nestled between them slurping on his milk and tunelessly singing the ‘bum-bum song’, which he had recently composed. Normally she would feel flat and exhausted, but today was different.
Rosie was excited. Tonight Christy and Sandrine were visiting. Sandrine was travelling all the way down from Yorkshire and was going to stay for the next couple of nights. It was the first time they’d had people over for dinner, and Rosie had been planning it for days.
She’d bought lamb shoulder from the Village’s butcher. (A butcher!
Her
butcher. Recipe books always said ‘Ask your butcher’ and she’d always snarled back, ‘Where do you think I live? Little Snoring?’ But no longer.).
She’d been soaking chickpeas overnight to make her legendary (immodest but true) side dish from a recipe torn from a copy of the
Lady
in the GP’s waiting room. She was planning a huge tomato salad scattered with basil. They’d eat in Louis and Samantha’s conservatory with its views out over the garden, and laugh and talk and toast their new home and Rosie would be floating on air, with her children asleep upstairs and her oldest friends and her husband all together in her forever home.
Jake said, ‘Listen, Bean. Sorry to be a pain in the bum-bum, but I can’t be here this evening.’
Rosie’s insides turned cold: ‘Why not?’
‘This American agent is in town and he really wants to have dinner with me.’
‘But Christy and Sandrine are coming! You knew that.’
‘I know, I’m gutted. But I’ll be back in time to see them. I’ll just be out for dinner.’
‘See him another time.’
‘He’s only in town tonight. I really do need to meet him. He’s one of the biggest players in Hollywood. If he takes me on we could be talking sky’s the limit. Bean, I’d rather be here with you than with some American bore eating gluten-free and raising his eyebrows when I have a glass of wine, but that’s my job.’
‘I thought your job was prancing around pretending to be someone else. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’
‘Christy emailed me last night about it and I saw it when we’d just got back from your nanna’s and it was chaos getting the boys into bed. I meant to tell you, but I forgot.’
He was so transparent: he meant he knew he’d get into trouble, so he’d decided to ambush Rosie at the last minute, when it would be too late to rearrange. What was Christy thinking of? She knew she was coming over, so why arrange an appointment that would clash? But then maybe Christy had done it on purpose. Maybe she saw enough of Jake at work, and wanted girl-time for the three of them?
‘Off you go,’ she said crossly.
Jake beamed in relief. ‘You’re a star, Old Bean. Thanks for being so understanding.’
‘You didn’t give me a lot of choice,’ she mumbled.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’
In the afternoon, the boys played on the trampoline, without fighting too much, and Rosie cooked. By the time Jake headed off to Claridge’s, the house was filled with appetizing smells and she was feeling rather proud of herself. This was her new life as a roaringly successful hostess. First, Christy and Sandrine, next the whole of the Wendy’s mums for a buffet supper, then perhaps Simon Barry –
Twelfth Night
’s director and his German supermodel wife, Brunhilde von Fournigan – then Ellie Lewis and the rest of the cast, then the Obamas …
‘I wish I didn’t have to go out,’ Jake said again.
‘Oh, bugger off and have a lovely time.’ Rosie kissed him on the cheek. He’d shaved, which she always loved, his skin felt so soft and raw.
He put his hand on her bottom. ‘I wish no one was coming over. I wish I could just stay home alone with you.’
‘Get off.’ Rosie removed his hand. ‘You don’t want to be late for Mr Hollywood and I have to get the boys in the bath. Sandrine’ll be here any minute.’
‘Tell her I’ll see her in the morning. She can cook me a fry-up.’ He pulled an innocent face, at
Rosie was excited. Tonight Christy and Sandrine were visiting. Sandrine was travelling all the way down from Yorkshire and was going to stay for the next couple of nights. It was the first time they’d had people over for dinner, and Rosie had been planning it for days.
She’d bought lamb shoulder from the Village’s butcher. (A butcher!
Her
butcher. Recipe books always said ‘Ask your butcher’ and she’d always snarled back, ‘Where do you think I live? Little Snoring?’ But no longer.).
She’d been soaking chickpeas overnight to make her legendary (immodest but true) side dish from a recipe torn from a copy of the
Lady
in the GP’s waiting room. She was planning a huge tomato salad scattered with basil. They’d eat in Louis and Samantha’s conservatory with its views out over the garden, and laugh and talk and toast their new home and Rosie would be floating on air, with her children asleep upstairs and her oldest friends and her husband all together in her forever home.
Jake said, ‘Listen, Bean. Sorry to be a pain in the bum-bum, but I can’t be here this evening.’
Rosie’s insides turned cold: ‘Why not?’
‘This American agent is in town and he really wants to have dinner with me.’
‘But Christy and Sandrine are coming! You knew that.’
‘I know, I’m gutted. But I’ll be back in time to see them. I’ll just be out for dinner.’
‘See him another time.’
‘He’s only in town tonight. I really do need to meet him. He’s one of the biggest players in Hollywood. If he takes me on we could be talking sky’s the limit. Bean, I’d rather be here with you than with some American bore eating gluten-free and raising his eyebrows when I have a glass of wine, but that’s my job.’
‘I thought your job was prancing around pretending to be someone else. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’
‘Christy emailed me last night about it and I saw it when we’d just got back from your nanna’s and it was chaos getting the boys into bed. I meant to tell you, but I forgot.’
He was so transparent: he meant he knew he’d get into trouble, so he’d decided to ambush Rosie at the last minute, when it would be too late to rearrange. What was Christy thinking of? She knew she was coming over, so why arrange an appointment that would clash? But then maybe Christy had done it on purpose. Maybe she saw enough of Jake at work, and wanted girl-time for the three of them?
‘Off you go,’ she said crossly.
Jake beamed in relief. ‘You’re a star, Old Bean. Thanks for being so understanding.’
‘You didn’t give me a lot of choice,’ she mumbled.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’
In the afternoon, the boys played on the trampoline, without fighting too much, and Rosie cooked. By the time Jake headed off to Claridge’s, the house was filled with appetizing smells and she was feeling rather proud of herself. This was her new life as a roaringly successful hostess. First, Christy and Sandrine, next the whole of the Wendy’s mums for a buffet supper, then perhaps Simon Barry –
Twelfth Night
’s director and his German supermodel wife, Brunhilde von Fournigan – then Ellie Lewis and the rest of the cast, then the Obamas …
‘I wish I didn’t have to go out,’ Jake said again.
‘Oh, bugger off and have a lovely time.’ Rosie kissed him on the cheek. He’d shaved, which she always loved, his skin felt so soft and raw.
He put his hand on her bottom. ‘I wish no one was coming over. I wish I could just stay home alone with you.’
‘Get off.’ Rosie removed his hand. ‘You don’t want to be late for Mr Hollywood and I have to get the boys in the bath. Sandrine’ll be here any minute.’
‘Tell her I’ll see her in the morning. She can cook me a fry-up.’ He pulled an innocent face, at
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