Shepherd's Pie, Cocktails and Lingerie
I lean over the hot oven, splatters from the mince creating oily splotches on the pristine pages of my cookbook. Sweat beads on my brow and I wipe it away before it joins the oil slicks. Who the hell asks for shepherd's pie in July? Surely not shepherds -- they're too busy sleeping off the heat under a tree somewhere. No, the only person daft enough to request such a thing is Gregory. My ex. My sodding, silly ex who dumped me last year, and who now has the temerity to invite himself over and ask for bloody shepherd's pie!
So that's what I'm cooking. Yes, I know it's pathetic. But if I said no, he'd think I'm not over him yet. And if I don't make the dish he asked for, he'd figure I'm spiteful, right? I should also mention I'm wearing my best lingerie: a dusky pink satin balcony bra and skimpy matching knickers. Why? Well, the sauciest action these poor items have seen is when I ripped off the sales tags. And I have to make an effort, to show Gregory I've not let myself go.
I throw in a handful of carrots and take a big swig of my vodka tonic. Already things are slightly hazy, but drinking will just take off the edge of all those awkward 'so-hey-how-are-you moments' we're sure to have. I haven't seen Greg since he stuck me with the bill at Pizza Express after smugly proclaiming he was heading to Peru to 'find himself'. I hope he found some more hair, since he'd just started balding and that combing-forward tactic so wasn't working for him.
Oh! Here he is! A bit early, but maybe he can help make the food . . . okay, not likely. God, is that the buzzer again? Looks like he hasn't found any patience. Do I really need to let him in? Do I even want to? I gulp back my drink, listening to the insistent buzzes and watching the beef sizzle in front of me.
Bloody Gregory. He can ring my bell all he wants, but he's not getting my pie!