ANOTHER ONE OF MUM’S PARTIES

Let me read for you! Skip introduction 3:05

‘How did I get to bed?’ I asked, my tongue so dry it felt like I had been chewing straw all night.

‘You kept growling at your brother, so I thought it was time to call it a night,’ Roman explained from the other pillow. It was 4:30 am. The morning after Mum’s house party. I drank roughly 343 glasses of champagne.

‘Growling?’

‘Yeah, we were all sat round the fire pit, and Jack wanted to tell a story, but every time he opened his mouth, you would growl at him.’

The bonfire stench coming from my hair suddenly made sense.

‘Like in a mean way?’ I asked.

‘No, in a sibling way. It was funny, but we thought it was time for bed.’

I squirmed. I thought at 35 I had grown out of sibling fights, but apparently not.

The party was the day after the private view – which, if you haven’t read about it yet, read it here.

Readers of the Quack will know that Mum is a classic 80s advertising woman who marks most occasions by hosting an event. For instance, on the day of the eclipse, she invited the village round, including the postwoman, for nibbles and drinks. All guests received free eclipse glasses.

This party wasn’t for nature’s wonders, but to celebrate the launch of her late partner Richard Nott’s exhibition and his monograph, Vestige. She also wanted to squeeze in a celebration for my book, Bad Dates Club.

‘We could stage photos of my friends lining up to get their book signed by you?’ Mum suggested.

I had a vision of Ruth, Lorraine and Roz standing in a pretend queue as I hover a pen over my book and grimace at the camera.

‘No, we don’t have to do that,’ I said. I had an idea of what my life would like be as a published author, and that was not it.

Sixty or so people were invited. A magician was booked, and a bar service was hired to save Mum from a panic attack over spotting a guest without a drink.

RED ALERT! SARAH HAS BEEN IN THE HOUSE FOR EXACTLY FIVE MINUTES AND THIRTY SECONDS, AND HAS NOT BEEN OFFERED A DRINK!

So, she hired someone.

Any hope of a leisurely stroll down the beach on the morning of the party was dashed as soon as Roman and I went into the kitchen.

The fridge needed to be completely cleared by 1pm so the bar service could store their booze in it! A huge slab of meat was roasting and needed to be out of the oven in exactly one hour! A potato salad needed to be prepped! As well as an egg one! The cheese board had to be laid out! The hummus needed dressing! And the 7kg of prawns had arrived but needed defrosting!!

The 7kg of prawns were one of Mum’s spontaneous decisions. It was whilst she was driving Roman and me to St Ives the day before that she was put on the spot by the fish supplier over the phone. They couldn’t get her the lobsters and crab she had requested, but could do prawns instead. 5kg of prawns without heads, 2kg of prawns with heads.

‘Um…’ Mum said as she whizzed around the roundabout. ‘Yeah. Yeah. Sounds good.’

She hung up.

‘Roman’s allergic to shellfish,’ I said.

‘Now you tell me!’

‘It’s fine,’ Roman said quietly.

I doubled down.

‘He’ll go to hospital if he even looks at one.’

‘What?’ Mum screeched.

‘No! I just can’t eat them, otherwise my tummy goes funny,’ Roman said, ruining all the fun.

So, the prawns were there in the kitchen and Roman was fine.

The next job was to set up various ‘stations’: places where guests could park themselves. So we got on with setting out circles of chairs around the house, like mini-AA meetings. And placed bowls of nuts, Kettle crisps and anything else a guest might fancy: a dish of cocaine, a tray of cigars… no, not really. This was Cornwall, not L.A. The most extreme it gets is extra spicy hummus and 14% wine.

I thought it would be a great idea to turn the living room into a dance room. I was sorting out the tech to make this happen, when Mum came rushing in, looking very distressed.

‘I’ve had to fire the bar service!’

‘Why Mum?’

I was shocked. She was not the firing type.

‘I don’t know what happened. I requested decent wine: Provence rosé and champagne, that kind of thing. I even paid her upfront, so she wouldn’t be out of pocket, but she brought Hardys and Freixenet! Freixenet Mary!’

‘Oh my…’

‘So, I have to get to Sainsbury’s and buy all the alcohol.’ She took a breath. ‘But I need you to find as much rosé around the house as you can!’ And with that, she dashed off to Sainsbury’s,

(I did some digging on the bar service Mum had found online and found a few red flags. For instance, their so called ‘19,000 five-star reviews’ were just a link to the famous Griffith Observatory. And the photos on the website were screenshots of Google Images of buffets. (There is an ongoing dispute, but do not talk about financial issues on The Quack).

Screenshot of their screenshot on the website

And so, my dance room had to be abandoned for the time being as we switched into emergency mode. My brother Jack arrived from London. He came walking into the kitchen to find Roman and me rummaging through the cupboards for any sign of rosé.

‘Where’s Mum?’ he asked. I explained about the bar lady and the Frexienet drama. He could only imagine the state our mother was in…

Mum returned with boxes and boxes of alcohol. Enough alcohol to make the tide come in if it were poured into the Atlantic Ocean. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but there was a fair bit (enough to turn me into a roaring dinosaur by the end of the night, apparently).

The last thirty minutes before a party remind me of those old changing-room programmes, when the tradies rushed to get the room ready before the people arrived. Somehow it was always finished just in time. And that’s what happened at the party; the guests entered and a drink was handed to them, just in time.

Soon the room was full; everyone had a drink in hand, and a crisp at arm’s reach. Roman was back to being introduced to everybody as my real-life boyfriend. The magician, the only man in a suit, got us all to pick a card. The prawns, meanwhile, were not being eaten. And the Northerners had found the record player and were being swept away by nostalgia. I seemed to drift from one person to the next; my glass would be full one second, and then the next time I looked down, there would be only a puddle of champagne at the bottom. Where on earth did that disappear to?

By nightfall, I was ready for my dance room. I demanded the guests to go into the living room where I began to blast out my playlist, appropriately named ‘Daaaance’.

I didn’t think Roman was as drunk as I was until the famous Dirty Dancing track, “The Time of My Life “, started playing. I watched him with astonishment as he ran into Daniel’s arms (Daniel is a local Cornish friend who also helps Mum with the house) and got lifted into the air, just as if he were Baby.