Free A Time for Friends by Patricia Scanlan

Hilary giggled.
    ‘How could I, Mzzz Hammond?’ Jonathan ramped up his gay persona, throwing his eyes up to heaven theatrically and running his fingers through his hair.
    Colette looked at them, gobsmacked. ‘That will be the day. Hilary, what do
you
know about interior design?’ she derided. ‘You two are obviously pissed,’ she said
crossly. ‘I should leave you to it.’
    ‘Don’t be silly, kick your shoes off and sit down and get pissed
with
us. Will I order something from the Chinese? We’ve just finished ours.’ Hilary saw the
disgruntled expression on Colette’s face and felt her deliciously tipsy feeling begin to fade a little.
    ‘I don’t fancy Chinese!’ her friend said petulantly.
    ‘Indian?’ Hilary persisted.
    ‘Too fattening, all that cream.’ Colette dismissed that proposal.
    ‘I have some steak in the fridge, a fillet. You could have it with salad and some ciabatta.’
    ‘Fine,’ Colette agreed, slipping out of her pink Chanel jacket and handing it to Hilary. ‘I just need to freshen up, Heathrow makes you feel so—’
    ‘Manky,’ Jonathan chipped in.
    ‘Well . . . er . . . yes, I was going to say hot and sticky.’ Colette stared at the upstart coolly. He
really
didn’t know his place.
    She marched into the house, her high heels clicking a tattoo on the wooden floor, and Hilary looked at Jonathan and gave a sigh. ‘Sorry about this, Jonathan. She’s my oldest friend,
she lives in a posh gaff in London and she has a housekeeper, and how
typical
that she arrives when the house is a tip,’ she fussed. ‘And now I’ve to go and cook, just
when we were having a delightful evening.’
    ‘The house isn’t a tip. It’s a
home
! You sit there and I’ll slap the steak on the pan, that’s if you don’t mind me rooting in your fridge and
presses,’ he added hastily.
    ‘No, you sit and relax!’ she protested.
    ‘I wouldn’t know what to say to her. She’s
très
formidable.’ He made a face. ‘I’ll cook and you get her tiddly and take the edges off
her.’
    ‘OK, there might be some cheese in the fridge that’s gone a bit mouldy, it might be smelly,’ she warned him.
    ‘You should see mine,’ he comforted. ‘I’ve a carrot that’s shrivelled up – at least I think it’s a carrot – and a cucumber that’s going to
have to be poured out! Here she comes, get that wine down her. Are you sure you want me to stay? I feel I’m intruding.’
    ‘Oh please do stay, Jonathan. You’re not intruding at all. I was enjoying our evening so much. I’m not in the mood for “my wonderful life in London” tonight,’
Hilary sighed, feeling a tad disloyal but irritated nevertheless.
    ‘I’m doing chef,’ Jonathan announced gaily when Colette joined them. ‘Steak . . . medium, well done or rare?’ He gave her a saccharine smile.
    ‘Oh!’ Colette was thrown. ‘Um . . . medium to rare, please.’
    ‘No bother, sit and relax, ladies. Your champers will be out forthwith. Where are the glasses, Hil?’
    ‘The press on the left-hand side at right angles to the sink,’ Hilary instructed, sitting down at the table.
    ‘Righto.’ Jonathan cleared the dishes on the table and sashayed into the kitchen. Hilary hid a smile at his antics. He was really camping it up for Colette’s benefit.
    ‘How did you meet him? He’s certainly making himself at home.’ Colette frowned. ‘I can’t believe you only met him today and he’s rooting around your presses
already.’
    ‘We met at a lighting design course. He’s an interior designer and a potential new customer, and, I have to say, I haven’t had as much fun in ages. I feel as if I’ve
known him forever.’
    ‘He’s a typical queeny gay, isn’t he? And—’
    ‘Oh for God’s sake, Colette!’ Hilary interjected crossly. ‘What’s that got to do with anything! Say I’d met someone else, who was straight, you wouldn’t
be sitting there saying he’s a typical hetero, would you?’
    ‘You’re very ratty,