Dinner Party

by Tracy Bloom

Genres: Humor & Satire; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Never has an unexpected guest caused such chaos! Three couples take it in turns to host a monthly dinner party. Beth, Sarah and Marie have been friends forever. Now they are grown up, with busy lives, busy husbands, busy kids… but they still find time to meet up over dinner once a month. A cosy, comfortable gathering of happy couples – or so they thought. Until one night, someone brings along a last-minute guest whose wife has just left him. Simon is standing on the doorstep in floods of tears. While the women do their best to console him, their husbands feel the need to mark their territory. And as Simon becomes more involved with the group, his presence changes everything these three couples thought they knew about each other, leading to a final dinner party that no-one will ever forget. From bestseller Tracy Bloom, Dinner Party is a funny and moving listen that will make you see your marriage and friendships in a whole new light… and make you think twice about inviting your best mates round for dinner. Perfect for fans of Marian Keyes, Nick Spalding and Gill Sims.

Release date: September 26, 2018

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

After she’d changed for dinner, Beth glanced in to the full-length mirror and the awful memory came flooding back to her as it always did. During her nursing training in her early twenties she’d attended a course where everyone was asked to think of a positive word to describe each other. A male colleague wrote CUDDLY in thick green marker pen on her piece of flipchart paper. Beth had laughed and smiled as he jovially put his arm around her but, really, she was devastated. There it was, confirmed in vibrant green ink, what she already knew. She wasn’t fat, by any means, but she certainly had curves. She knew she wasn’t ugly, but she was also very clear that she was no sex goddess. Her role in life was not to attract men. Her role was to comfort, console and support, not entice, allure or dazzle.

She’d never in her life turned a man down. Never needed to. Never had cause to use the words, ‘That’s very nice that you fancy me, but I’m sorry I just don’t fancy you.’ She watched people do it on dating shows. Reject someone with such boldness and confidence as though they did it every day. As though it came naturally that they thought they were better than them. She’d liked to have done it, just once maybe. Just to feel what it was like. She felt bad for all the beautiful women who got unwanted attention, she really did, and obviously she would never want a man to force himself on her but… but… she’d liked to have at least been able to say no, just the once.

Maybe she should have said it when Chris asked her to marry him all those years ago.

‘No,’ she mouthed in to the free-standing mirror from Argos that her work colleagues had given her for a wedding present. ‘No, thank you,’ she said, aloud this time just to see what it sounded like.

She looked in the mirror again. It took only a moment to confirm that she didn’t like what she saw. Her only saving grace was her line-free face, which at forty-five wasn’t bad going. However, she suspected it was the one benefit of being a bit overweight. It was the doughnuts that plumped her skin out, not a rigorous and expensive skincare regime.

She’d wanted to wash her hair as it looked limp and lifeless after her eight-hour shift on the ward that day, but she’d run out of time. She’d riffled fruitlessly through her wardrobe praying she’d find her one pair of smart trousers, but she knew they were laughing at her from the bottom of the ironing pile hidden in the cupboard in the utility room. The ironing pile that would fall on her head the minute she opened the door, tumbling over the mountain of shopping bags and the golf clubs that Chris never used but insisted could not be got rid of.

So, there she was in a pair of cream linen trousers that went with a suit she once wore for a wedding even though she knew it was high-risk. Cream linen, cooking and red wine was bound to result in a Jackson Pollock masterpiece down her front at some point. No question. But it was less risky than the jeans that didn’t fit and were fond of mysteriously letting the flies down or the black dress that needed scaffolding underwear so tight it would prevent her food intake from dropping anywhere below her belly button.

She would have to do.

Maybe she should have spent time putting some make-up on rather than cleaning the downstairs toilet. No, a clean toilet was more important than how she looked. Of course it was.

She slipped on some sensible shoes and ran downstairs. If she didn’t start grating cheese now, she would never be ready on time. She also knew that Chris would be roaming around looking for the obligatory pre-dinner dips and so trouble was looming.

He was going to be really upset that there were no dips.

