'Anyone for seconds?' asked Tiffany. 'Or thirds?' She scanned the long table as people pushed away their plates with satisfied sighs and complimentary murmurs.
Vid, at the head of the table, leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on his armrests like a king benevolently regarding his loyal subjects, except that in this case the king had cooked dinner and his subjects had praised him big-time: the tenderness of the meat, and so on and so forth. Clementine in particular had laid it on thick.
Vid and Clementine were getting on like a house on fire. Earlier, they'd spoken for ten minutes straight about caramelised onions. Tiffany had got her own back by talking to Clementine's husband about the footy.
'You're really into your sport, aren't you, Tiffany?' said Sam now. 'You're not just faking it to be polite.'
'Oh, I never fake it,' said Tiffany.
'Why would she?' said Vid. He lifted his hands as if to indicate his marvellous physique.
Everyone laughed, except for Oliver and Erika, who gave pained smiles. Tiffany decided she'd better try to curb the risque jokes as she saw her neighbours give pointed looks at the children, who were out of earshot anyway. Dakota had the two little girls on either side of her in the hanging egg chair in the back corner of the cabana, and she was showing them something on her iPad. The girls were happily snuggled up to Dakota's sides like the dream little sisters she'd never have (a deal was a deal, but how could you not have a pang of regret watching that?) and were enthralled by whatever Dakota was showing them. Hopefully it didn't involve people's heads exploding. Barney was over in a far corner of the backyard contentedly involved with some sort of illicit hole-digging operation which Tiffany was pretending not to notice. Every now and then he'd look over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't about to be caught.
'Poor Oliver pretends to be interested in sport whenever we're around,' said Clementine. 'Sam says, "Did you catch the game last night?" and you can see Oliver thinking, "What game?"'
'I don't mind watching a bit of the tennis,' said Oliver.
'Oliver plays sport,' said Sam. 'That's the difference between him and me. I get my heart rate up yelling at the screen.'
'Oliver and Erika actually met on the squash court,' said Clementine. 'They're very athletic people.'
There was something a bit over-eager about the way Clementine spoke, as if she felt the need to champion the couple, like she was their newly appointed publicist.
'Were you playing against each other?' asked Tiffany as she refilled Erika's wineglass yet again. Tiffany wouldn't have picked her to be a heavy drinker, not that it was her business. Anyway, it wasn't like Erika had to drive home; she only had to walk next door.
'We worked for the same accounting firm,' said Erika. 'Some of the staff started a squash comp on Thursday nights. Oliver and I volunteered to do the draw.'
'We have a shared love of spreadsheets,' said Oliver, and he smiled at Erika, as if over some secret memory involving spreadsheets.
'I love a good spreadsheet myself,' said Tiffany.
'Do you?' Clementine spun her head. 'What do you use spreadsheets for?' There was just the faintest emphasis on the word 'you'.
'For my work,' said Tiffany, with just the faintest emphasis on the word 'work'.
'Oh!' said Clementine. 'I didn't ... what do you do?'
'I buy unrenovated properties, fix them up, sell them,' said Tiffany.
'You flip them,' said Sam.
'Yep,' said Tiffany. 'I flip them. Like pancakes.'
'She doesn't just flip!' said Vid. 'She's a big-time property developer!'
'I'm not,' said Tiffany. 'I've only just gone a bit bigger. I'm doing a small apartment block. Six two-bedroom apartments.'
'Yep, she's like Donald Trump! My wife earns the big bucks. You think this big motherfucking house, excuse my French, comes from my money?! You think all that artwork inside, all those masterpieces, comes from my money?'
Oh God, Vid. Next he was going to say, 'I'm just a simple electrician.'
'I'm just a simple electrician!' said Vid. 'I married up.'
A simple electrician with thirty employees, thought Tiffany. But go for your life, Vid. I'll take full credit for our money.
'They're not masterpieces by the way,' said Tiffany.
'So how did you two meet?' asked Oliver in his courteous, proper way. He reminded Tiffany of a priest making conversation with his parishioners after Sunday mass.