‘Hey, Mum, do you prefer white, dark or milk chocolate?’
‘Milk,’ I reply, looking up from my book. What is it with the weird questions today? ‘I mean, I like white too. Never dark. It’s a bitter waste of cocoa beans. Why?’
‘Um, we’re making this pavlova thing in home economics,’ she replies. ‘You like pavlova, right?’
My eyes narrow as I watch her hover, phone in hand. Last week she made basic scones in Home Economics; I’m pretty sure something as complicated as pavlova isn’t on the third-year curriculum.
‘I do,’ I reply. ‘Pavlova, huh? Who’s teaching the class, Michel Roux?’
‘Who?’
‘He’s a… never mind. Do you need money for the ingredients?’
‘Nope,’ she replies, smiling sheepishly. ‘School provides them. Thanks!’
‘Your Aunt Faith actually makes a mean pavlova!’ I yell as she darts back to her room. ‘Pretty sure she’ll give you some tips if you—’
I pause as the proverbial penny starts to drop. Faith does make a good pavlova. In fact, she made an exceptional one for her friend Rona’s birthday two years ago and she made me help carry it in.Birthday pavlova. I have a horrible feeling that she’s using my child as a pawn in her pavlova games. For a moment, I consider grilling Charlie until she tells me Faith’s plans. but I stop myself. She actually looked quite excited. Do I really want to be the mean, old woman who ruins her own birthday party? I go back to my book and hope that whatever they have planned, it’s painless and brief.
CHAPTER6
‘Faith, I hate your client launches. I’m always stuck talking to the other people who also hate your client launches.’
‘Oh, just come for goodness’ sake,’ she insists, sighing down the phone at me. ‘It’s free booze and Charlie’s with her dad. It’s not like you’re doing anything else.’
‘I could be doing something,’ I reply huffily. ‘You don’t know my life.’
God, she’s infuriating but correct. My only recent accomplishment is becoming the reigning Queen of Netflix.
‘Look, Victoria and Benjamin are coming. Besides, I fought hard for this client. They nearly went to Saatchi. It’s a big win for me. Their rum brand could be huge by next year.’
‘Fine, OK. But I’m only doing this because you’re emotionally blackmailing me… and, well, I like rum.’
‘Perfect. Half eight at the Blue Rooms. We have an hour and a half before they open the doors to the public. Your name’s already on the list.’
I haven’t been to the Blue Rooms in years, and quite rightly so – I’m almost forty. Still, maybe throwing on a dress and having a dance on a Friday night isn’t the worst idea in the world. I’ll leave before the twenty-somethings come in and start wondering who brought their mum. Vic’s husband, Benjamin, very kindly offers to drive. He drops Vic and I at the door while he parks the car in the nearby multistorey. When Victoria first started dating him, I thought they were a little mismatched. Her unique sense of style is far removed from his, which mainly consist of plain shirts, sensible ties and the occasional pullover when it’s chilly. I always thought she’d end up with some tech entrepreneur or a Ferrari-owning media mogul, but instead she fell for a gentle orthodontist with a Honda. It’s unusual to see him dressed down. For once, tonight he doesn’t look like he’s going to court; instead he's wearing a pale grey shirt and some jeans. Vic’s wearing a blue-and-black bodycon dress which was obviously designed to make women like me feel bad about themselves.
‘You look stunning,’ I say miserably. ‘I look like I should be busking outside Waverley station.’
‘Oh hush, you look great,’ she reassures me. ‘You’ve always suited that grunge look. I could never pull that off.’
I peer down at my black tea dress, matched with chunky ankle boots. It appears, for me, the nineties are still very much alive and well.
Benjamin joins us and we head inside, navigating the badly lit stairway to the private function area in the basement. It’s busy already, a blend of corporate types mixed with the target demographic of cooler, young professionals who’ve moved on from Smirnoff Ice and Bacardi Breezers.
‘Welcome to Red Rum’s launch night,’ greets a woman in a tight white T-shirt. I can feel the heavy bass from the DJ vibrating in my boots. She hands us tiny shot glasses of blood-coloured liquid as we move through the entrance. ‘Our full range is available behind the bar.’
Victoria immediately necks her shot, declaring that it’s ‘effing awful.’ She then does the same with Benjamin’s drink because he’s driving and it would be a shame to waste it. I hold off and decide to mix mine with a Coke.
‘You guys grab some seats,’ I suggest. ‘I’ll head to the bar. Want anything?’
‘Soda and lime,’ Benjamin requests. ‘You want a beer or something honey?’
‘Better not mix,’ Vic replies. ‘Though I need something to wash this god-awful taste away. I’ll stick to spirits. Just a G&T please, Nora.’
I don't know the track the DJ is playing but it still makes my head bop as I push my way into the bar queue. I try to catch the barman’s eye but to no avail. I’m not even on his radar. God, I feel old. Twenty years ago, I would have flirted my way to the front of the queue, now I have to jostle for my place with every other loser.
I spot Faith at the end of the bar with a tall woman in a coral jumpsuit, who appears to be hanging off her every word. She waves to me before signalling that she’ll be five minutes. I’m always a little in awe when I see Faith working. Unlike me, she is incredibly professional and there is a charisma that radiates from her. It’s electric. She’s the only person I know who can stand beside someone in a garish coral jumpsuit and still be the one you’re immediately drawn to.
