“Rosaline,” she exclaimed, hugging her somewhat unsuccessfully on account of the wineglass and Rosaline not having expected to see her, let alone be enveloped by her. “Hi. Come in. Alain’s in the kitchen.”
Hoping that her feelings of What the fuck? hadn’t reached her face, Rosaline followed Liv into the living room—where she stood looking dazed while Liv kicked off her Louboutins and curled up catlike on the sofa.
“Isn’t it wonderful,” she purred, “to be seeing a man who cooks.”
“Well, I did meet him on a cooking show, so it’d be weird if he didn’t.”
Liv waved her wineglass. “Believe me, you still can’t take that type of thing for granted. Every man I’ve been with since Alain has been very much the ‘lives off takeaway and fucks his secretary’ sort.”
What was happening right now? “Maybe you’ve been unlucky?”
“Oh, I’ve been very lucky. I’ve known exactly what I’ve been getting into.” A pause. Then a sigh. “But I have missed Alain. He was always different.” Another pause. “I think it’s being an architect: it’s just creative enough you can’t be totally dry and miserable but not so creative you’re obliged to act like a total wanker. And it’s just corporate enough that you can’t get away with living in sandals but not so corporate that you can get away with anything.”
“Have you tried,” suggested Rosaline, “dating somebody . . . not like any of those things?”
Liv gazed at her solemnly. “I admit the thought has crossed my mind.”
This had started weird and was showing no signs of de-weirding. “Sorry, am I stepping on your . . . Is there some kind of . . . ” Rosaline did her best approximation of an Are you still in love with my boyfriend gesture. “Are you and Alain . . . ?”
“Not at all, darling. I’ll admit we’ve been a bit on-again, off-again, but I think we’re off for the foreseeable.”
It seemed a bit rude to say, “So why are you in his house dressed like you’re on a date?” but Rosaline really wanted to know why Liv was in his house dressed like she was on a date. Before she could formulate an even halfway-polite version of that question, Alain appeared in the doorway, with—of all things—a tray of savoury macarons.
“You made it, Rosaline,” he said, putting the macarons down on a coffee table before brushing his lips across her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here. I can see you’ve both already made yourselves comfortable.”
Which didn’t entirely make sense, because while Liv might have been lying around like Cleopatra eyeing up a delivery of ass’s milk, Rosaline was standing in the middle of the room with her coat still on and her bag in her hand.
“Let me take these.” Alain relieved her of both and replaced the bag with a glass of wine. “And I hope you’re not too macaroned-out. I thought it might be nice for us to dine mezze-style tonight.”
Rosaline tried to communicate with her eyes that it wasn’t the finger food she was confused by.
Catching up a macaron between two exquisitely manicured fingers, Liv popped it into her mouth and crunched. “Alain darling. These are delightful.”
He nodded. “If last week’s baketacular hadn’t involved a cake element, I’d have made these for it. Of course, the judges would still have gone with something full of sugar and feelings, but at least I’d have stood out.”
Having spent most of the day at work and the first part of the evening ferrying her child to Lauren and Allison’s flat, Rosaline was starving. Mezze-style savoury macaron would not have been her first choice of starter. A burger, a pie, or a big vat of macaroni cheese would have been her first choice of starter. But savoury macaron—much like Liv—was apparently what she was getting. So she sat down and tried to make the best of both of them.
After all, it wasn’t that she disliked Liv. It was just that in her experience, a cosy evening in with your boyfriend didn’t normally involve a third party.
In any case, the savoury macarons were nice—feta and olive, if Rosaline was any judge. But then they would be, because Alain was good enough at this shit that they’d put him on TV.
“So, uh, Liv,” Rosaline tried, “what brings you to . . . the Cotswolds?”
“I was in the area, working on a farmhouse conversion, and Alain happened to mention that you might be visiting, and so I thought it’d be nice to see you again.”
This seemed a bit excessive, considering they’d met once and had nothing in common. “Oh. Um. I guess, it’s nice to see you too?”
Alain was opening another bottle of wine—Was he drunk? Were they both drunk? “It’s wonderful,” he said, “to see my two favourite girls getting on so well.”
Okay, so he was drunk then. Or joking in a way that wasn’t quite coming across. At least she hoped he was one of those things.
They finished the macarons, and Rosaline would have finished her glass in an effort to take the edge off the evening, except Alain and Liv, in an excess of hospitality, kept topping it up for her. Which made it a little bit difficult for her to keep track of how much she was drinking.
And then Alain vanished into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the next course, leaving Rosaline with an awkward silence and an interior designer.
“Alain tells me you live with your ex-girlfriend,” remarked Liv after a moment or two. “Isn’t that a bit . . . intense?”
“God, I don’t actually live with her. She’s just around a lot.”
“That still sounds intense.”
“Well, she’s quite an intense person. But she’s also happily married, and I think we’re better friends than we were girlfriends.”
One of Liv’s perfect eyebrows formed a perfect arch. “Why’s that?”
“Partly because we were seventeen, but”—a more sober Rosaline might have spoken more guardedly—“it was a lot of fucking and screaming, sometimes simultaneously.”
“Oh my. I . . . suppose I always thought things would be, I don’t know, I assume two women would understand each other better.”
“It’s not about understanding. People are messy, relationships are messy, teenagers are very messy, and”—Rosaline took another sip of wine—“Lauren’s incredibly messy.”
“It must have been exciting, though. All that passion.”
“I mean, yes. But again, we were seventeen. You can be passionate about anything at seventeen.”
Standing, Liv smoothed her dress down her thighs and went to open yet another bottle. “No, but with a man there’s so much . . . difference. It’s almost absurd. Their emotions work differently, their brains work differently, their bodies work differently.” She threw back almost half her glass. “Take sex. Men get turned on, apply friction, and then they’re done. But women . . . women are sensuous. We need time, we need care, we need to be touched, we need to marinate like . . .”
“Tofu?” offered Rosaline.
“No,” she said, pouting.. “Not like tofu. Like . . . like . . . a fine wine.”
Rosaline was definitely tipsy, but she’d have to be a lot drunker than this to forget basic cooking terminology. “You don’t marinate wine. You can marinate things in wine.”