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Friend mixing. I don’t like it. I avoid the scenario if I can. Why? Because I have secrets. Lots of them. It’s the curse of the Bengali girl in a white area, you end up leading a double life. Worse still, I’m inconsistent. I’m never fully sure who has been fed what story at any given time.
My husband, it would seem, is rather different.
“It’ll be good,” he said. “It can’t be fun for you, just hanging out with Jam. We should mix it up a bit. I’d like to see your friends more,” he said. “We’ll have them all over one night,” he said. “Jam can bring his latest squeeze, too,” he said.
Oh, bloody brilliant, I thought.
So here I am, after work, nursing an oven full of chopped mushrooms, halal sausages and hash browns (M thought it would be easier if we served breakfast at dinner, rather than cooking a full meal. How pretentiously kitsch and London of him), while supervising two big frying pans with three fried eggs each.
Where is M? He should have been home by now. How is he late for the dinner party that was his idea?
As if he heard me, my phone rings.
“Sorry, I’m just coming back with Jam and his... erm... friend. I ended up meeting them at the station after work.”
“Erm... okay?”
M reads my mind. “Yeah, Jam called me as he was getting in early, so we just picked up some dessert.”
That doesn’t redeem him. A good dessert will not make up for a shit dinner.
“Okay, just don’t be long. Julia will be over shortly with Miles, so I want to get the table set.”
“Extra effort for the English guests!” I hear Jam shout in the background.
How did he hear me? Am I on loudspeaker?
“I’ll be home in about five minutes,” M says.
“Okay, whatever, I have to go. Crap! The eggs are overcooked!” I hang up, which seems rude but we’ve been married three months now and I’ve earned the right to be tetchy given the circumstances.
The eggs were supposed to be sunny side up, instead they’re brown to a crisp. Oh well, I’ll break them up with a wooden spoon. Scrambled eggs it is.
***
“This is such a clever idea, breakfast for dinner!” Julia is unwavering in her enthusiasm as she cuts into her greasy, over-baked sausage which has split down the middle.
I love how she brings the sunshine even if she looks rather uncomfortable sat on the corner sofa hunched over the glass coffee table. Feeding four people is awkward in the flat, as that’s the maximum capacity on both the sofa and the breakfast bar. We could have divided ourselves up between both but then we might as well not eat together. Instead, M has taken the window sill, which is luckily deep enough for an adult bum.
“There’s a place in Brick Lane that does this kind of thing. It’s like a 24-hour breakfast bar. It’s great after a night out,” says Miles.
“It’s a sign of a good night if you need a full English afterwards,” says M with a laugh, despite having never drank alcohol, therefore knowing nothing of the words he’s saying.
I thought the urge to assimilate was exclusively mine, it seems M likes to joke along, too.
“Plus, the breakfast places are always halal on Brick Lane, so we can eat everything,” M adds. “One time, after a night out, we went to a breakfast place and there was a woman there trying to blag a free breakfast in exchange for something else. If you know what I mean.”
It’s safe to say we all know what he means.
“Anyway, she tried it on with me, too, because she wanted my sausage. As in, the one on my plate.”
We all laugh, though I don’t know where this is headed and I’m concerned that M is taking his need to join in a bit too far.
“I said, ‘no thanks’. I was only about 24 at the time. I wouldn’t know what to do.”
And there he is. My M, who is far more comfortable admitting to his pre-marital inexperience, with those more experienced, than I could ever be.
Miles raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Brick Lane is a fun place,” he says.
I didn’t think Miles would go to Brick Lane. He doesn’t look like the clientele. He’s arrived at our dinner date in a cream suit. It’s winter.
Then Jam provides some much-needed context. “Yeah, it’s changed a lot. It’s more gentrified now. It used to be just curry houses but more recently there are a lot more arty shops, cafes and, as you say, breakfast places.” Jam reaches for his fourth hash brown, which I was hoping to save for my second dinner.
“Now you can’t even find a decent Indian restaurant there, which is funny as that’s what it’s known for,” says M.
“Nah, that’s not the issue. It’s nice to mix it up but it is good to know there’s a decent curry house in the heart of East London, which Brick Lane currently lacks.” Jam manages to both agree and disagree with M.
“I like it better now,” says Jam’s ‘friend’, Rima, a Geordie girl with the longest, sleekest black hair, the thickest slick of eyeliner and the largest hoop earrings I ever saw. “It’s nice that the place has more to offer. It brings in a younger crowd. I’m there most weekends and not for the curry.”
“Yeah, I’d agree with that,” says Jam. “That’s where we met, isn’t it? At the photography walk.”
“Hmm,” Rima replies.
“Well, I just love it all!” Julia is brimming with positivity. “I love curry and Brick Lane’s the best place for it, so I hope it doesn’t change too much.”
Julia sounds even posher around middle-class Miles. I wonder if I sound more ethnic around M? Or Jam? Or Jam’s date Rima? Yep, it’s a rare occasion as Julia and Miles are outnumbered.
“Maybe we should have made curry tonight,” says M.
“Yeah, you two!” Jam laughs. “I don’t think they expected to come to an Asian house and get a full English. You let the side down.”
“We’ll do that next time you’re over.” M then looks at me.
I look at him. He knows what I’m thinking.
“I’ll cook,” he adds.
“So, how did yous meet?” Rima asks the question I’ve been dreading.
“We met through a social event.” Julia comes to the rescue, knowing full well that the question wasn’t aimed at her.
“Ah, lovely. Was it one of those organised meet ups?”
Julia nods, while throwing me a look which says: you’re welcome.
“I’ve been meaning to go to some of them. There’s a photography one in Spitalfields that looks interesting.” Rima uncrosses her faux-leather legging legs. I must ask what she does for a living that allows her to dress so casually. I should also grill her regarding her intentions with Jam, if the opportunity arises. He doesn’t have form with women. We hear the stories but never see the faces. M says it’s Jam’s fussiness but I’m not so sure. I can’t tell if Rima is here because things are looking positive, or the prospect of a free meal was too much to pass up. For Jam, I mean. It’s not the first time he’s eaten us out of house and home.
“When is the meet up?” Jam jumps at the chance of another date. “I could join you.”
“Ah, not sure yet. I’ll double check. They might be fully booked.” Rima avoids eye contact.
Ouch. Were my fried-then-scrambled eggs in vain? Jam looks down at his oil-slicked empty plate.
“What about yous two?” Rima gestures towards M and I. There’s no escaping this one.
What do I say? What’s the official party line? I run my hands along the rim of my plate, expecting to find an answer there. I know, I’ll do the only right thing, palm the question off to my husband.
“Err... you can tell the story,” I say, not knowing which version will come out.
M puts his cutlery down. “We met through friends.” He picks his knife and fork back up and continues hacking at his sausage. He didn’t even dither. Smooth.
“Awww, that’s nice,” says Rima. “It’s much better that way than meeting someone online. At least you know what you’re getting.”
Jam looks deflated, Julia looks relieved, Miles looks unsure and M is still eating. It’s like a game of Cluedo. Someone is lying, though none of us know who knows.
“Shall I get the dessert?” asks M.
“Yes,” I reply.
He may have shafted me when it came to cooking but he redeemed himself by preserving our secret and bringing good pudding.
As we sit around eating strawberry cheesecake, I feel I’ve learnt some new things about adult life: