Page 22 of Great Sexpectations
‘Is Imogen coming too? I’m confused.’
‘No, everyone. This is Josie.’
An awkward silence descends as we all take a moment to take in that point. Again.
‘So are you Cameron’s girlfriend?’ he asks. Henry’s tone is brusque, short and I sense some tension in his relationship with his son.What is this girl doing here, Cameron? Where did you find her and what is she bringing to the table this evening?Well, not dessert as I was told this was a casual dinner thing.
Immediately, I feel protective towards Cameron and this family of wolves that circle us. I think about our evening sitting in my brother’s kitchen as the party happened around us, rewinding to something he said.I’m from a big family. I’m the runt of the litter, the youngest, the disappointment. I didn’t think it possible.
‘No, I am not. Happy birthday, though, Mrs Cox.’
‘Josie’s a friend.’ Cameron adds. ‘Josie, this is my mum and dad and another sister, Arabella, but I call her Smeller.’
‘Oh, grow up, Cam,’ she snarls back. ‘It’s nice to meet you. What do you do?’
She just asked me that, didn’t she? I’m still wearing my coat.
‘Josie works in events,’ Cameron informs them.
And just like that, the lie is already out there, hovering. If the event means sex, then yes, that is accurate. But now is not the time to clear up that little misunderstanding. Now is the time to be judged. I feel the need to spin on the spot so they can view me from all angles, to give a brief introductory monologue. Hi. I’m Josie. I like cheese, my middle name is Elizabeth and I once broke my wrist running down a slide. My birthday is in July. I got this jumpsuit in H&M.
But no, for now, she’s Josie. In events. Not Imogen.
‘Then why are you here?’ Henry Cox asks me.
‘Dad,’ Cameron sighs, embarrassed.
‘Well, Cameron invited me as a friend…’ I push him playfully. Maybe a little too hard as he stumbles into an umbrella stand. ‘And he thought it would be nice for me to come along, do some party tricks,’ I explain.
‘You’re a magician?’ Heather asks.
‘No. I was just trying to be funny…’ And failing.
Henry Cox still studies my face; I can tell he has questions regarding my education and salary brackets. ‘Well, you are very welcome, Josie. Cameron, put her coat in the downstairs cloakroom. Let’s get you a drink.’
The crowd disperse from the hallway back into the main area of the house, still grumbling about place cards, as I stand here taking off my coat, wondering whether to keep it on. What on earth am I doing? This feeling worsens as Cameron opens the door to a downstairs cloakroom. There is a vase of fake flowers, a photo of the whole family standing next to a harbour on holiday, and a cross-stitch print of some cockerels on the wall. I smile to think of the inappropriate joke my dad would make about them.
‘A dinner thing,’ I mumble.
‘I wasn’t wrong,’ he replies cheekily. He laughs, taking off his hat and shaking out his curly shaggy hair. ‘I’m sorry. You can leave if you want. It was bad of me to ask you to come and take them on. I forgot they’d go in like piranhas and give you the once-over. I’m an idiot.’
‘You don’t get on with your dad much, eh?’
‘You noticed?’ His body changes shape as he says that, his shoulders slump and his eyes point down and, for a moment, I want to embrace him hard and tell him it’ll all be fine.
‘What wine did you buy your mum?’ I ask him instead.
‘A case of Barolo, it’s her favourite.’
‘It’s a good thing it’s my favourite too.’
He takes my hand and squeezes it tightly, the physical contact making me sigh. Those hands fit, don’t they? I may squeeze back.
The one thing I learned from my parents is that it pays to sit at a dinner party and take in the room. It gives you a chance, as a salesperson, to figure people out. Fifteen minutes with this lot and I can read them like a catalogue. It helps that they’re so self-absorbed that they mostly talk about themselves, so I may as well be as invisible as the green salad that no one is touching. This is what happens when you serve people rocket. However, the confusing thing is how the very likeable Cameron is related to them all.
The conversation swerves from golf handicaps to holiday homes to Natasha regaling how her daughter is now Grade 7 in flute. She spoke for a whole five minutes about fingering. I didn’t laugh. I promise.
So, who do we have at this very grown-up dinner party with matching china and calligraphy-fonted place cards? (Mine with a hastily crossed-out Imogen.)
