Page 17 of You Had Me at Chateau
Amy pulls out her phone, her fingers flying over the screen.
‘Caleb Carney… He’s dating Annabelle Harvey-Whitaker,’ she tells us. ‘She’s one of those posh girls from that reality TV show about rich socialites in Kensington.’
She holds up her phone and shows everyone a photo of a stunning blonde with perfect make-up and a designer wardrobe. I see Annabelle and Caleb on social media all the time and quickly scroll past them because, honestly, their perfect-couple brand is enough to make a girl sick. Looking more closely, obviously we have different faces but I guess I do look like her, in a general way, just like… you know the story of the Prince and the Pauper? I’m like her pauper equivalent.
Mum takes Amy’s phone for a moment and holds it out in front of her, squinting at the screen, looking at it in that way only mums seem to do.
‘Amber looks nothing like this Annabelle,’ she muses. ‘Although I can see why he might have thought it was her, without seeing her face.’
‘Hilarious,’ Tom adds.
‘It’s a shame he’s not single,’ Mum adds with a sigh.
Oh, yeah, right, because if he were single he definitely would have tried it on with me in a lift. Absolutely. One hundred per cent.
‘I agree,’ Amy chimes in, staring at her phone again. ‘Meeting in a lift is like the ultimate meet-cute. And you should know that, Amber, being a romcom writer.’
‘That’s a good point,’ I reply, laughing and shaking my head. ‘But sadly, real life is never like it is in romcoms. There are no perfect meet-cutes, just awkward encounters and misunderstandings, and all of them end with me single.’
‘Is this why you want to ditch the rom, and focus on the com?’ Tom asks. ‘And why you want to throw murder into the mix? Are you going to go on a spree?’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ I reply, shooting him a look.
‘I’ll get the nibbles,’ Mum says, shaking her head.
‘So, are you going to tell us what your editor said?’ Tom asks.
‘At least let me get some nibbles in me first,’ I reply. ‘And maybe some more wine.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ Auntie Kay jokes, draining the last drop from her glass.
‘Here we go,’ Mum says, placing the tray on the coffee table. ‘Help yourselves.’
Wow, the food looks amazing. Mum has really gone all out. I’m not sure I would put so much effort into something for someone I was pre-divorcing. Then again, perhaps it’s that immature mentality that’s stopping me from meeting someone in the first place.
There are delicate smoked salmon blinis, beautifully decorated with sprigs of dill. Mini quiches, still warm, in a variety of flavours, each one so vivid in colour from the fillings. A selection of cheeses, arranged like a work of art, complete with grapes, figs and crackers – cheese is basically my dad’s lifeblood, so his eyes light up when he notices them. That weird little curved knife, it isn’t for cutting the cheese, it’s so that my dad can stab anyone who tries to take any.
There are also some wooden skewers with mozzarella balls, cherry tomatoes, and basil leaves, drizzled with rich-looking balsamic glaze, a pile of sausage rolls (Tom’s favourite), and a bowl of mixed olives.
‘Wow, Mum, you’ve outdone yourself this time,’ I say, reaching for a quiche.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she insists modestly. ‘Just some snacky bits.’
Auntie Kay immediately grabs a blini, pops it in her mouth, and then proceeds to pour herself another glass of wine.
‘These are divine, Jill,’ she says to Mum. ‘You always put on such a lovely spread. And the wine – ten out of ten. Johnny, you’re a lu…’
Kay’s voice trails off. I think she was about to tell my dad that he was a lucky man, before remembering that they’re getting divorced, or pre-divorced, orwhatever.
I’m yet to talk to my mum, one on one, about her and Dad’s big announcement. Honestly, I’m hoping that she’s just going to tell us that she doesn’t mean it, that it’s not really happening. But that’s not happened yet so I guess I’ll have to ask about it sooner or later, it’s just difficult.
‘Thanks,’ Mum says simply, smiling.
Right, time for me to play the clown again, because we’re in desperate need of a subject change. Anyway, I need to tellthem about my trip to France, so they don’t wonder why I’m disappearing between now and Christmas.
‘Okay, so, my meeting with my editor,’ I chime in. ‘It didn’t go great. Not only is she not willing to let me explore other genres but she’s insisting I finish my first draft before Christmas, and not only that, but she’s shipping me off to France to write it.’
‘You’re going to France?’ Mum says, shocked.
