The Name I Call Myself (3 page)

I thought about the HCC function room and its stuffy decor. The fussy menu full of food most people had never tried, and never wanted to. The strict dress code, the ban on children, the uncomfortable chairs. The fact that some there knew I had once been “staff” and now seethed at my crossing over to become one of
them.
Ugh. Dress. Service. Reception. I didn't know which one of the current non-fantasy plans I hated most.

Marilyn gazed out over the water as a barge glided by, slow and easy. She looked as though she wanted to hop onto that boat. I wished I could join her. “This is it, Faith. It's
you.
”

I hugged her, vainly attempting to hide my tears. It was not me. It was the me I wished I could one day be. And now almost certainly never would.

Marilyn dropped me off at Perry's house on her way home. After keying in the security code to let myself into the gated mini-mansion, I found him pacing up and down the sitting room, blond hair standing up on end where his hands had raked through it.

“For goodness' sake, Faith. Where have you been? I was worried sick.”

“I was out with Marilyn. Wedding shopping. Why didn't you call me?”

“Your phone was off.”

Ah yes. That would be because I had turned it off, in order to enjoy my fake wedding plans in peace.

“Sorry. But I'm a big girl. I do go out by myself sometimes. You don't have to worry.”

“Yes, well, I
am
worried. Dedicoat can't make Saturday. He's coming to finalize the Baker deal tonight.”

I felt as though a shard of ice had been rammed down my windpipe. Perry had been working on the Baker deal for ten months. I'd agreed to cater a dinner party for Perry and his colleague Eddie, to soften up the notoriously hard-nosed business guru Lucas Dedicoat before they signed on the dotted line. “What time are they coming?”

“Seven.”

“Are you still expecting me to cook?”

“Well, yes.”

“I haven't got the ingredients yet. I mean, it's all planned out but I need a trip into Newark, and to the farmer's market. The berries need to soak up the liqueur overnight. I could ditch the dessert, make something simple instead, and rethink the mains… But an hour and a half! And you never have anything in the fridge. You should have called me… you did call me but my phone was off. Oh, pants. Do you think a take-away would do?”

Perry sighed. “No. A take-away will not do. You used to work in a Michelin-starred restaurant. Can't you rustle up something?”

“I guess I'll have to try. But I really need to shower and I'm not exactly dressed for a dinner party.” I looked down at my casual skirt and T-shirt. “I can probably find time to brush my hair, but that's it. Can you sort the dining room? Get some wine opened?” I looked around the room, at Perry's shoes kicked off by the sofa, an empty beer bottle and crisp crumbs littering the glass coffee table. This morning's newspaper was in pieces all over the rug, and various other man detritus lay scattered throughout the ground floor.

“What time did you get in from work? Have you been sitting around waiting for me?” I waved my hand across the mess, and Perry smiled, a glint in his eye. He quickly crossed the living room and wrapped his arms around me, firmly kissing the top of my head. “I've been waiting for you my whole life. And you're really sexy when you're up against a challenge. I know you'll do something incredible.”

Two hours later, after thirteen emergency texts to Marilyn on posh business deal-making dinner party etiquette, I was hiding in the vast kitchen, trying to arrange on a serving tray six goat's cheese soufflés that neither tasted like goat's cheese nor looked like soufflé. I had cobbled together a meagre salad out of a few carrots, an old, soft beetroot, and some frozen French beans. A sort-of paella bubbled on the stove, again full of mainly frozen ingredients and a packet of
instant spice mix. I picked up the tray just as Perry poked his head in at the door. “What are you doing? We'll have no time to discuss the deal if we don't eat now.”

“I'm doing my best.” Perry looked at me, at my face mimicking the beetroot, my crumpled skirt, and unwashed hair. My eyes, no doubt wild-looking and bloodshot, scrunched shut. It was only a matter of time before Perry Upperton realized my best was not good enough.

He took three strides into the kitchen, and placed his hands either side of my face. Leaning down to kiss me gently, he murmured, “You look so gorgeous, all steamed up and dishevelled. Don't worry about the food. Dedicoat's girlfriend just told us she likes fried chicken because it's fun to eat out of a bucket, and all Eddie's interested in is getting this deal done. Just come and sit down, try to enjoy yourself.”

I would have enjoyed myself more had I been eating cold baked beans out of the tin, hiding in the back of a musty wardrobe. I know this to be a fact, because I have done it.

“So.” Five minutes later, Eddie's wife Fleur gave up pretending to nibble her soufflé. “You're the one who finally managed to tame Perry Upperton. Wherever did he find you?”

I took a deep breath, but before I could reply, Perry answered. “We met at HCC. About two years ago. But it took more than half that to persuade her to come for dinner with me.”

“Really? How fascinating. You're a member of the Club?” Her eyes flicked across my faded T-shirt and back to my never-been-facialled face.

“Yes.” I am now. It was an engagement present. I think my in-laws-to-be probably bribed someone to let me in.

“How very old-school. Are your family from around here?”

“My mum grew up in Brooksby. How about you?”

“Well, you could say that. Do you know Teppington Hall?”

Yes, actually. I worked there as a cleaner once…

As we slogged through our starters, I struggled to pay attention.
Eddie and Perry swapped increasingly flash stories about their triumphs in the business world, name-dropping and backslapping as they tried to impress Lucas Dedicoat. Fleur, no doubt an expert at wooing one's husband's boss, batted her eyelashes, simpered, and even stooped to titter at a particularly unamusing story about beating a rival company during an award ceremony dance-off. We all pretended not to notice Lucas spoon-feed the soufflé into his girlfriend's mouth, shuffling his chair around so his back was turned to the rest of the table, and murmuring into her neck repeatedly as she giggled and told him to behave. A faint, bitter, scorched smell began to waft out from the kitchen. However, unsure of the dinner party rules, and unable to find a natural pause in Eddie's current monologue about how the company's core competencies included cost containment, I stayed put, hiding my agitation behind a fake smile.

