Drown Deep. Deep Cut

HomEton Mess was originally a middle chapter from the novel. Horror which engages needs quiet moments to let the reader catch...a...breath.

But it also needs to stay pacy. I'm including this chapter here as an outtake because it says so much about the relationships between the characters.

There are no monsters here; as a pseudo-short story, it won't even scare you. It is an invite and anticipation of what is to come. There are no monsters here. Not yet. There is storm on both sides of this calm place.

Trust me. They need it.

HomEton Mess

‘So, what did you get her?’
‘Good morning to you too, Boy Francis. What are you talking about?’
‘What did you get, Sam?’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘Samara?’
‘…’
‘Her 18th? Jesus, Megs.’ Even over the phone, Francis’ disgust is palpable.
‘Shit, I forgot. I’m sorry. Yesterday-’
‘Well, she’s back from her dad’s at six, so we’ll be at yours about seven-ish.’
‘Mine?’
‘Yes, Omega, yours! Can you try and be present? For just one day?’
‘OK, OK. I had a lot on my mind. Let me talk to Phelia.’
Francis groans, ‘You haven’t even asked Phe yet?’
‘Asked Phe what?’ Phelia says loudly, walking into the front room.
‘Oop. Gotta go,' Megs whispers hurriedly, hanging up on Boy Francis while he is still mid-rant.
Turning to Phelia, Megs flashes what she hopes is her sweetest smile. ‘Mum!’
'Uh-uh. No. You’re about to ask me something designed to make your life easier and inconvenience mine.’
‘Really? My best friend’s birthday is an inconvenience?’
Phelia sighs. ‘Don’t tell me. You promised to do something for Samara’s birthday, which is today, and—’
‘Wait, how did you remember?’
‘Ironically, it falls on the same date every year, Omega. 'Also', she taps the fridge with a fingernail. On the calendar is scrawled "SAMARA BDAY!!" inside a massive red heart. ‘Considering I have to prise your face out of the fridge a hundred times a day, it’s shocking you need reminding.’
Megs’ shoulders slump. ‘Damn. I’m such a rubbish friend. Boy Francis is really mad.’
Phelia comes round and gives Megs a one-armed hug. ‘You’ve definitely been very distracted lately, H-bird.’
‘Apparently I told him I’d organise our usual get-together here instead this year, because his dad only just got out of hospital.’ Megs groans, ‘It’s all coming back to me.’
‘And?’ Phelia prompts.
‘We said we’d invite a few people, the usual from college.’
‘And?’
‘There would be a teeny, tiny selection of refreshments,’ then Megs says in a much smaller voice, ‘that you would make.’
When she sees her mum’s face darken, she says quickly, ‘Everyone loves your food, Mum.’
‘So, when you say, “Invite a few people", how many are we talking about, exactly? You know, with all this forewarning and time to plan you’ve given me?’
Megs cannot look Phelia in the face. ‘About twenty.’
‘Twenty!’
Megs grimaces. ‘Fifteen?’
‘How much money do you have for the ‘teeny, tiny selection of refreshments, Omega?’
Megs empties her jeans pockets onto the kitchen counter. A ten-pound note folded up to stamp size, a tangle of hair ties, one of Pavlov’s sardine treats, two £1 coins and a lip balm with no lid. ‘Hold on. I think I have another three pounds in my jar.’
‘Right. Fifteen quid. For fifteen people. Looks like you’ll be filling bowls with Iceland snacks.’ Phelia says as she empties the washer-dryer. Immediately, Pavlov jumps onto the warm clothes and begins to clean himself.
‘No, please! It’s not Sam’s fault I forgot to organise this properly.’
‘Oh, I don’t blame her, Omega. I blame you. Totally and completely.’
‘So don’t punish Sam.’
‘Omega…never mind. You will not steal my peace this morning. Listen. I’ll make Samara’s favourite things for ten people, including you, Samara, and Francis.’
‘But…’
‘Take it or leave it. And understand, I am doing this because it is for Samara, not because you tried to guilt-trip me. Or because you have horrible organisation skills.’
‘OK. You drive a hard bargain,’ Megs grumbles as Phelia separates the money from the rest of her pocket detritus and slides it into her hand.
‘And you’re going to wash the car tomorrow.’
‘The cat?’
‘I mean...you can try. I said the car.’
‘Alright. Anything else?’
‘Yes. You are going to clean the flat, and I mean clean, Megs. Not just tidy.’
‘Phelia. You’re taking the piss now.’
‘Fine, you know what? I’ll be mudlarking today, which is what I’d originally planned anyway. Let Samara know I will be taking her to dinner this evening at seven to celebrate her birthday.’
‘OK, look, I’m getting the bleach! Where is the bicarb lemon mix?’ Megs says, pushing a hissing Pavlov off the freshly laundered clothes so she can fold them.
Phelia kisses the top of her daughter’s head. ‘Great. I’ll head to the shops now so I can get some bits.’
Megs calls Francis to finalise the arrangements. Hearing how relieved he sounds makes her feel guilty all over again. Those things that were happening have stopped now. Time to refocus on my actual real life.
With a new determination, she pulls on rubber gloves, puts on some Angie Stone and tackles cleaning the small flat. When she’s finished, everything smells like beeswax and lemons.
In the meantime, Phelia returns with bags and, after unpacking, goes out again to get something special from the gallery. Megs drives quickly into town to pick up a present and chooses some Swarovski earrings with a matching necklace.
