Page 31 of Glitterland
Leaving university with an effortlessly acquired First, he went on to effortlessly found a culture consultancy firm, which had been effortlessly successful, even in the middle of the recession. I wasn’t sure what he actually did. Extremely wealthy companies hired him to improve their corporate culture. This seemed to involve Max telling them to buy fruit for their employees and then they’d give him millions and millions of pounds.
It was no wonder I was so reluctant to parade my endless inadequacies in front of him. Not that he hadn’t seen them all already. But there was something implacably blessed about Max. He was practically a mutant and his mutation was being better than you at everything.
I didn’t even know he liked cooking. No surprise that he was apparently excellent at it.
I rang him. What else was I to do?
“Ash, hi!” He sounded genuinely thrilled. He usually did. Talking to Max could make you feel like the most important person in the whole world. It was a heady drug. And Niall’s prescription of choice.
“So glad to hear from you,” he rushed on. “It’s been, like, forever. Excuse me a moment.” The line crackled and I heard him talking to someone else. He seemed to be telling them where to put some fruit. I snuffled in private hilarity and tried to pass it off as a throat-clearing as he came back onto the line. “I’m here. How are you?”
“I’m all right”—(awhight)—“actually. How about you?”
“Going out of my tiny mind over the wedding. It’s an absolute ’mare. My mother’s family are outraged it can’t be held in Buckingham Palace, my father’s family hate my mother’s family, Amy’s family think we’re all insane and want to go back to Yorkshire. And I’m petrified they’re not going to allow their only daughter to marry me after all. But—” Amusement coloured his voice. “—other than that, everything’s fabulous.”
“Oh, it’ll be fine,” I said. “You’re filthy rich. They’ll probably just have you murdered on your wedding night.”
“That’s reassuring, ta. I read your latest by the way. Absolutely loved it. I totally didn’t see the twist, because I’m an idiot, but when I thought back, it made perfect sense.”
“I’m quite proud of the title,” I heard myself saying, “because his name is Rik Glass, right, and the title isThrough a Glass Darkly. Which is an Annie Lennox song. And also in the Bible.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Max gave a snort of upper-class laughter.
“Anyway,” I went on before I ran out of stupid things to say that could be generously interpreted as my dry, ironic wit, “I sort of need your help.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Ash. What can I do?”
Shit. How to start? “There’s this… guy…who I’m…well…shagging, I guess.”
“That’s great!”
“Yes, I quite enjoy it. Anyway, I sort of…gah…it’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” I could almost hear him frowning, golden brows sliding into intent little Vs.
“Look,” I said, quickly, “I need to make a salad. How do I do that?”
Max spluttered. “God,” he said, “is that all? I was braced for absolute disaster. Married man, BNP supporter, closet-case, accountant. Not salad eater.”
“Oh, fuck off. You know I don’t cook. Now are you going to help or not?”
“Of course I’m going to help.”
“It has to be an impressive salad,” I explained. “Areallyimpressive salad.”
“Oh, I see, you need a ‘let’s do it on the kitchen table right now’ salad.”
“They have those?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely they do.”
“Well,” I said impatiently, “hit me up. But remember I’m a salad neophyte. I’m not faffing around with pans or any complicated shit like that.”
“Damn, you’re a difficult man to please.”
I didn’t quite know how to answer that.
“All right,” he continued, “how about pear and Roquefort with a honey and ginger dressing?”