Her husband loved his dips. Beth suspected if she gave him dips for every meal, then he would be as happy as a pig in taramasalata. It was everything she could do to stop him eating all the dips before their guests arrived when it was their turn to host the monthly dinner party. She’d learnt that the timing of the dips’ availability was crucial. She could only place the dip tray on the coffee table seconds before the doorbell rang or else Chris would wolf them down, leaving a few congealed smears of creamy substance along with an abundance of bendy carrot sticks. Chris thought crisps were the only way to scoop up a dip. A carrot spoilt a good dip in his opinion.

‘Where are the dips?’ shouted Chris from the living room as she ran down the hall and in to the kitchen.

‘We’re not having dips,’ she shouted back.

‘What!’

‘We’re not having dips.’

‘Why not? We always have dips.’

‘Because we’re having a fondue.’

Chris didn’t reply. Beth wouldn’t be surprised if Chris wasn’t this very minute searching under cushions to check for hidden dips.

‘Fondue?’ he questioned, arriving in the kitchen.

Beth looked up at him as she furiously grated cheese and fleetingly wondered if she could trust him to do a last-minute tidy of the hall. She quickly concluded that would be an error. A request like that would be met with as much astonishment and confusion as the lack of dips. Both situations were entirely unnecessary in Chris’s mind. A protracted explanation would be required to inform him how to tidy the hall to an acceptable standard and she knew it would be easier and quicker to do it herself. As always. How would he cope with grating cheese? she thought. Badly, she concluded. She grated even faster. Time was running out.

‘Tony rang and asked if I would make a fondue for Sarah’s birthday as she enjoyed them so much whilst they were skiing,’ Beth told him.

‘Was that the skiing trip with or without children?’ asked Chris sarcastically.

Beth glanced up at him. Chris hadn’t been impressed that Beth had agreed to look after Tony and Sarah’s six-year-old daughter whilst they went off for a much-needed ‘minibreak’ to the Swiss Alps.

‘You know very well they’re taking Chloe in half-term.’

‘So why can’t they have fondue then? And why does a fondue mean we can’t have dips?’

‘Because,’ said Beth, feeling her grating increasing along with her pulse, ‘dips wouldn’t go with fondue. Too much dipping.’

‘Too much dipping?’ he asked in wonder.

‘Yes. Dipping in goo, followed by more dipping in goo. Doesn’t work does it? Too much goo.’

‘Sounds bloody marvellous to me. There can never be too much dipping in my opinion. Shall I get out some peanuts?’

‘No.’

‘Popcorn then. What about popcorn?’

‘No! You are not giving them popcorn.’

‘But what will we do when they arrive? There’ll be nothing to eat,’ he said, sounding utterly horrified.

Beth paused the grating. She’d had enough of this.

‘Talk, drink, do the Macarena, I don’t bloody care. There does not need to be food shoved in their mouths the minute they arrive. You’re not a bird swooping back to the nest to feed her hungry chicks. You are, Chris, obsessed with dips, sulking tonight because there will be no dips.’

Chris opened his mouth as if he was about to disagree. Beth decided she’d better shut him up quick before she actually throttled him.

‘Can you check how many bottles of white are in the fridge?’ she asked.

He walked over to the fridge behind her and opened the door.

‘None,’ she heard him say.

‘What!’

‘None. There’s some milk, some orange juice, some—’

‘Do you think Jake and Toby have taken them,’ she interrupted. This was entirely feasible. At seventeen and nineteen, Beth’s sons were just at the going to ‘parties’ stage in their adolescence, which meant that prior to them leaving the house a near strip search was required to check what quantities of alcohol were being smuggled out.

‘No,’ replied Chris. ‘I let Jake take two tinnies with him and Toby is out with Poppy, so he’s in safe hands.’

‘So what did you do with the bottles you bought last night then?’ she asked.

‘What bottles?’

‘You said you were going to buy the wine on the way home from work yesterday.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes.’

‘I forgot.’

Beth considered using the cheese grater on a part of his anatomy. She turned to him without pausing her destruction of the Parmesan block.

