Meals For One

Cooking for myself didn’t seem worthwhile. I needed an incentive . . .

ISIGHED as I cleared up after yet another meal for one. Eating had become such a joyless experience ever since I had moved out of a shared flat and started living alone.

My new house was lovely and I enjoyed having my own place. No queuing for the bathroom. No arguing over what programme to watch on television or whose turn it was to do the washing up.

But eating alone was starting to get to me.

“What you need, Amy, is a lonely hearts club,” my best friend at work, Patricia, said.

I laughed. “No-one calls it that these days! It’s all online dating and perfect-match profiling, whatever that means.”

“Well, get on a dating site. You’ll soon have plenty of people to go out to dinner with.”

That wasn’t my problem, I thought as I washed up my one plate, one glass and one set of cutlery. I wasn’t looking for romance. I had a great career, and I was happy being single at the moment.

It was just that, sometimes, it would be nice not to eat alone.

It would be lovely to cook a proper meal for two, or three or four.

And it would be great to go out to a restaurant sometimes without looking like Billy No-mates.

Patricia was a great friend, but she had small children at home and it wasn’t always possible for her to get away in the evenings. By contrast with hers, my life outside work was a bit empty.

As I sat down with a cup of tea in front of the television, an idea started to form in my head.

What I needed wasn’t a lonely hearts club.

It was a lonely stomachs club.

“What if you end up with a load of boring people? Or an axe murderer?” Patricia asked when I explained my idea.

“I’m not going to invite just anyone. I’ll start by putting a notice up here at work.” I waved my hand around. “How many people work in this building? A hundred, at least, yet I only know a dozen or so to speak to.

“There must be loads of interesting people here who are in the same position – not looking for romance, just company.

“I thought we could meet maybe twice a month. One meeting could be at someone’s house, with them cooking and others bringing wine and desserts, and the other a trip out to a reasonably priced restaurant.”

“Start slow,” Patricia advised. “Why don’t you organise a one-off supper club and see how it goes? I might even come, if I can get a babysitter.”

I put up a notice on the staff noticeboard.

The Lonely Stomachs Club

Are you fed up of eating alone and looking for some culinary companionship?

I put my name and my phone number on the bottom and waited for the calls.

“Erm, I’m Graham and I work in accounts,” the first person to ring up said. “This isn’t a dating agency, or anything, is it?”

He sounded like he might be the sort of person to run a mile at the thought of a blind date. I reassured him on that point and added his name to my list.

The next two people did think it was a dating event and they weren’t interested when I explained that it wasn’t.

Just as I was starting to think the whole thing was a bad idea, I had another phone call.

“My name’s Sheila. I’ve just got out of a long relationship and the last thing I want is a new man, but this sounds like it could be fun.”

“You sound like just the sort of person we’re looking for,” I said.

By lunchtime I had two more possibles and I decided that was probably enough for the first event, especially as I was intending to cook dinner at my own house to get the ball rolling.

I pinged off an e-mail to the people

on the list, suggesting the coming Friday and telling them a bit more about what I had in mind.

Two couldn’t make that date, but said that they would be interested in any future meetings.

Patricia, Sheila and Graham said that was fine with them, so I e-mailed them back to confirm and set about putting together a menu.

When I got home from work on the Friday evening, ready to start cooking, I realised I was short of onions and tomatoes. And I didn’t have time to go to the shops.

Should I ask my neighbour? I didn’t really know him. Mr Blakemore was a widower in his seventies and kept himself to himself.

I had no choice.

“Mr Blakemore,” I said as he opened his door. “I wondered if you have any onions or tomatoes I can borrow, please. I’m having people over for dinner and I’ve run out.”

“Come in and I’ll see, dear,” he said hospitably. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

“That’s nice of you, but no, thanks. I must get on with the cooking.”

“Ah,” he said wistfully. “I enjoyed cooking when my wife was alive. Doesn’t seem worth it these days. Not just for me.”

My heart lurched with sympathy. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might be sitting next door eating alone every night, feeling just as lonely as I was.

“Why don’t you join us? You’d be welcome.”

Back in my own house I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing. The guests tonight were from my work. What if they had nothing in common with Mr Blakemore?

But then, I didn’t really know any of them, either, apart from Patricia. My mobile phone rang. “Amy, I’m sorry but one of the kids is ill and I can’t come tonight, after all. I’m sorry to let you down.”

