Page 57 of People Skills

‘You look really nice,’ he says, clearly not understanding the question.

‘No, I mean, is it appropriate?’

‘It’s just dinner. There’s no dress code.’

‘There’s always a dress code.’ Especially with Hillary.

‘I promise you, there is no dress code. You are free to wear anything.’

‘Okay, you wear your board shorts and a hoodie then,’ I say.

‘I will,’ he says, but he puts on a black T-shirt and jeans, and we walk out of the house together.

‘Where’s the hoodie and shorts?’

‘I couldn’t find them.’

‘Coward.’

‘Fine. You’re right. There is an unspoken dress code but I’m still not adhering to it because the first thing Mum will say to me is “Why aren’t you wearing a nice shirt?”’

‘And you’ll say?’

‘“I can’t live under the constraints of your suffocating expectations.” Or, “I’m sorry, it was in the wash.” One of those two things.’

I laugh, and then wince. The boots are hurting my feet.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘My boots are uncomfortable.’

‘Why did you wear them?’

‘Because they’re expensive and I feel like I shouldn’t wear cheap shoes for dinner in your mother’s house.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Unlike you, I enjoy living under the constraints of your mother’s expectations.’

‘You do not.’

As we approach Hillary’s door, I am limping a little and cursing Xavier for not letting me drive.

‘You’ll appreciate it when you can freely drink your way through this dinner, I promise,’ he says, when I complain.

‘Or you could’ve let me drink and you could have driven,’ I say.

‘No, we’ll both need the alcohol, trust me,’ he says, opening the door.

I follow him inside. The back half of Hillary’s house is a huge, high-ceilinged room—kitchen, dining and lounge combined. One side is a long wall of glass, overlooking an impressive deck and garden. She has big comfortable couches arranged around a working fireplace, then in the middle of the room there’s a sleek twelve-person wooden dining table, and then her kitchen, recently renovated with marble benchtops. (‘Be careful putting your glass down on the marble,’ she says to me whenever I’m here, because apparently the marble is so hard that it breaks her good glasses easily, and I look like the kind of uncouth person who doesn’t know how to handle real marble, which is both insulting and true.)

Tonight, her table is set with a white tablecloth, cloth napkins and a bowl of lemons in the centre of the table. I have been over to Hillary’s house several times to help her set up for a dinner party exactly like this, I have put lemons into that display bowl, I have laid out those napkins, and it’s slightly disconcerting that this time I am the guest and not the help.

I can see James sitting on the deck, talking with a man who has his back to us.

‘Welcome, darling,’ Hillary says, walking over to kiss Xavier on the cheek.

‘Hi, Mum,’ he says.