‘Why are you still standing there?’ she demanded.

He stared back at her, confused. ‘Because you told me to check the fridge for wine.’

‘But you already knew there was no wine in there.’

‘I thought maybe you must have put some in.’

‘But then I’d know, wouldn’t I, and wouldn’t be asking you to check!’

She lifted the grater slightly, in preparation for rubbing it against his face.

‘Get in to the car and go down to the shop and buy some wine,’ she said as calmly as possible.

Chris stared back at her as though he thought this was a suggestion rather than a demand.

‘Now!’ she bellowed. ‘Or… I will not be responsible for what I do with this grater!’

‘Of course,’ he muttered, nodding vigorously before he trotted out of the kitchen.

Grating was now at hyper speed. A bead of sweat dropped off her forehead onto the chopping board, narrowly missing the Parmesan.

‘Shit,’ she cried as her knuckle scraped one of the sharp edges.

‘Have you seen the keys?’ asked Chris, poking his head around the kitchen door.

‘Blood,’ she said, holding her knuckles up to show him. ‘I’m literally shedding blood, sweat and tears for this dinner party and you want me to find your keys!’

‘No, don’t you worry, it’s all right. I’ll find them. You carry on with what you are doing,’ he said, disappearing again.

She could hear him in the hall, opening drawers and rustling coats, as she fought the urge to stop what she was doing, wash her hands and go and end the torture of listening to his version of ‘looking’ for something.

Ten minutes later, and after much huffing and puffing and running up and down stairs, Chris reappeared at the door. Beth had found a plaster and was hunting in the fridge for the Gruyère.

‘It’s all right, I’ve found them,’ he informed her. ‘In the en-suite!’ He laughed.

She didn’t look up. If he wasn’t out of the house within ten seconds she might actually kill him. She heard him walk to the front door then inexplicably he re-appeared in the kitchen just as she was subjecting the Gruyère to the grater.

‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Forgot to mention it, but I invited Simon to join us tonight. His wife’s just left him, so he’s a bit down. Needs cheering up. That’s all right, isn’t it? The more the merrier?’

Beth raised her eyes slowly to look at Chris. He was smiling at her, clearly oblivious to the ramifications of his invite. She’d only bought six steaks (she’d thought steak and a green salad would be a good follow-up to fondue) and made six individual lemon possets (light and refreshing, although now she’d made it she realised that she was dishing up yet more yellow goo. She could open up a great yellow restaurant at this rate!) and… and they only had six wine glasses that matched. What was Chris thinking inviting someone and forgetting to tell her? Who the hell was Simon anyway? She’d never even heard him mention a Simon, never mind his marital woes. Christ, they only had six fondue forks! This dinner party was on the brink of disaster… as usual… and no one had even arrived yet.

‘We can stretch the food, can’t we,’ Chris said. ‘Tell you what. I’ll buy some crisps and dips whilst I’m down at the Co-op, then we’ll be fine. See you later.’

Beth waited to hear the door slam, then threw the cheese grater across the kitchen.

JOURNALIST: So could you start by telling me how long you have been having your monthly dinner parties?

BETH: Well, let’s see. Bit of a tricky question that one actually. So, the six of us had been getting together over dinner for a few years. Ever since Sarah moved back to Morbeck really. But that all changed when Chris, that’s my husband, invited Simon over randomly one night to join us. None of the rest of us had ever met him before and little did we realise that the arrival of a new guest would ultimately change everything.

Sarah gazed in to her full-length French-reproduction gilt-framed mirror that was artfully leant against a wall in her bedroom.

‘Prada sample sale,’ she said aloud to herself. ‘Got it years ago, when I was head womenswear buyer for Dean & Delphi’s in London.’

Wow, that sounded good. Impressive. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to say that to someone? How she longed to be asked where she’d picked up this particular gem and for them to be actually interested. No chance of that though at tonight’s dinner party.