“Don’t worry, Patricia. I’ll see you at work next week.”

Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. “Erm, it’s Graham.”

“Is everything all right?” “Well, not really. My great-aunt was coming over tonight and Mum was supposed to be here, but she’s been called away. I don’t like to let my aunt down.”

He was going to cancel as well! It would only be me, Sheila and Mr Blakemore. Some supper club that was going to be.

“Why don’t you bring her with you?”

“Are you sure?”

I did some calculations in my head. I was sure the food would stretch.

“Yes. The more the merrier.”

Mr Blakemore was the first to arrive and I was touched to notice that he’d changed into his best clothes and brought a bunch of flowers for me. Sheila arrived next. “Who else are you expecting?” she asked as I poured her a glass of the wine she’d brought.

“My friend, Patricia, was to come, but one of her children isn’t well. We’re expecting Graham from accounts and he’s bringing a guest.”

“That sounds a good mix of people. I know Graham slightly – nice guy, if a little quiet.”

She followed me into the living-room where Mr Blakemore was seated on the sofa.

“Call me Stan,” he told us.

Sheila sat down by him. “Now, tell me all about yourself.”

I smiled as I got on with the final touches of the meal. Sheila seemed a lovely person and was already putting Stan at ease.

Soon Graham arrived. “This is Auntie June.” He introduced a small lady with an air of Miss Marple. Sheila stood up. “Shall I get everyone a drink?”

I’d been right about Sheila being an asset to the group. Soon she had a drink in everyone’s hand and a buzz of animated chatter was floating through to the kitchen as I cooked.

It was going so well I couldn’t believe it.

I opened the oven door to check that my chicken casserole was nearly ready. Yes. It smelled savoury and gorgeous and the chicken was thoroughly cooked.

All I needed to do now was set the table and drain the potatoes I’d done to accompany the casserole and we’d be ready to eat.

In the dining-room I hummed as I laid out cutlery. Then my nose twitched. I was smelling burning.

“Oh, no!” I muttered. “I’ve burned the potatoes!”

They weren’t just a little burnt. The water had boiled dry and the potatoes were stuck to the bottom of the pan in a black mess.

“Is there a problem?” Stan appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

“I’ve ruined the meal. The potatoes are burned and I don’t have anything else to serve.”

“Don’t panic. What are we having?”

“Chicken casserole,” I said glumly. “But people will expect something with it. Everyone’s going to think I’m really stupid.”

This whole thing had been a bad idea, I thought in despair. If I wasn’t capable of cooking for four guests then I was better off eating alone.

“No-one will think anything of the sort,” Stan said. “Nobody but me has even noticed there’s a problem. June – fine woman, that – is holding everyone entranced with stories of her youth.”

“What am I going to do, though?”

“Give me five minutes to pop next door. I think I have the answer.”

And he did. Before anyone else had even noticed he’d gone, he was back with a bag of easy-cook rice.

“This will only take five minutes,” he said, grabbing a clean pan.

Much later, as we sat around the dining table eating the tubs of trifle that Graham had brought along for dessert – “I can’t really cook, I’m afraid,” he’d said sheepishly as he handed them over – I finally relaxed.

Thanks to Stan’s quick thinking, the meal had been a triumph rather than a disaster, and the mix of guests was working well.

Everything was going well. Then I smelled burning!

I might not be a culinary genius, I decided, but I had brought all these people together. That was the main thing.

June and Stan were lost in chatter about what it was like growing up after the war. Her cheeks were rosy and there was a glint in his eye that definitely hadn’t been there before.

Sheila and Graham helped me clear the table.

“Pour yourself another drink and have a rest,” Sheila said to me. “Graham and I can do the washing up, can’t we, Graham?”

Graham seemed happy to comply.

I allowed myself a moment of triumph. Sheila and Graham were great company and I was looking forward to more culinary evenings with them both in the future.

My evenings would be a lot less lonely from now on.

As for Stan and June, I couldn’t help thinking there might be more to it than friendship for them, eventually.

I couldn’t wait to ring Patricia and tell her how it had all gone. And how she’d been at least partly right.

My lonely stomachs club had turned out to be a bit of a lonely hearts club, after all.

Just not for me! n