Season One - Chapter Seven
It began, as most terrible ideas in that flat did, with Derek saying, “Trust me.”
This alone should have been enough to trigger emergency protocols. Derek only said “trust me” before two types of events: fires and sex. Neither of which ever ended well.
He stood in the kitchen wearing only an apron that read Kiss the Cook (But Ask First), brandishing a wooden spoon with the confidence of a man who believed culinary experience could be absorbed through vibes alone.
“Tonight,” he announced, “we host. Properly. No take-away cartons. No burnt meatballs. No traumatised inspectors. A dinner party.”
Richard stared at him with the expression of a man doing tax returns without a calculator. “Define properly.”
“Appetisers. Mains. Dessert. Ambience. Conversation. Seduction.”
Richard blinked. “Seduction of whom.”
Derek smirked. “Whoever survives the appetisers.”
On the sofa, Ricky looked up from a sea of glitter and glue. “Before we seduce anyone, do we actually own plates.”
Richard sighed. “We own plates with phrases like Bite Me and Daddy’s Pork on them. I do not think that counts.”
“Good enough,” Derek said.
“It is absolutely not,” Richard replied.
Ricky shrugged. “It is fine. I made napkins.”
Richard frowned. “Folded napkins. Or napkins.”
“Napkins,” Ricky said brightly. “I crocheted them.”
Richard groaned. “You crocheted paper napkins.”
“I crochet anything if you leave me alone long enough.”