She fleetingly remembered the privileges she’d enjoyed at the peak of her career. Press launches, posh lunches, front rows at fashion shows and previews of designer sample sales, along with much more. There wasn’t much opportunity for any of that in Morbeck, a small market town in Leicestershire. It wasn’t that kind of place. It wasn’t even as good as it was when she was growing up there. Charity shops had replaced the dress shops, betting shops had replaced the gift shops and a Greggs was all you got in terms of cafe culture.

Tony had very kindly made sure when they bought their house together that there would be a dressing room for all of the fantastic clothes she had accumulated throughout her career in fashion. But nothing depressed her more than walking in and trying to decide which particular fabulousness was low-key enough to not stand out like a sore thumb amongst the hoodies and sweatpants of Morbeck.

She watched in the reflection in the mirror as Tony entered the room behind her. Her heart leapt slightly as it always did. He was fourteen years older than her and luckily age suited him. Age often seemed to suit men.

‘The babysitter’s here,’ he announced.

‘Great,’ she said, walking over to her dressing table so she could put her make-up on.

‘Is Chloe in bed?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Anna’s reading to her.’

‘Where’s Will?’

‘In his room.’

‘Have you told Anna that Will is here?’

‘Yes. She’s fine with it.’

She turned to look at him. He shrugged.

‘What can I do?’ he said. ‘I can’t make him babysit his half-sister, can I?’

Sarah turned back and picked up an eyeliner, lifting it to her left eye. ‘It’s Anna I’m worried about,’ she continued. ‘She must think it’s weird that your nineteen-year-old son is in the house and not capable of a bit of babysitting.’

She heard Tony walk to the chest of drawers and fish around for something. ‘Like I said, I can’t make him babysit,’ he repeated.

‘I just wish he wasn’t in the house, making it awkward for Anna,’ said Sarah.

‘She’ll be fine. I bet he won’t even come out of his room.’

Sarah sighed and tried to stop the inexplicable tears that had sprung to her eyes. She held her hand up to try to draw an even line along her eyelid and found that it was shaking. She took a deep breath. She’d not bothered with foundation as her skin glowed from the sun and wind of three days spent on the alpine slopes. She could, however, see tiny little lines at the corners of her eyes. She was sure they hadn’t been there before… well, before what happened last week.

‘This is for you,’ said Tony, suddenly appearing at her side. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

‘What?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘But you gave me a present this morning.’

‘I know, but I thought maybe you deserved an extra something this year.’

Because of what you did, she instantly thought. She reached out to take the small gift bag dangling on the end of a black velvet ribbon.

Jewellery – had to be.

It was.

A small square black velvet box. Oh God, a ring! She couldn’t bear it.

Suddenly Tony was down on one knee right beside her, just as he had been seven years ago in Val d’Isère. He’d taken his skis off at the top of the mountain and proposed there and then. He’d taken her totally by surprise. His divorce had only come through the week before. She thought she had never been so happy.

She looked down at him now as he gently took the box from her and opened it to show her.

‘It’s an eternity ring,’ he said quietly.

She remembered when she’d accepted his proposal that all she could think of was that she had never been so sure about anything in her life. She had to be, didn’t she? After all, such a hefty price had been paid. Tony’s previous marriage was the cost of her dream proposal.

She’d never meant to fall in love with a married man. She wasn’t that kind of girl. But perhaps nobody thinks they are that kind of girl.

He’d innocently popped up as a suggested friend on Facebook. He was friends with her eldest brother, but she hadn’t seen him since she’d escaped the clutches of the small market town at just eighteen to head off to university without a backwards glance. At the time, she wouldn’t have cared if she never saw Morbeck again, but somehow when you’ve lived in London for too long and done the whole amazingly successful career woman thing, followed by the hideously fruitless search for a nice, kind, loving man in the nation’s capital thing, there is massive appeal in seeking out your simpler past. And there he was. Tony. Married, settled, stable. What could hurt in sending him a friend request? Nothing. Totally innocent. Well, that was how it started.

It only took one comment, that was all. One connection sparked the entire chain of events.

It was a picture of Tony and his mates on a skiing holiday. She’d hovered. Then thought, sod it. She had to say something.

WOW! Looks amazing snow – where are you?

