Page 1 of Great Sexpectations
ONE
‘I don’t get it.’
‘What don’t you get?’ I ask my good friend, Tina, as I dip my finger in a bowl of icing. She slaps my hand away.
‘Why would you sell a dildo that smells like strawberries?’
A waiter nearby stops in his tracks. I think he wants to know the answer to that question too. Yes, that’s my business, I sell dildos. Yes, they smell fruity. Tina’s husband, Brett, stirs a sauce, laughing to himself.
‘People like scented stuff,’ I reply plainly.
‘Old ladies like scented stuff. I’m OK with a scent-free dildo.’
‘When we were at school, kids used to get scented stickers. We used to swap them. Everyone went crazy for them!’
Tina turns her nose up to have to think that far back. ‘Does the dildo taste of strawberries?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve not tried it.’
‘Tried, as in you’ve not stuck one in your mouth or not tried it in other ways?’
I open my eyes widely. ‘That’s not my job at the company.’
‘Are you telling me thatisa job?’
‘We have a testing panel at The Love Shack. We give them freebies and they tell us if they’re any good.’
‘How many years have I known you and your family, Josie Jewell, and you’re telling me this now?’ Tina jokes, shaking her head while a man that’s rolling sushi next to her blanches with confusion and scuttles away to pretend to get something from the fridge. I watch as Tina opens an oven and her husband hands her a fish slice.
‘You want to join a sex toy testing panel? I will pretend not to be insulted,’ Brett mutters.
‘We can use them together? Can we join, Josie? Is there an interview process?’
I watch the both of them. I’ve known Tina and Brett since school. Brett was in my year, Tina was in my brother’s, and it was a wonderful convenience that they married each other so we all can continue to be friends in our mid-twenties. However, whilst I love them dearly and I’m godmother to their twin sons, I don’t really want to imagine their sex life in too much detail.
‘I’ll see. Are those what I think they are?’ I ask, trying to change the subject, leaning against the counter and commenting on what’s just come out of the oven.
‘Yes, they are. They are cheese straws that have been made to look like severed fingers,’ Brett tells me.
‘What’s the nail?’
‘It’s a bit of ham. There are vegan versions too that we hacked off the hands of dead vegans. They go very well with the sundried tomato dip so they look like blood.’
I nibble at one curiously as they both look over for my verdict. For tonight’s Halloween party, Brett and Tina have pulled out all the stops: all the food is themed and they and all their staff are dressed as werewolves, wearing orange suits like they’ve escaped from a high-security prison. It’s a very good crossover of genres. I’d watch that film, but maybe from behind a cushion and with someone else in the room.
‘These are good. Is that Parmesan?’ I ask.
‘The lady assumes correctly. It makes them look more gnarly,’ Brett tells me.
‘I am impressed at your commitment to authenticity.’
‘Well, I am insulted you’d think we’d take on this gig and be complete amateurs about it, just bung out a few bowls of Monster Munch. We do this shit right,’ Tina replies.
I don’t doubt that for a second. I’ve known Brett from his Jamie Oliver fanboy days, when he idolised the shaggy-haired Essex chef, determined to follow in his footsteps. Back then, we were eighteen and he was the one who made the breakfasts as we all clambered back to my mum and dad’s after a night out. He’d introduce us to chorizo in our eggs, not that we’d notice, we just needed something to soak up the cider in our systems. Now look at him, he has the matching chef wife, he’s wearing a chef’s bandana with his werewolf sideburns, and can chop things super-fast.
I look over the counter as people pour in and out of the kitchen with platters and Brett directs them around. There is a torso made of cheese and covered in charcuterie so it looks like flayed flesh. This worries me not as I dig into some Parma ham, a bottle of beer in my other hand.
‘You should be out there with the party, Josie, not in here hoovering up my canapés,’ Brett says, pointing a furry hand out the door.