Eventually Eddie finished, muttering something about not having the distraction of girlfriends next time so they could actually get some work done. Leaping up, I dove into the kitchen to find a dried-up, hissing disaster where the paella used to be.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no.” I whipped the pan off the hot hob and grabbed a spoon to inspect the damage. Scraping beneath the surface of the rice I found a thick black layer of carbonized sludge.

I skimmed off the top layer, dumped it in a serving bowl and chucked in some water from the kettle, stirring it maniacally in a vain attempt to rehydrate the non-scorched rice.

“Argh!” Some water splashed out of the bowl and landed on my pale blue T-shirt in a greasy, grainy splodge, right in the middle of one breast.

“Well. At least I hadn't boiled the kettle first.” I used a teaspoon to scoop up a rice blob and taste it.

“Hmm. Well. It'll taste better hot.”

I shoved the bowl into the microwave, taking a frantic minute to figure out how to turn it on before realizing it wasn't plugged in, and then sponged at the mark on my top with a dishcloth.

Lovely. I now had a much larger brown circle covering my chest. For a second I contemplated adding a second circle to the other side to balance it out, before a wave of forced laughter through the dining room wall yanked me back to the situation at hand.

The microwave pinged. I dumped the now sizzling bowl back on the side, plucked a few leaves from a shrivelled basil plant on the windowsill, and scattered them across the top.

“Perfect. No one will even notice.”

I looked at the leaves bobbing about in the grey liquid, surrounded by flecks of ash.

“It's a new trend. Scorched – no –
seared
paella. Yum. Only someone totally out of style would admit to not loving it!”

Hot humiliation prickled my eyes. This wasn't funny. It was Perry's big deal-making dinner, and I'd fried it to a frazzle.

Perry smiled at me as I brought through the bowl of charred slop, carrying it awkwardly in an attempt to hide the stain on my shirt. I looked at the guests in their chic smart-casual outfits, their nails manicured and teeth bleached. On the wall behind the table a huge mirror reflected back my fraught face: red cheeks, out of control hair, a smear of sauce on the side of my nose, eyes red rimmed. For a second I was back in the pigeonhole I had put myself in for so many years – one of
them
not
us
.

Huh. I glanced down at the bowl and back up again. I have a lot to hide. A burnt paella and messy top don't even register on the secrets scale.

I placed the bowl on the table, slightly harder than intended.

“Okay. This is burnt, and is, quite frankly, inedible. There's nothing else in the cupboards except for dry pasta and a sachet of custard. Charlie's Chips, however, is open until eleven. They do an excellent battered sausage. Oh, and the stain on my boob is burnt paella juice.”

The silence hung above the table for a couple of seconds. Then Lucas coughed and said, “I'll have a haddock and chips. Lots of vinegar and mushy peas, please.”

Fleur blinked a couple of times. “Um. Do they do anything gluten-free?”

“The kebabs are pretty good.” Perry winked at me. “Or how about a pickled egg?”

In the end, the men decided to walk to the chippy together. To my surprise, Fleur and Dedicoat's girlfriend Starr came to help me clear up, equally outraged, sympathetic, and impressed when I told them how I'd created a three-course meal out of leftovers in under an hour.

“And Eddie's rambling anecdotes meant it got ruined. I apologize on his behalf, Faith. Usually I kick him under the table to shut him up but he'd warned me to be on my best behaviour in front of Dedicoat. Having said that, if he sprang a dinner party on me with less than forty-eight hours' notice I'd be kicking more than his shin.”

“The only thing I can cook is pizza and Pot Noodle.” Starr marvelled at my desserts chilling in the fridge. Individual Irish cheesecakes made using an old packet of ginger biscuits, a tub of cream cheese, Perry's secret chocolate stash, and a splash of Baileys.

Starr lent me a spare top. “I always carry a couple, 'cos I sometimes end up staying out all night, and I might have a meeting at work.”

“This is what you wear to your work meetings?” The top was low-cut and completely transparent. I decided to wear it over my T-shirt rather than instead of it. The blotch of sauce still showed through the netting, but at least the crystals and picture of a dog in a onesie provided some distraction.

The men returned, boisterously banishing plates and cutlery in favour of tiny wooden forks and chip paper. Lucas made me feel a lot less self-conscious by accidentally squirting ketchup over his shirt, and we ditched any lingering trace of formality along with the table.

Lounging on the sofas, cans of pop in their hands, Lucas and Eddie toasted a done deal over their empty wrappers, while Perry rummaged through his dresser looking for a pack of cards. Starr and Fleur giggled as they googled wedding paraphernalia on their phones, swapping stories of the best and worst ever in various different categories: bridesmaid dresses, best man's speech, first dance.

Amongst all this merriment, I sat back and gave myself a mental pat on the back. If this was how posh married people's dinner parties went, I could handle it. I could even look forward to it. Perhaps next time I'd think up a fast-food menu – do a home-made pizza with chintzy paper napkins and a tablecloth you could colour in while you waited.

The doorbell rang. Feeling quite the hostess with the mostess, I wandered through to answer it.

And there, standing in the porch, soaking wet, reeking and dishevelled, was the reason I had finally given in and said yes to Peregrine Upperton.