CHAPTER
NINE

“So, this is my street,” Noah explained to a morose Eva as he led the way back to his house. “It’s part of a council redevelopment project from the early 1980s, encouraging young families to move into affordable homes in the area in an attempt to rejuvenate it. Sadly it all backfired in the early nineties when it was discovered the water company had illegally pumped thousands of litres of raw sewage into the River Fobb, and the town became synonymous with corruption and environmental catastrophe, but we are a proud people, us Fobbers, and we got through it … well, I didn’t, I wasn’t born then, this was all in the olden days.” Noah gestured at the houses. “I suppose I would say it’s designed in a modernist architectural style, not ornate, but certainly practical. The white PVC double-glazing is a more recent addition.”

Eva’s eyes swept over the identikit homes on his street. “It is not nice, is it? It is like Le Corbusier took a shit here.”

Noah gritted his teeth. Normally he would have agreed, but this was his street she was talking about. But he couldn’t allow this German imposteur to ruin his dinner tonight, so he had to keep things light and happy.

Light … and … happy…

“Fuck!” Noah suddenly said. Outside his house, the lurid pink van was still there. Would Mick be around during the dinner tonight?

Noah took a deep breath. Light! Happy! He extended his arm towards the house and beamed. “Ta-da!”

Eva glanced at him. “Great,” she said, frowning.

“So, come inside!” Noah chirped, opening the front door and leading Eva through the hall, into the lounge. “This man –” Noah waved at his dad, who was sitting in his joggers and a ketchup-stained T-shirt watching television, having failed to shave “– is my father. Dad, this is Eva.”

“Eva!” His dad grinned, suddenly coming to life and bouncing over to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you, darlin’!”

Noah flinched at the “darlin’”.

“Hallo.” Eva shrugged.

“Good trip over, I hope? I’m sure Noah’s got lots of –” he made quote marks with his fingers “– ‘fun’ planned!”

Noah resented the fun in quote marks. The Great British Quiz Off was certainly going to be fun – not that his philistine father would appreciate any of it.

Eva was looking at his dad. “Have we met? You look familiar.”

“Never tried to buy timeshare in Spain, have you?” His dad laughed, hollowly, suddenly on edge.

“HA HA HA HA!” Noah screeched. “Moving on, on, on!” He whisked Eva around, away from his father. “This person,” Noah said, turning to Mick, who was stretched elegantly out on the sofa, painting his nails, “is a man who likes to dress up as a woman for entertainment purposes. When he doesn’t have two kilos of polyester hair on his head, his name is Mick.”

Mick extended his hand. “Enchanté. And don’t listen to him, it’s always natural.”

“I have a friend who does drag in Berlin,” Eva said. “Actually, it’s genderfuck performance art, but I’m sure they are similar.”

“Sounds kinky,” Noah’s dad smirked.

Eva looked at him with unimpressed eyes. “Actually, it’s my view that genderfuck empowers artists to explore and comment on binaried gender through performance. Yes, it can be playful, but it is always political.”

Mick gave her look that was either admiration or contempt – Noah couldn’t quite place it. His dad, meanwhile, whose face had been totally blank, finally muttered, “Politics, huh? I don’t bother voting myself. Crooks, every one of’em!”

“Aaaaanyway,” Noah said, “I’m sure you can discuss all this with Mick some other time.” He looked at Mick and chewed his lip. “Do you have plans for this evening?”

Mick swiped his phone, smiled and looked up at Noah. “Actually, I think I have. Meeting a new friend – ScallyLad35.”

“Odd name,” Noah said.

“Yeah, it’s not his name I’m bothered about,” Mick said, giving Noah a wink and flashing his phone screen at him.

“Gah! Onwards!” Noah said, pulling Eva over to where his mother had emerged, in the doorway that led through to the kitchen-diner. Inexplicably wearing an apron, and with a cigarette hanging from her mouth, she looked like a character who might run a café in a soap opera – the sort with Formica tables, and ketchup in plastic bottles made to look like giant tomatoes. “My mother,” he said. “Mother – this is Eva. She’s German and a girl.”

“Nice to—”

“So!” Noah interrupted, before his mother could say anything embarrassing, “that’s everyone for now, please proceed to your bedroom, which is up the stairs and first on the left. Sorry about the box of Kleenex Mansize, but I thought you were going to be a boy.”

“Cool,” Eva said.

