Free Pear Shaped by Stella Newman Page B

kids. James says he doesn’t want to share me with anyone. We keep each other endlessly entertained.
    But now Laura has made me feel paranoid. So at the pub on Saturday I invited James round for dinner with Pete tonight. Perhaps if I introduce James to more of my friends he’ll follow suit. Besides, he’ll get on well with Pete – they’re both juvenile, charming, fun. Maybe James might register that Pete has a residual crush on me – perhaps it’ll make him more vocal in his affections.
    When James left my flat this morning I said ‘Pete’s coming at 7pm.’ He nodded. I haven’t heard from him since. Although I reason I’ll see him later, when he hasn’t rung by 7.40pm, I have a low ache in my stomach, and it isn’t hunger.
    The chicken will be ready any minute. Pete’s asking if we should invite my sexy blonde neighbour instead.
    James must be working late.
    At 7.50pm I take the chicken out, put it under foil and call James.

    ‘Hello you,’ he says.
    ‘Where are you?’ I say.
    ‘At home.’
    ‘Are you coming for dinner or what?’
    ‘Sure, see you soon.’
    ‘That was weird,’ I say to Pete.
    ‘What? He’s coming, isn’t he?’
    ‘He is now.’
    James arrives looking slightly nervous. The two shake hands and from their posture I sense a mild rivalry in the air.
    ‘So, are you a North Londoner too?’ says Pete. I’ve already told him all the facts about James, but I’ve forced these two together and Pete’s having to make small talk.
    ‘East,’ says James. ‘Woodford, born and bred.’
    ‘My cousins grew up there. What school did you go to?’
    ‘Forest.’
    ‘Do you know Alex and Adam Foster, twins?’
    ‘One of them amazing at football?’ says James.
    ‘Alex.’
    ‘Rings a bell.’
    I am delighted that there is now a common link as it brings me closer to James.
    With a glass of wine they relax and turn theirconversation to cars and girls, as though I’m not here. James says Pete’s Saab is a weird choice for a bloke in his thirties, and Pete says Maseratis are for hairdressers and they both laugh. Pete says his ideal woman would be half Danish, half Brazilian, while apparently my boyfriend’s would be eastern European, definitely.
    My grandfather was Polish. Does that count?
    I ask Pete to help carve the chicken, and in the kitchen he whispers to me, ‘I was expecting some hunk. He’s just a normal looking bloke.’
    ‘Don’t you think he looks young for his age?’
    ‘No, he looks like a 45-year-old who eats a lot of cheese.’
    ‘You’re just jealous,’ I say.
    ‘Seriously, Soph, he’s punching above his weight.’
    Because of James’s utter self-belief, the confidence that emanates from every pore of him, I always think of it as the other way round. Like I’m punching above mine.
    ‘Anyway, what do you think Pete?’
    ‘Seems alright.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘What do you want me to say?’
    ‘… Don’t you find him fascinating?’
    ‘He’s just a man who sells socks.’
    ‘Shut up, he’s coming.’

    ‘Eat some more chicken, Soph, you’re looking too skinny,’ says Pete.
    ‘Do you think?’ says James, raising an eyebrow.
    ‘You need to put a bit of weight back on,’ says Pete, looking at my arms.
    ‘Don’t tell her that!’ says James.
    Pete only thinks I’m too skinny because he likes big boobs. It’s true my boobs are smaller than they used to be, but that’s always the way when you lose weight. If only I could transplant the small handful of flab left on my bottom to my tits, I’d be laughing, but if I do lose any more weight, I’ll have no bust left, so I’m happy enough where I am.
    I head back to the kitchen to take the ice cream out of the freezer and make coffee. When I return, Pete’s already putting on his jacket.
    ‘You’re leaving?’ I say, ‘we haven’t even had dessert …’
    ‘I’m really sorry, hon, I have an early meeting. We’ll catch up properly when you’re back from New York.’
    He sends me a text on his way