Then came the reply.

Morzine – you still ski? I remember your brother saying you were good!

And that was that. Connection made. Fast-forward through more Comments and Likes of photos, until apparently he had a meeting in London and would she care for a drink afterwards? Several drinks as it turned out, followed by confessions of an unhappy marriage, followed by an affair, followed by him leaving his wife, followed by a divorce, followed by a proposal on the top of a mountain on the second day of a ski trip.

Fast-forward a further seven years and here she was sitting in front of an antique dressing table in their sympathetically restored and modernised Georgian farmhouse in Morbeck. Married, a child of their own, stepmum to a monosyllabic teenager, a closet full of designer clothes but with absolutely nowhere to wear them. Her career had been left behind in London. Her sacrifice for love.

She looked at her husband, down on one knee, underlining her commitment.

She let the tears flow. At least she hadn’t got round to putting any make-up on. She had no idea why she was crying. She figured there were equal measures of joy and sadness. How confusing. How could one’s life be so bad and yet so good? How could you have everything and yet feel like you have nothing? There was a massive career-sized hole in her life that she was finding harder and harder to fill.

‘There’s no need to cry,’ said Tony, taking the ring out and slipping it on her finger. It fitted perfectly. Of course it did. Tony would have made sure of that.

‘It’s just so beautiful,’ sniffed Sarah.

‘There’s a surprise waiting for you at Beth’s too,’ he added.

‘Not another present?’ gasped Sarah. Please no more, this was only making her feel worse.

‘No. I just asked Beth if perhaps she would be able to do a fondue, seeing as we are celebrating your birthday tonight.’

‘You did what?’

‘Asked Beth if she would do a fondue.’

‘Does she even have a fondue set?’

‘I don’t know. I said if it was too much trouble it wouldn’t matter, but she said, no, no, not a problem. She’d be delighted. If it had been Marie’s turn tonight, then of course I wouldn’t have dreamed of it.’

Sarah snorted. They both knew that if he’d asked Marie, she would have willingly agreed before going totally over the top in a bid to provide the perfect fondue, giving herself a nervous breakdown in the process.

‘I knew we were in safe hands with Beth,’ said Tony.

‘Good old Beth,’ sighed Sarah. ‘She never says no to anyone.’

JOURNALIST: Can I ask what type of food you normally cook for your dinner parties?

BETH: Oh, just the usual really. My husband isn’t that adventurous with food. I did once do a fondue. That’s about as adventurous as I get. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done it though. If I’m honest, if I hadn’t done that fondue then Simon probably wouldn’t have tried doing a raclette and then maybe it never would have happened.

‘Can you call Beth and tell her we are having a no-carbs January?’ Marie shouted from the hallway as she surveyed her appearance in the full-length mirror right next to the front door. She couldn’t ever leave the house before a full inspection. There was no excuse for an appearance malfunction in this house.

She turned to look at her side view. Christmas didn’t seem to have done too much damage. The body-con dress was conscious of her body in all the right places. It’s a good job she had carried on going to the gym or else there was no way she would be rocking this look.

She looked down at her legs. Thankfully it was mild outside so no need for the dreaded tights, although that did mean she’d had to organise a quick spray tan to banish the pale glow. She knew Sarah would be turning up with her ‘ski-tan’, making Marie look even paler if she wasn’t careful. She briefly thought about Beth, who always looked pasty. Must be working in a hospital all the time without any natural light. Maybe she should give her a voucher for a spray tan for her next birthday.

‘What did you say?’ said Duncan, running down the stairs tucking his shirt in as he went.

‘Why aren’t you wearing the shirt I bought you for Christmas?’ she asked, horrified to see that her husband had picked the awful shirt his mother had bought him.

‘I… err…’ he said, ‘I tried it and it’s a bit small. It will fit though. After I’ve lost the Christmas weight.’ He slapped his middle-aged spread and dug his hands in his pockets.

‘You need to ring Beth and tell her we are having a no-carbs January,’ said Marie, turning back to the mirror and tweaking a few strands of her hair.

‘Surely . . .