“Also, please note,” he said, putting on his most apologetic face, “smoking is not permitted,” he winced as his mother took a drag of her cigarette, “and you can only play your guitar between the hours of eight a.m. and eight p.m.”

Eva stared at Noah.

“OK?” Noah said.

“Cool,” Eva said, hauling her bag and guitar back through the door and up the stairs.

“She seems nice,” his mother said.

Noah shook his head. “I’m pretty sure some of those symbols on her guitar case are satanic,” he whispered. “Anyway, you received my message?” Noah asked, turning towards the kitchen.

His mum sighed. “Yes, Noah, I did.”

“Good, where is everything?” He walked through into the kitchen-diner. “I hope you’ve refrigerated the scallops because—” He looked at the empty space in front of him, turned on his heel and came back through to the lounge. “Where’s the table?”

“Sold it,” muttered his dad from the armchair.

“You sold it?” Noah repeated. “Sold it? You’ve sold the dining table?!”

“We never use it,” his dad said. “It’s about decluttering!”

“Decluttering!” Noah shouted. “Have you gone entirely mad? Where are we supposed to eat?”

His dad looked at him like Noah was the mad one. “Trays on our laps, like normal?”

“I am having a dinner party this evening,” Noah hissed. “What am I supposed to tell the guests?”

“Well, how were we meant to know? Go out and grab some kebabs. Now shush,” his dad said. “I’m tryin’ to watch the end of this Antiques Roadshow I recorded. The last thing they show is always worth a lot.”

“We need the money, Noah,” his mum said. “We’ve all got to tighten our belts a bit. Money doesn’t grow on trees.”

No, no, no, no! Not this, not now! Well, of course they didn’t have any money: however much they wanted to play this “happy perfect family” charade, his father was a layabout thief who nobody in their right mind would employ, and his mother, his bloody useless mother, did a Beyoncé tribute act that had attracted not a single, solitary booking in the last three months. Mainly because, all things considered, it was SHITE. No money? How about taking some responsibility? How about, just once, his parents tried acting like adults and getting real jobs?

He pointed at his mum. “You do realize, don’t you, that this country is in the midst of historic lows of unemployment, right? There is a shortage of labour in the market. You could literally walk into any shop – anywhere! – and—”

“Noah? I’m going for some air,” Eva said, suddenly appearing in almost the entire length of the doorway.

“Mais oui!” Noah replied, suddenly sweetness and light, doing a small curtsy. “Please enjoy the surrounding English countryside and all that Little Fobbing has to offer. Sometimes I like to visit the park and look at the ducks. Oh, the one off Gordon Road is probably best; they found high levels of mercury in the soil of the one by the primary school.”

“Cool,” said Eva.

“Dinner will be served at seven. Please be punctual.”

Eva shrugged and drifted out the front door.

Noah turned back to his mum, who was now sitting calmly on the sofa, a look of concern all over her face. “What’s the matter, Noah? You seem on edge.”

“Oh, I can’t think why, Mother!”

“Are you being cyberbullied?”

Noah screwed his face up. “What?! No, I’m not being cyberbullied! God!”

“Do you want to speak with your dad about puberty?”

“I would rather orchestrate my own demise with a circular saw,” Noah said. Or possibly yours, Mother!

“We’re planning a family outing to Beaver’s Garden Centre on Saturday,” his mum said. “Eva’s welcome, of course. And Harry. You could use some of your Christmas money to buy some seeds. You like seeds.”

Noah blinked at his mother.

“Right, well,” his mother sighed. “While you’re here, we need you to move your stuff out of the shed.”

Noah threw his hands in the air. “Eric’s already asked me to do that!”

“Why does Eric want the shed empty?” his dad said.

“Why do you?” Noah countered.

His mother could barely contain her excitement. “Your father and I … we’re buying a tandem! Bike rides, Noah!”

Noah nodded, solemnly. “Yeah? How much is that costing?”

“It’s from the catalogue, so it’s paid over five years. Free, basically.” His mum smiled.

Noah stared at her. The electricity company had recently transferred them to a prepay metre because of the unpaid bills, the bailiffs were sending threatening letters, they’d just sold the sodding dining table, but oh yes, there was still the cash to buy some stupid bike. Noah clutched his hands to his chest in mock glee. “Oh! It’s so wonderful being wealthy! Mmmm! Rah, rah, rah! One may just bathe in some liquid gold this evening and then take the pony skiing, is that OK, Mother?”