Rushing home, Meg changes into a clean pair of jeans, and just after six, Bex, Cameron, Corinna, Moh, and Sherine arrive together. They are all chemistry students, except Moh, who works on the college paper with Sam.
They ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over Pavlov, who, loving the attention, rolls fatly onto his back for ultimate tummy rub access for everyone. Girl Francis and Summer turn up not long after. Immediately, Girl Francis, as is her way, flips heavy-handedly through Phelias’s records as though she’s at a car boot sale.
‘Do you have anything more recent than 70s groove?’ She asks Megs grimly.
‘Well, I mean, that’s Wu.’
‘Who?’
'Wu-Tang, and they ain’t nothing to fuc—. Never mind. And that’s Kendrick, so. You know, Be Humble.’ Megs takes the records from her hands and places them back, lovingly and delicately. ‘Vinyl is back, and this is a very carefully curated collection.’
Girl Francis looks at her, unimpressed. Unaware the very first time Megs had complained about her self-entitled and arrogant attitude to her mother, Phelia’s measured response had been to tell Megs not to be hurt by the insensitivity of someone ‘whose parents had not had the good sense to realise they had spelled their daughter’s name wrong.’
Now, Phelia’s smile is slightly strained. ‘On that note, I’m going to leave you all to it.’ She leads Megs into the kitchen by her hand.
‘Everything hot is in the oven, keeping warm. Everything cold is in the fridge and just needs to be served. It was too late to bake her a cake, but I did make some HomEton Mess, and that’s in the freezer, setting. DON’T let it overset, or the middle won’t be sticky.’ Phelia looks around the kitchen to see if there is anything she is forgetting. Then clicks her fingers. ‘Oh, yes! I bought you back some clay so you can sculpt each other, and I will fire them in the kiln for you.’
‘You are actually the best mother in the world, Mahaba.’ Megs says, sincerely. They do the nose, finger, and kiss gesture.
‘Tell Samara I said Happy Birthday; I hope she has a good time. And H-bird, last thing. Don’t let that fool girl near any of my shit, especially my music collection.’
Not long after Phelia leaves for dinner with Aliya and Kish, Boy Francis and Sam arrive. Megs hugs them both in the doorway, wishing a squealing Sam Happy Birthday, then sees a familiar face, standing to the side of Boy Francis’ tall frame.
‘Hi!’ Megs says, pinching Francis hard and twisting. ‘What a nice surprise.’
‘You alright, Megs?’ Sephy asks, giving a sheepish half-wave. ‘I’m not trying to crash, I promise. I had to drop off something for Sam’s birthday, and Francis asked if I wanted to come.’
‘Of course! Come in, it's nothing major; we are just having a few things to... Of course it's fine. I mean, ‘Su Casa es Mi Casa, right?’ Megs ushers them in and shuts the door. There is a happy confusion of hugs and hellos and coats being removed, outfits being admired and gifts being given.
Sephy frowns at Megs. ‘Su casa, is that fusion? Like Nigerian and Bajan food?’
‘Nigerian and Bajan? It sounds like civil war on a plate.’ Megs says, hugging Sephy's coat, realises she is doing it, and hands it back to her.
‘My parents’ restaurant is Nige and Bajan fusion. People really love it.’ Sephy looks down at her coat uncertainly and puts it back on.
‘I mean, civil war on a plate isn’t necessarily a bad thing, right? It sounds as though it would be colourful. Is it? Colourful? Sorry, I need to check the fridge for ice. Take your coat off. Again.’
Megs’ smiles widely, then goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge, both to hide and to cool her burning face. She slowly bangs her head against the fruit punch cooler.
‘Why not just spit in her parents’ face?’ Boy Francis whispers gleefully, coming up behind her. He is laughing so hard; he starts to dribble. ‘Civil war, fam.’
‘Shut up,’ Megs hisses, ‘a simple fucking call to tell me you were bringing her.’
Boy Francis takes the large punch container out of the fridge and places it on the counter, unscrewing the top of a rum bottle. ‘I thought you’d be happy.’ He says.
‘I am. I mean, I’m glad she’s here; I just wish you had given me some warning. I would have—’
‘What? Done your hair, worn a colour not a shade of black?’
Before she can answer back, Sephy walks nervously into the kitchen. ‘Wondered if you wanted any help with anything.’
Boy Francis starts pouring liberal amounts of Mount Gay into the punch.
‘Ah, the drink of my people.’ Sephy smiles, pointing to the rum.
‘The LGBTQIA+?’
‘Bajans. That rum is from Barbados.’
Boy Francis nearly chokes. ‘I’ll go and give Sam her first legal drink.’ He says, crossing his eyes as he walks behind Sephy’s back.
Megs breathes out heavily. ‘Listen, can we please just start this whole thing again? I’m really nervous about you being here, in case it wasn’t obvious, and it’s making me say some really stupid things.’
‘Would you prefer me to leave?’ Sephy asks.
‘No! Of course not. Just…please, give me some grace.’
Sephy hands out plates while Megs takes the food from the oven and the fridge, silently praising her mother for her usual impressive fare.
Boy Francis sits on one of the huge floor cushions to make room for Megs when she finishes replenishing the crispy pepper halloumi, homemade tzatziki, and watermelon mint drinks. She’s so close to Sephy she can feel the heat from her bare arm, and it’s making it difficult to focus on her plate or anything else. She picks at her kofte even though they are her favourites, and she is starving.

