Shay sat on the couch contemplating the bare surface of the two card tables and the ruins of Plan B. Her friends were long gone; Mrs. Brown, a last-minute addition to the guest list, had stayed afterwards to help clean up but once the Royal Doulton was safely back downstairs, they had agreed the table from the shed and the extra chairs could be returned to their proper places in the morning.

Despite Jeff and his unexpected companion the party had been a success, Shay thought. Alex had instantly grasped the situation when Shay had appeared in the apartment doorway with two guests and a pleading expression on her face. Alex had plied the new arrivals with sparkling wine and interrogated them on their nationalities, professions, and educational backgrounds—Philippa was English and worked in Jeff’s office—and soon gleaned that Jeff had snagged an eight o’clock table at Bibendum.

Clearly, he was trying to impress somebody and it wasn’t Shay. Meanwhile, Shay hurriedly swept the name cards away but could do nothing about the table itself.

“Oh, sorry. Is this a dinner party?” Jeff asked as he noticed her bustling about. “I thought it was just a party party.” Shay tried her best effort at a relaxed smile, waved dismissively at her carefully laid table and said, “Yes, yes. An any kind of party. We are just expecting a few people for dinner a bit later.”

Thankfully, this proved true as Fiona didn’t arrive until seven thirty while Greg and Liz Clark showed up at twenty to eight filled with apologies about a late babysitter just as Jeff and Philippa were heading for the door. Glad to see the last of Jeff and relieved the party could now revert to plan, Shay belatedly put the lamb in the oven and turned to the fish. Looking at the six perfect pieces of sole she had selected, she had a moment of inspiration. Why not? “Do you think I should just pop down and ask Mrs. Brown to join us?” she whispered to Alex, who was standing at her elbow in the kitchen.

“Won’t she have eaten already?” Alex asked.

“Baked beans on toast at five, I imagine.” Reminding herself that the best parties were spontaneous, Shay headed quickly downstairs and tapped lightly on Mrs. Brown’s door; her landlady must have been sitting very nearby for she opened it instantaneously.

“Everything going nicely, love?” Mrs. Brown asked.

“Yes. Everything’s good, but we did have a guest drop out.”

“Oh. That young man, was it? I didn’t like the look of that girl he had with him,” Mrs. Brown said, lowering her voice as though the offending couple might still be within earshot. “Overdressed, I thought.”

“Or under,” Shay said, and they both laughed. “I was just wondering if you would like to join us? I realize you’ve probably already had tea, but you’ve been such a help and I would love you to at least try everything…” Shay was fumbling her belated invitation but Mrs. Brown did not seem to mind in the least.

“I’d be honoured,” she said as she removed the apron she was wearing, turned to a small mirror hanging in her entranceway and patted her hair, and then happily followed Shay upstairs.

There, Alex quickly commandeered her and introduced her round while Shay started cooking her fish and heating her lobster sauce. When it was ready, the guests took whatever places seemed convenient, oohing and aahing over the menu cards that Shay now pulled out from the bookshelf where she had hidden them when Jeff and his date had showed up. They listened enthusiastically to Shay’s explanations of the dinner, enjoyed a very rare leg of lamb, applauded the charlotte russe that had emerged perfectly from its mould, and finally recalled the various tables at which they had been served a savoury at the end of a meal, a practice that needed to be revived, they all agreed.

Mrs. Brown regaled them with her mother’s tales of wartime rationing, trying to make cakes without eggs and living off Spam hash, and even Fiona warmed up and got the giggles at the idea of the Victorians using gelatin made from cod bladders to set their fruit jelly or eating sweetened macaroni as a dessert.

They all appeared interested by Shay’s research and agreed that when they thought of a Dickensian dinner it was only Christmas pudding and a goose or something of that nature. Shay had expanded their horizons, gathering around her a convivial group entirely comfortable with a party that included only one man and four single women, one of whom was at least seventy, and all in perfect agreement that this was a splendid dinner. Shay’s nerves and embarrassment evaporated and she again felt the rush of excitement over her culinary discoveries that had inspired her menu planning in the first place.

They only finished eating at eleven, by which point the Clarks had to hurry home to the babysitter. Fiona left soon after, and Alex and Mrs. Brown and Shay chatted for a bit and then set to cleaning up, agreeing that the party, for which all three now took credit, had been a huge success.

By midnight, that left an overstimulated Shay sitting alone in a tidy apartment with time to think. Even now that the awkward moment was well past and the rest of her plans had gone smoothly, the willowy Philippa in her short skirt had left a nasty little kernel of nervousness and disappointment in the bottom of Shay’s gut. She had misread Jeff; she had assumed he was an easy catch; there for the taking if she wanted him. Perhaps he had sensed her condescension and just wanted to prove others desired him too; perhaps Philippa was just window-dressing. Or perhaps not. She would ask Alex on Monday, or phone her tomorrow. Alex always knew these things.

Still, on reflection, she didn’t think she had the necessary enthusiasm to take another stab at Jeff. She wanted love, not game-playing. She wanted an adult, not a boy. She wanted that feeling of falling into another person, trusting his instincts, his fidelity, his embrace. She looked at her watch. 12:25. It was only 7:25 in Toronto. It was spring but still cool in the evenings. Shay pulled on a light jacket, flipping her dirty-blond hair over the collar and speculating nastily whether Philippa’s straw-coloured tresses were just a dye job. She slipped down the stairs and out the front door as quietly as she could. The Internet café that she relied on was about a ten-minute walk away, down a main street that would still be full of pedestrians. It stayed open until two most nights. She had had occasion to discover this on a previous instance where she had broken their moratorium on communications.

The place was all but empty when she arrived; she took one of the screens as far removed from the counter as possible and logged on to her email. She supposed she could have written pages, but she didn’t really have much to say. “This isn’t working for me. Is it working for you?”