“Noah, this is about your father and me reconnecting with our feelings for one another. It’s about us, our relationship. Because what does our relationship make?”

“Me sick?” Noah suggested.

“A strong and stable family unit,” his mum said, a dreamy look in her eyes. “And that’s what we are now, Noah. A strong and stable family, who love and support one another. So please, be supportive.”

“Useless,” Noah muttered to himself as he bashed about in the kitchen, looking at options for a five-course tasting menu, “selfish, mean, horrible old trout…” He reached up on tiptoe and flung open one of the top cupboards and was promptly hit by a bag of lentils, purchased when his mum went vegan for twelve hours last summer.

“Don’t wait up for us,” his mum shouted from the front door.

Noah kicked the lentils into the corner of the kitchen. He hoped they choked on their date-night chicken korma. He opened another cupboard and found some butterscotch Angel Delight. OK. This was dessert. And maybe, if he could find a tub, he might be able to put a glacé cherry on top, for extra poshness. He grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge that miraculously was in-date, poured it into a bowl with the powder and started whisking.

“Nice wrist action!” Mick grinned, appearing in the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a jacket for his night out.

Noah rolled his eyes and focused on the job in hand.

“Got a lot of strength in that right arm, haven’t you?”

Noah dropped the whisk. “Any more? Let’s get all the masturbation jokes out of the way, shall we?”

Mick stared at him. “Wow. If that’s how you whack off, I think we need to have a chat.”

“Oh, shut up. Why are you still here?”

“Grabbing a beer to take with me,” Mick said, opening the fridge.

Noah grimaced and got back to his whisking.

“Slow and steady,” Mick said, cracking the can open on his way out. “You don’t need to go at it full throttle. Take your time. Enjoy it.”

Noah tried to push his rage aside until he heard Mick go out the front door and he could breathe. Good. Now his full attention could be on this dining extravaganza. Deciding the mixture was probably thick enough, he hunted around for four appropriate receptacles that he could serve the “delight” in. He would have to make do with one teacup, two wine glasses and a mug emblazoned with “I heart Scunthorpe”. He found some cherries and ran them under the hot tap to remove the light bloom of fungus on them, popping one atop each portion. Delightfully, he had also found a tub of hundreds and thousands that he would sprinkle over the dish just before serving. Voila! Dessert was prepared.

The main, courtesy of “some mate” of his father’s, was to be the big fish currently residing on the bottom shelf of the fridge. Noah wasn’t sure what type of sea beast it was, but it was probably a cod or something. This “mate” had apparently pulled it out of some reservoir on a fishing trip and given it to his dad, the latter assuring Noah that it was “only a few days old” and “probably still OK”. Fine. What was not fine, though, was the beast’s beady, glassy eye staring at Noah as he tried to work out how to fillet and portion it up, so Noah decided a better idea would be to cook the fish whole, in silver foil, with some herbs … well, some dried oregano that he’d found in the cupboard, best before 1998, but it looked fine. He was fairly confident he had seen fish cooked like this on MasterChef. And with some potatoes and peas, it would be a “take” on the classic British fish and chips – which was very, very clever.

He turned the oven dial to the required temperature.

CLUNK.

Noah froze. Everything had gone off. The lights. The oven. The dinner party playlist that Noah had rigged up to work through his dad’s old hi-fi…

“No no no no no,” he bleated. The credit on the prepay electric meter must have run out! Arses!

Noah felt his way through to the lounge, plunging his hands down the back of the sofa cushions, hoping to find a stray pound coin or two. A slice of toast, five crisp packets and a bra later, and still no joy. He flung the last cushion back on the sofa and breathed hard into the black void. No way was he going to let this jeopardize his chance to simultaneously impress Harry, make Pierre realize he could never compete with Noah, and ensure Harry and Pierre didn’t get off with each other. At least, not whilst they were at the dinner party, anyway.

No. The dinner party would very much continue.

The show must go on.

He would single-handedly put the great into Great Britain.

“Good evening, guests!” Noah said, standing before Harry and Pierre at the front door, wearing his special grey hoodie from Harry. This was a clever move, hopefully giving Pierre a subtle visual signal that Noah and Harry were very much together. Or at least, it might have done if Pierre could actually see it. “Please come through, as dinner is nearly served. I hope you enjoy the low-level lighting atmosphere I have deliberately created to enhance the mood.”

Noah showed his guests through to the lounge, where he’d arranged an assortment of tea lights and an orange spiked with birthday candles, to provide a hint of something other than pitch-black darkness.

