The Wicked Girls by Alex Marwood

giggles.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Don’t use the
packet
stuff, you idiot. I made some.’ He flourishes a beaker of identical yellow glop that’s been sitting by the sink.
    ‘Oh shit, sorry.’
    He shakes his head again, suppressing his rage with difficulty. ‘Look, just get out of the way. I’ll do it. I can’t believe
     you’d do this to me. These are people who eat in restaurants all the time. Like they’re not going to notice the sauce came
     out of a packet.’
    ‘Sorry,’ says her autopilot. She feels so wretched she’s amazed she’s still on her feet. All she wants to do is curl up in
     front of the telly and doze until bedtime. I will never drink again, she thinks, for the 763rd time in her life.
    Jim doles out the sauce, turns and hands her two plates. ‘Here. Take these through. You can have the bought one. I’ll bring
     it through last. And for God’s sake pull yourself together.’
    Kirsty gulps. Together, they go back to their guests.
    ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ says Lionel Baker, and she flinches: even in her fragile state, golf-club phrases make her skin
     crawl.
    ‘Cheers,’ she says, and raises her untouched glass. Puts it to her lips but doesn’t take a sip. Partly because she fears her
     liver will explode if a drop of alcohol goes into her body, but mostlybecause Jim’s eyes bore into her like a laser every time her hand strays towards the stem.
    Sue Baker giggles and clinks her glass. ‘Such a funny phrase,’ she says. Sue’s the real deal: a woman who chose to Make a
     Lovely Home the moment she landed herself a stockbroker, and hasn’t had an original thought since she decided to have ornamental
     cabbages as the table centrepieces at her wedding. I must be nice, thinks Kirsty. If Jim’s going to tap these people up for
     a job, they need to remember what good hosts we are. Lionel’s ten years older than Jim, ten inches larger about the waist
     and ten times more pleased with himself. But he’s also been a partner at Marshall & Straum for years, and they all know he’s
     recruiting again now that the worst of the shitstorm is over. Jim and Gerard Lucas-Jones, the other husband at the table,
     were on his team when he got promoted. Everyone is pretending that they’re old friends.
    Sue puts her glass down and picks up her knife and fork. ‘How lovely,’ she says, with a patronising edge. ‘I haven’t had gravadlax
     in years. Did you cure it yourself?’
    Of course you haven’t, thinks Kirsty viciously. Gravadlax is
so
1980s, darling. I’m sorry they were out of black-cod sashimi by the time I got to Waitrose.
    ‘Afraid not,’ says Jim. ‘Kirsty’s been away, working. I made the sauce, though.’
    She smiles quietly. Jim takes pride in being ‘good’ in the house; always has done. But it’s not the right image for a Master
     of the Universe, he remembers. ‘It’s one of the great things about working from home,’ he adds hastily. ‘Two hours’ commute
     clawed back every day.’
    ‘And all of it spent cooking,’ jokes Kirsty experimentally.
    ‘Well,’ says Jim meanly, ‘it’s better than drinking myself into a stupor, eh?’
    Everyone laughs, the barb floating over their heads. ‘
Lucky
old you,’ says Lionel Baker, sounding exactly like his wife. ‘I long for more time at home, of course. But tell me.’ He turns
     to Kirsty, and she can see that his enquiry isn’t steeped in approval.Lionel’s a dinosaur. Working wives are not his cup of tea. ‘Away
working
? How
grand
. Do a lot of
travelling
, do you?’
    ‘Not travel, exactly,’ she replies, trying to work out how to play things down so the job that’s keeping them all afloat sounds
     like an indulgent husband’s tolerance of the little lady’s hobby. ‘But, you know, a few overnighters here and there.’
    She can see him placing her as a travelling saleswoman; wouldn’t mind, particularly, except that sales is probably not the
     top job for a wifey. Jim intervenes. ‘Kirsty’s a