely looked in her direction. Perhaps she should get her tits out she thought wryly. Run round the kitchen with them jiggling about.
With little enthusiasm Jennifer replenished the crisp bowl (this time with Frazzles and Pom Bears instead of posh Kettle Chips—it was all she had left). As she did so she smiled weakly at dull Henry who was sat on a stool by the island like a fat useless turd. She was just about to ask him yet another question about how his work was going when she realised she didn’t care and couldn’t be bothered. So instead she turned her back on him, and bent down to open the oven to investigate what might be happening in there. As boiling hot air blasted her in the face, she realised she was one hundred percent, definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, drunk.
She was also glad, and a little bit smug, that for once she’d cut corners by picking up (on Karen’s recommendation) some small stuffed chickens from the local deli. Not having to cook a meat dish of some description meant all she’d had to do in theory was make the roast potatoes and cobble together a salad. So why did it all feel as stressful as though she’d been preparing a banquet for eighty under the same conditions as the Masterchef final?
Seconds later she emerged from the oven once more, red in the face, sweating, and clutching the ludicrously heavy tray in an oven glove only to realise that the island needed clearing before she could put it down.
‘Max,’ she called over, to where he was deep in conversation with Judith about something tedious.
‘Max!’
‘Hey, there’s no need to yell. What is it?’ he said, trying to sound like he wasn’t snapping when in fact that was exactly what he was doing.
‘Sorry,’ she said, not sorry at all. Her hands were practically on fire. ‘I was just wondering if you could clear a space for this. It’s very heavy,’ she grimaced.
‘Oh right,’ he said, finally realising her plight.
Once dumped on the side, one by one, Jennifer lifted the little chickens out of the roasting tray and onto the chopping board. They were less chickens really, more parcels of poussin, tied up with string and stuffed with pork and herbs. Jennifer immediately decided that she wouldn’t bother fobbing the meaty creations off as her own. After all, she’d never boned a piece of meat (fnar fnar) in her life and had certainly never been arsed to tie up anything you could eat with string.
‘Ooh, those look wonderful, Jennifer,’ said Judith, gliding over to have a look at what she was about to stuff her self-satisfied face with. ‘Aren’t you lucky, Max? That’s what comes of having a wife at home who’s got time to actually create things like this. Poor Henry is lucky if I remember to buy him a ready meal aren’t you?’
‘I do work,’ said Jennifer, probably a bit defensively.
‘Do you?’ said Judith, looking first surprised and then apologetic, as if she’d just realised her error. ‘Oh god of course you do, and it goes without saying that looking after children is probably the hardest job of all. I certainly wouldn’t have had another if I’d had to stay at home and look after them,’ she honked, loudly enough for her offspring to hear and therefore quite possibly need therapy in the future.
‘No, I mean, I do work. I have a job,’ explained Jennifer ‘And I look after the kids. I work at an estate agent’s on the high street three days a week.’
‘Oh god brilliant,’ said Judith lamely, ‘that must be really fun.’
Jennifer picked up the carvers and tried not to look menacing. She really needed to eat.
‘Those look good,’ said Henry, ambling over.
‘Right, well, why don’t you all sit down?’ ordered Jennifer with meaning, wanting them all just to get out of her face while she plated up. ‘Judith, get the kids sat down. We’ll do their plates first.’
‘Oh right,’ she said, looking startled at having been asked to do anything.
Jennifer didn’t care though. She was too busy trying to figure out if the chickens were definitely cooked through. To her alarm they looked a bit pinky inside and a bit…well…unappetising really.
‘So, what’s that then?’ Max asked, also looking mildly alarmed by the colour of the meat.
‘Oh, that’s just the pork they’re stuffed with. Don’t worry, it’s supposed to look like that,’ Jennifer assured him, secretly wondering if a night on the toilet lay ahead for them all.
‘They don’t carve very well do they?’ Max added, in a muted whisper.