“It is certainly moody in here,” Pierre commented, pretending to feel about in the dark with his hands. “Oh, what is this? Is this a cushion?”

“Hey!” Harry giggled.

“Oh!” Pierre said. “I am sorry. I thought it seemed very firm and pert.”

“OK, right,” Noah said, keen to move things on.

But Pierre seemed equally keen for more pretend “I can’t see in this dark” comedy. “Oh, Noah, what is this sausage I seem to be holding?”

“OK, so just to confirm, he’s not holding my penis,” Noah said.

Pierre laughed. “I love this lighting. Anything could happen!”

“Well, what will be happening is some dinner and light conversation. That’s what the evening has in store – nothing more, nothing less. Please help yourself to an amuse-bouche,” Noah said, indicating the plate he had balanced on the side of the armchair. “These are a delicate crispbread with a pearl of soft cheese.”

Harry picked one up. “Is this a sour-cream-and-chive Pringle?” he said, sniffing at it.

“Er, I guess you could say it’s very similar,” Noah said.

“With a dollop of Primula cheese spread on top?”

“Essentially, yes, that’s what we’re dealing with here.”

Harry bit into it. “Awesome.”

“I hope your bouches are amused.” Noah smiled. “Please forgive me, I must away to my kitchen duties, but will return at unexpected intervals to make sure nothing is happening… I mean, that everything is all right. Harry, you sit down on the sofa, and Pierre, you could have the armchair?”

“Or both of us on the sofa?” Pierre suggested.

“No, because, no, because the other guests … when they come… That’s the seating plan. OK? So. I’ll be back in a minute. Or maybe thirty seconds. Or who knows!”

Noah disappeared into the kitchen, only to be confronted with drizzle on the window. “Arses,” he muttered, dashing outside to where he’d set up the barbecue and was currently cooking the big fish. He was confident this arrangement would be fine – living in this sorry excuse for a home, he’d learned that most foods were improved, taste-wise at least, by barbecuing. Refusing to be outmanoeuvred by the weather, Noah dragged the patio umbrella over to the barbecue and positioned it overhead. Perfect.

The doorbell rang.

Noah darted back through the kitchen and lounge, glancing to make sure Harry and Pierre weren’t too close to each other (approximately two metres apart – not ideal, but OK), and opened the door to Eva.

“I forgot my guitar,” Eva explained, pushing past Noah. Three bedraggled, feral creatures were standing in the drive, eyeing Bambi’s van. Noah recognized them immediately. They were drug addicts. Or rather, Noah was pretty sure he’d seen at least one of them smoking a cigarette in the park, so they were probably drug addicts.

“Oh, Eva?” Noah said, closing the door and calling up to her. “You can’t bring your friends to dinner, I’m afraid. There won’t be enough food.”

He paused in the darkness, not hearing any response.

“Eva? Where are you?”

“Here.”

“Oh, sorry, I couldn’t see you. Look, those people outside, Eva. I know you’re new here and don’t have a read on the social situation, but you don’t want to hang around with them. Trust me, those guys are trouble. OK?” He placed reassuring hands on her shoulders.

“Those are my breasts.”

“I’m so terribly sorry!” Noah sprang back. “In this low light, which is deliberate, I couldn’t see. It was a mistake, and just to reassure you, I have little to no interest in your breasts.”

“Cool.”

“Sit down next to Harry, who is on the sofa, which is five steps to your left and one back. I shall return presently with the first course!”

Noah felt his way back through to the kitchen, now lit by an odd orange glow. At the doorway, he froze in horror at the flames licking at the kitchen window.

“SHIIIIT!” he squealed, darting outside, to where the patio umbrella was inexplicably ablaze because it’s not like the coals were actually on fire, they were just white hot, so why—

Oh, it didn’t matter! What to do?! Naturally his parents wouldn’t have spent money on a fire blanket or a responsible range of extinguishers (water, foam and carbon dioxide) so he was going to have to deal with this the retro way. Noah ran back into the kitchen, filled the bowl in the sink with water, darted back with it slopping about all over him and tripped over a bag of lentils which some halfwit had left lying about on the floor. Noah crashed on to the unforgiving vinyl as the water drenched him from top to toe, and outside the patio umbrella creaked and snapped, collapsing to the ground in a shower of sparks.

“FIRE! FIRE! CALL THE ENGINES!”