Free Leftovers by Stella Newman Page B

bake. It’s one of the more obscene puddings in this file, but I’ve never met anyone who didn’t go back for seconds. First you make the brownies, and Lord knows there are as many brownie recipes as there are Hindu deities. Normally I’d go straight to my friend Claire’s recipe, which produces the ultimate squidgy yet chunky brownie. But the brownies in this pudding need to stay in neat squares so I use a Nigel Slater recipe that is foolproof and produces a more cake-like brownie, better fit for purpose.
    While the brownies are in the oven I make the cheesecake base – full-fat Philadelphia, mascarpone and vanilla, whipped together and poured onto a base of crushed dark chocolate digestives mixed with melted better. That’s my favourite part of the whole process – spreading the biscuit base out into the tray with a spatula, like it’s wet sand. The brownies come out of the top oven and in goes the cheesecake for forty minutes, then the heat goes off and the cheesecake stays in the oven to cool and set. I give the bolognese a quick stir, then head back to the sofa for another little lie-down. I can’t wait to be an old lady when all this mid-afternoon snoozing will be deemed socially acceptable.
    The girls are due at 7 p.m. so at 6.30 p.m. I open a bottle of wine and start drinking – I might as well air the wine before they get here.
    Polly’s the first to arrive at 7 p.m. on the dot.
    ‘You look amazing!’ I say, as I open the door and give her a hug.
    ‘D’you think?’ she says, handing me a bottle of Prosecco.
    ‘You’re glowing.’
    ‘Really? I’ve been on the Perricone, lots of oily fish. I feel like a penguin.’
    ‘And your hair totally suits you longer.’
    She reaches up and touches her neck. ‘I’m growing it for the wedding. You don’t think I’m too old for long hair, do you?’
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you’re thirty-six. You didn’t drive by the way, did you?’ Polly, Dave and Maisie now live in a small village near Marlow in Buckinghamshire. It’s only forty minutes by car, but if she’s driving that means I’m drinking alone, which isn’t good for anyone.
    ‘My one night out and you think I’m drinking Evian? Dave gave me a lift in and I’ll get a cab back. Is that smell what I think it is?’
    I nod.
    ‘How long has it been on for?’ she says.
    I check my watch. ‘Just over eight hours.’
    ‘I cannot wait, I’ve been looking forward to this all week! Will you email me the recipe? I want to make it for Dave.’
    ‘I’ve got some copies of it, I gave one to Terry the other day,’ I say, retrieving the recipe file I’d just returned to the hall cupboard.
    ‘I’m so sick of eating mackerel,’ she calls out from the kitchen. ‘Shall we start this Prosecco or wait for Dalia?’
    ‘
He who hesitates
… plus, it’ll help the crisps go down more easily,’ I say, opening a packet of Kettle Chips.
    And it’s just as well we don’t wait for Dalia. Because twenty minutes later she sends me a text apologising profusely saying she can’t make it, and she’ll make it up to me another time, promise, kiss kiss.
    ‘Look at this,’ I say to Polly, showing her my phone. ‘She doesn’t even bother making excuses any more because she knows we won’t believe them.’
    ‘At least she’s got the decency not to pretend she has a migraine, I suppose,’ says Polly, handing the phone back to me and shaking her head.
    ‘You would think she would at least pick up the phone rather than just text,’ I say. ‘It’s rude.’
    ‘Mark’s probably there with her and she can’t bear to drag herself away from his side for twenty seconds.’
    ‘Do you reckon the sex is as good as she makes out it is?’ I say. ‘I’ve always thought Mark looked like the sort of man who would be entirely about his penis and not much else.’
    ‘Me too!’ she says. ‘But apparently it’s so amazing she says it’s like a drug.’
    ‘Huh,’ I say. ‘Well none of the drugs I’ve ever