“How come you’re so chipper? You did your usual vanishing act, I noticed. You missed the orange game—again!”
Jo’s parties frequently ended with the orange game: you had to pass an orange from one guest to another without using your hands. Inevitably, since by this stage guests were seeing double at least and had little balance left, the orange would get stuck in someone’s cleavage, and so much upper-class hooting would ensue that you’d think a flock of Canada geese had landed. It was a good way of checking who was safe to drive, and I found you could win quite easily by hiding your own orange somewhere about your person—no one ever checked.
“I, er, had to pop out …”
“You always
do
.” Jo winked and patted the duvet next to her. “Come and fill me in about what happened while I was running around after Marigold. Who had the best outfit? Did you see Julian’s ?”
“Julian?”
“Julian Martin. He was dressed as Gordon Ramsay.”
“With the bloody jacket?” I said, trying to remember which one that was. “Or am I thinking of the evil dentist guy? They’re so easy to mix up, evil dentists and evil chefs.”
“Which means he made no impression on you at all.” Jo sighed. “Fine. What about Max? I spotted you chatting to him by the kitchen.”
Things hadn’t gone well with Max, who’d arrived shortly after I’d floated back in after my moment with Leo. He seemed intent on describing the entire plot of a film he’d just seen, and I was hardly able to concentrate as it was, and in the party crush, Max thought I’d said I was from Grenada instead of that I was a gardener, so I’d spent fifteen confusing minutes desperately trying to answer questions about some beach holiday he’d been on, and then he’d given up and left.
I took a long time spreading Marmite on my toast while I worked out which bits of this I could convey to Jo without being rude about one of her friends. I didn’t like being rude. My family was of the straight-talking variety, which was probably where my tongue paralysis under pressure originated; I’d rather the stunned silence came from me than the horrified second party.
“You can be honest, Amy,” Jo pressed, her eyes alight with encouragement. “I know Max isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s a lot of fun once you get past the red trousers. He likes dogs! And he won’t make you go skiing because he’s a
terrible
skier …”
“Jo. It’s never going to happen with Max.” I speared a sausage and decided to be truthful. “I just can’t talk to him. He makes my mind go blank. I can’t think of a thing to say to him.”
“Max? But he’s easy to talk to!” She seemed surprised.
“He’s easy for you to talk to, yes. You’ve known these people for years. I have zero conversation to make about horses, or tennis.”
“You’re being chippy.” She wagged her toast at me. “Don’t be chippy.”
“I’m not, I’m being honest.” A faint, warm wave of last night’s magic rippled through me. “I just think when you meet the right person, conversation isn’t an issue. It just … happens.”
“Fine,” said Jo. I could tell she hadn’t given up, though. She was just planning a different approach. “What about Dominic? Did you meet Dominic? The rower?” She mimed someone rowing, adding a broad smile to indicate his perfect dentistry, or possibly a history of emotional instability.
I cut my sausage in two and bit into it. “Jo, seriously. It’s like I said yesterday, you don’t have to keep trying to set me up. What if I dated someone and we fell out? I don’t want it to spoil our friendship. And I’m not going to meet Mr. Right if I’m on a blind date with Mr. Wrong.”
“You never go on any dates! And you totally deserve one. Look at this amazing breakfast! I know men who’d marry you for this alone. Plus it would make your life so much easier.”
“What do you mean, easier?”
Easier? Didn’t she
Jo’s parties frequently ended with the orange game: you had to pass an orange from one guest to another without using your hands. Inevitably, since by this stage guests were seeing double at least and had little balance left, the orange would get stuck in someone’s cleavage, and so much upper-class hooting would ensue that you’d think a flock of Canada geese had landed. It was a good way of checking who was safe to drive, and I found you could win quite easily by hiding your own orange somewhere about your person—no one ever checked.
“I, er, had to pop out …”
“You always
do
.” Jo winked and patted the duvet next to her. “Come and fill me in about what happened while I was running around after Marigold. Who had the best outfit? Did you see Julian’s ?”
“Julian?”
“Julian Martin. He was dressed as Gordon Ramsay.”
“With the bloody jacket?” I said, trying to remember which one that was. “Or am I thinking of the evil dentist guy? They’re so easy to mix up, evil dentists and evil chefs.”
“Which means he made no impression on you at all.” Jo sighed. “Fine. What about Max? I spotted you chatting to him by the kitchen.”
Things hadn’t gone well with Max, who’d arrived shortly after I’d floated back in after my moment with Leo. He seemed intent on describing the entire plot of a film he’d just seen, and I was hardly able to concentrate as it was, and in the party crush, Max thought I’d said I was from Grenada instead of that I was a gardener, so I’d spent fifteen confusing minutes desperately trying to answer questions about some beach holiday he’d been on, and then he’d given up and left.
I took a long time spreading Marmite on my toast while I worked out which bits of this I could convey to Jo without being rude about one of her friends. I didn’t like being rude. My family was of the straight-talking variety, which was probably where my tongue paralysis under pressure originated; I’d rather the stunned silence came from me than the horrified second party.
“You can be honest, Amy,” Jo pressed, her eyes alight with encouragement. “I know Max isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s a lot of fun once you get past the red trousers. He likes dogs! And he won’t make you go skiing because he’s a
terrible
skier …”
“Jo. It’s never going to happen with Max.” I speared a sausage and decided to be truthful. “I just can’t talk to him. He makes my mind go blank. I can’t think of a thing to say to him.”
“Max? But he’s easy to talk to!” She seemed surprised.
“He’s easy for you to talk to, yes. You’ve known these people for years. I have zero conversation to make about horses, or tennis.”
“You’re being chippy.” She wagged her toast at me. “Don’t be chippy.”
“I’m not, I’m being honest.” A faint, warm wave of last night’s magic rippled through me. “I just think when you meet the right person, conversation isn’t an issue. It just … happens.”
“Fine,” said Jo. I could tell she hadn’t given up, though. She was just planning a different approach. “What about Dominic? Did you meet Dominic? The rower?” She mimed someone rowing, adding a broad smile to indicate his perfect dentistry, or possibly a history of emotional instability.
I cut my sausage in two and bit into it. “Jo, seriously. It’s like I said yesterday, you don’t have to keep trying to set me up. What if I dated someone and we fell out? I don’t want it to spoil our friendship. And I’m not going to meet Mr. Right if I’m on a blind date with Mr. Wrong.”
“You never go on any dates! And you totally deserve one. Look at this amazing breakfast! I know men who’d marry you for this alone. Plus it would make your life so much easier.”
“What do you mean, easier?”
Easier? Didn’t she
Similar Books
