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Emmett’s huddled over the dining table when I arrive, laptop open, notebooks and papers placed strategically around his makeshift workstation.
“Your wife’s trusting me with trifle duty,” I tell him as I shrug out of my jacket before draping it over the back of a chair.
Emmett was here when I arrived a couple of hours ago, so we’ve already done the welcome hug thing. Now, he just removes his glasses and smirks. “You agreed to this?”
“It’s Josie. She didn’t give me a choice.”
Emmett scoffs. “Oh, brother. The consequences of failing such a task will be catastrophic. I’m worried for you.”
“Hey, I can cook. Besides, she’s left instructions on the fridge, apparently.” As I say it, I head to the fridge to check, scan all the scraps of paper and various pieces of children’s artwork stuck on by magnets. “Here we go.” Glossing over the method Josie has written out on the back of an envelope, I decide it’s going to be easy. “Be the best damn trifle you’ve ever had.”
“For your sake, I hope it is.”
My eyes narrow at my brother, despite the fact his glasses are back on and his attention has returned to the laptop. It will be the best tasting trifle because I’m going to spend the rest of the day doing nothing else but making it. For the next few hours, I will focus solely on trifle. I will think only of jelly and custard and sherry-soaked sponge. That’s it. Trifle. Nothing and nobody else. Trifle.
The best trifle.
I fucked up the trifle. It was the custard that did it. I followed Josie’s recipe to the letter, but her scrawls on the envelope mentioned nothing about giant lumps forming in the pan. I started again, then again, repeating the process from scratch four times before eventually running out of cornflour. No problem, I thought. Tossed a couple of readymade tins in instead. Only now Josie’s looking at me like I topped the custard with a pint of my own piss.
“Tinned custard doesn’t set, Laurie. We can’t take that and have them serving trifle soup for dessert. Bloody hell.”
“The other shit was lumpy,” I protest for the umpteenth time.
“Did you even bother to whisk it?”
I don’t answer that. She heard me the first twelve times. “Well, maybe we add something else to cover it? Swap out some cream for, I dunno, more jelly or something.”
Josie huffs. “That’s about as useful as shitting your pants and changing your shirt, Laurie.”
Great. My trifle is being compared to literal faeces. I worked bloody hard on it, too.
“I really think they’ll understand,” I suggest instead. “They won’t be expecting anything. Plus, you can say it’s all my fault.”
“It is all your fault,” she snaps before turning to my brother. “Emmett, check the cupboard for pistachios. I’ll whip up a batch of biscuits.”
Rolling my eyes, I pick up my bowl of hard work from the worktop and take it over to the bin. However, as my foot pushes on the pedal to open it, Josie flies to my side, grabbing the trifle from my hands. “What are you doing? We don’t waste good food in this house.”
“You’ve literally spent the last fifteen minutes telling me what a mess I made of the damn thing!”
She slams the fridge door, locking my trifle inside. “I didn’t say it was inedible, just that it isn’t good enough to give as a gift. Your dad will enjoy a nice bowl o’ that after dinner tomorrow.”
“Whatever.” I’ll never understand women. I’m the same with my mother. Sister, too. Maybe that’s why I’m gay. “I’m going to get ready.”
At some point this afternoon, it became apparent that I am going to the Walkers’ holiday cottage tonight. I’m not sure how I came to the decision, or even if I made it myself. As my family started returning from work, filtering into the house one by one, each member talking about the event as if it was some great party that I couldn’t possibly miss, I knew arguing wasn’t worth the hassle. It’s easier to get out of events that Andy has me contractually obliged to attend than kick up a fuss with my family. At least, I think that’s why I’m going. That’s what I’m telling myself. I’m trying to ignore the niggling and rather insane curiosity I find myself having towards William’s wife.
Sometimes, I do wonder what she looks like. What I’m competing with. It would be a lie to say I haven’t imagined them together, wondered how they interact. Does she make him laugh? Does he look at her like he does me? I know he lets her touch him in places I’ve only dreamt of. They’ve got children, after all. For that, I almost hate her…which is senseless and selfish. Still, part of me is eager to put a face to my jealousy.
