The Best Meal of My Life, Take Two!
by Clementine Darcy

When I told Fergus that the dinner party was going to be bigger than I’d first planned, he didn’t look frightened. He nodded seriously and said, ‘I can do bigger. How many people?’

‘Well, there’s me and Fred and Mum and Dad and Sophie.’ He nodded again. I took a deep breath. ‘And then there’s Ang and Lucy and Gemma, and Noel and Liam and Joshua. They’re my steampunk friends. Fred told them about the dinner and they got so excited I had to ask them, too. And then Gemma said something about it in front of Chelsea-Grace and Cleo, so of course I couldn’t let them feel excluded. And then Kerrard and Todd had to be invited – they’re Chelsea-Grace and Cleo’s boyfriends – and then Brent felt left out and so . . .’

I looked at Fergus warily. I was worried the expanded guest list might freak him out. But he tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘Doable,’ he said. And then he surprised me again. ‘Can I ask a friend? Just a guy I used to work with. He’s started a new café and he reckons he might have some work for me. I thought he might like to see my mad skills in action.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I think that’s a great idea.’

Here’s what we ate at the steampunk dinner:

ENTRÉE

Julienne soup

MAIN

Filets de sole with creamed potatoes and greens
Lobster rissoles with mayonnaise of chicken
Saddle of mutton with minted peas and roasted root vegetables

DESSERT

Crepes with berry sauce
Caramel soufflé with preserved fruits
Bread-and-butter pudding with clotted cream

And everything was delicious, Ms Hiller. Everyone ate a huge amount, even Chelsea-Grace and Cleo! I think at first they tried everything because they were worried Fergus might cry if they didn’t, but once they’d started, they couldn’t stop. It was wonderful to see. It felt like they were being real for the first time in ages.

Sophie was a bit quiet, Ms Hiller. I couldn’t help watching her; at times she seemed so far away. I liked to imagine she’d gone to the faerieland we used to escape to. I don’t think that was the case, though. She looked as if she was about to cry. But you know, maybe those tears were good tears. Tears of relief. Of letting go.

So that’s something.

In fact, the whole dinner party was full of little somethings. Like Fergus and Lucy exchanging small smiles at each other, and the way she blushed when he came close. Like Sophie and Brent talking up a friendly storm: first he managed to cheer away her impending tears, and by dessert he actually made her laugh! Like my serious lawyer mum trying to keep a straight face while wearing one of Lucy’s too-big velvet dresses and a velvet bonnet on her sleek, serious lawyer bob. There are some people who were meant to live in the Victorian era, Ms Hiller. My mother is not one of them.

Like how, for the whole dinner party, Fred held my hand. And how, across the table, Mum was holding Dad’s hand. They looked so happy to have their family together again for the first time in so long. And so proud of all of us.

As for Fergus, as he raced around the kitchen, stirring and whisking and frying and checking the oven, and then hovered around Lucy out in the dining room, asking her constantly if she was enjoying her food, he looked the happiest I have seen him in an awfully long time. And his friend with the café? He said Fergus’s food was ‘flawless’.

And I thought that maybe, just maybe, things might be all right again. Maybe not that night. Maybe not for weeks. But sometime soon.

After dinner, Mum and Dad told us that they were happy to do the washing up, and that we should go and ‘be young’, it being Friday night and all.

So we all hung out in the living room for a bit longer. And it was then that Kerrard, Todd and Brent persuaded Fred to go skating with them that Sunday.

‘Uh, well, I’m not sure I’ll be quite . . . attired for, uh, that, uh . . . ever,’ Fred said, smoothing down his jodhpurs.

‘Have you seen the rest of us?’ laughed Kerrard, who had a top hat sitting awkwardly on top of his bleached dreadlocks. ‘Come on. Don’t be shy. Wear whatever the hell you like. It’ll be fun!’

‘Well . . . all right then,’ said Fred. He looked happy and proud to be included, and my heart sang for him.

A little while later, the boys all headed off. The girls, it had been agreed upon, were staying over for a pyjama party. All of them. And Sophie had already shyly asked if she might join us.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, right?’ I said to Fred. ‘At the ball?’

Fred nodded. ‘I believe that Lucy, Ang and Gemma have been working on a special ensemble for you. I can’t wait to see it.’

‘Oh, you’re going to look so awesome!’ Ang giggled. She turned to Cleo and Chelsea-Grace. ‘You should see her in her steampunk gear. The girl’s a vixen!’

‘We know,’ said Cleo, smiling.

The other boys melted off into the cold night. I walked Fred out to the kerb, alone, and he kissed me gently on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad to have met your family,’ he said. ‘And your friends.’

‘Holy blueberry bagels. You’re not going to ask them for my hand or anything now, are you?’ I asked.

Fred laughed. ‘No. You see, I have to ask for Madame le Chat’s approval before I can do that. And that could take some time. She’s a busy lady. It is very time-consuming, duelling with that musket-wielding husband of hers all the time. I might ask you to dance tomorrow night, though, if that’s something you would like.’

‘I think that is something I would like,’ I said.

‘Good night, Lady Nightingale,’ he said, taking my hand and kissing it.

‘Night, Freddie P,’ I replied, and kissed him square on the mouth.

‘I’m not sure that was entirely true to the behaviours of the period,’ he scolded.

I raised my hands in the air. ‘Sorry. I was just being a live fish.’ I flapped my hands about like they were fins and puffed out my cheeks.

Fred shook his head. ‘I will call the lunatic asylum in the morning. Although, actually, they will probably accuse you of hysteria and subject you to their revolutionary new treatment for insanity – they call it lobotomy – so perhaps I won’t call them after all.’ He poked out his tongue. ‘I think I need you around here. After all, I really like you. I might even . . . love you.’

‘I love you, too,’ I said softly. ‘In any era you choose to adventure in.’

Fred’s grin grew huge, his dimples making dents in his cheeks.

‘Well, I’d best be off, to prepare mentally for how a Victorian gentleman might go about skateboarding,’ he said, making his fingers into quotation marks. ‘I daresay that will be something of an adventure.’

‘Take this with you,’ I blurted, and I pressed another poem into his hand. So no, you can’t see this one. I know the one I wrote him on the wall was public, but this poem is between me and the boy I love. Besides, I doubt you’d want to read it. It’s a bit soppy.

‘Look at it when you’re alone,’ I said. My cheeks were all aglow, like the fire from a Victorian steam train in the dark.

‘I will,’ Fred said. ‘And . . . thank you. For trusting me.’

Then he kissed me on the cheek, and my whole body felt warm. Fred is the brightest fish in the stream, Ms Hiller. And the best.

He’s at the desk in front of me now, still writing. I wonder if he’s writing about me. I like the idea that he’s making me with words; making me the way he sees me. Writing Clementine.

I wonder if he’ll let me read it someday.

I don’t know what else to write now. There are five minutes left of class.

Blue fish, red fish, green fish . . .

Blue fish, red fish, green fish . . .

I’ll have more to write tomorrow, I’m sure, Ms Hiller. I can’t wait to find out what happens next, and I bet you can’t either.

Let’s see where my fins will take me.

Are you curious, Ms Hiller?