Free The Gatecrasher by Sophie Kinsella

cried Antony.
    “It’s not for me to tell your father what to do.”
    “But if he’d realized, I’m sure . . .” Antony broke off and looked at Gillian in frustration. Why the hell hadn’t she said something to Dad? When he got back and saw what he’d done, he’d feel terrible.
    “Well, it’s too late now. He didn’t say which restaurant he was at.”
    She looked almost pleased, thought Antony, as though she got some satisfaction from having all her efforts wasted.
    “So we’ll just eat it all ourselves?” He sounded aggressive, he knew, but he didn’t care.
    “I suppose so.” Gillian looked down at herself. “I’ll go and get out of this dress,” she said.
    “Why don’t you keep it on?” said Antony, desperate somehow to salvage the occasion. “You look nice.”
    “It’ll get all creased. There’s no point messing it up.” She turned, and made her way towards the stairs.
    Well fuck it, thought Antony. If you don’t want to make an effort, then neither do I. He remembered Xanthe Forrester and Mex Taylor that morning. They had actually invited him out, hadn’t they? Maybe they weren’t so bad, after all.
    “I might go out then,” he said. “If we’re not having a big dinner or anything.”
    “All right,” said Gillian, without looking back.
    Antony went over to the phone and dialled Fifi Tilling’s number.
    “Hello?” Fifi’s voice was bubbling over with fun; there was music in the background.
    “Hi, it’s Antony. Antony Favour.”
    “Oh right. Hi, Antony. Hey, everyone,” she called, “Antony’s on the phone.” In the background, he thought he could hear sniggers.
    “I wasn’t going to be free this evening,” he said awkwardly, “but now I am. So I could come round or something. Xanthe said everyone was getting together.”
    “Oh. Yeah.” There was a pause. “Actually we’re all about to go out to a club.”
    “Great. Well, I’m on for that.” Did he sound friendly and laid-back, or anxious and desperate? He couldn’t tell.
    “The thing is, actually, the car’s full.”
    “Oh, right.” Antony looked at the receiver; not sure. Was she trying to say . . .
    “Sorry about that.” Yes, she was.
    “No problem.” He tried to sound casual. Amused, even. “Maybe another time.”
    “Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Fifi sounded vague. She wasn’t even listening to him.
    “Well, bye then,” said Antony.
    “Bye Antony. See you around.”
    Antony put the phone down and felt a wave of humiliation rise through him. They would have found room for him if they’d wanted to. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. He felt hot with embarrassment, even though he was alone in the room.
    It was all his bloody dad’s fault—if he’d arrived ontime, that phone call wouldn’t have happened. Antony leaned back in his chair. He found that thought gratifying. Yeah, it was his dad’s fault. An invigorating resentment began to wash through him. And it was Gillian’s fault too. What was her bloody problem? Why hadn’t she just given his dad some grief and told him to come right home?
    For a few minutes he sat, fiddling with a napkin, thinking how pissed off he was with them both, and looking at the table which he’d laid. What an effort for nothing. Well, it could all just stay there. He wasn’t about to put everything away again.
    Then it occurred to him that Gillian might call down and suggest that he did exactly that, so before she could he got up and wandered into the kitchen. The lamb was still roasting away in the oven, and sitting majestically on the table was the pavlova, smothered in whipped cream and decorated with kiwi fruit. Antony looked at it. If they weren’t going to do supper properly, then there was no harm in him having a bit, was there? He pulled out a chair, picked up the remote control and zapped it several times at the screen of the television. Then, as the kitchen filled with the glitzy sound of a game show, he picked up a spoon, dug it into