‘Time for HomEton Mess!’ Sam calls above the noise, racing Boy Francis to the kitchen.
‘Why is it called that?’ Asks Bex, stroking a sleeping Pavlov.
'For my birthday, I think my thirteenth? Phelia took me and Sam to this really lush restaurant; you know the type where the name is just a number and a full stop? There was this elevated Eton mess with gel pearls and this edible gold paper wrapped around it.’
Sam brings in bowls and continues, ‘Yep, tempered chocolate and the biggest meringue nest I’d ever seen. Just fancy for no reason.’ She rolls her eyes, stealing a bit of feta off a plate as it goes past her. ‘Piled with these fat raspberries, lashings of cultured cream.’
We couldn't afford it anyway. Phelia felt so bad because she could tell we were disappointed. Remember, Sam? On the way home we stopped at Borough Market, and she bought some strawberries and a single passion fruit.’
‘Let me tell it, Megs. We came back here, and Phelia made these tiny macaron cookies from scratch. The same bowl she always makes it in, and there were, what, Megs? nearly two-thirds of a Viennetta in the freezer? We smashed it up with a rolling pin; Phelia had to stop Megs eating all the chocolate shards. Then we chopped up the strawberries and scooped in the passion fruit, so they were the little pearls. We didn’t have any gold leaf, but we did have gold cake balls, so we threw those in with the macaroons and some honeycomb and stirred it all up.’
Megs nods. ‘Put it in the freezer and let it set.’
‘It was the best dessert I have ever eaten.’ Sam smiles, looking down at her hands. 
Megs continues. ‘And when Phelia got this huge, commissioned piece from some rich divorcee about a month later, she took us back to the same restaurant, and the only thing we ordered was three of the Eton Messes.’ 
Until now, everyone was silent, fully invested and listening intently. ‘Well?’ Girl Francis prompts, impatiently. ‘Was it as amazing as you thought it would be?’
‘It was shit.’ Both said simultaneously.
‘Bland and overpriced.' Megs shakes her head, disgusted at the memory. ‘Man, Phelia still lives off that victory to this day.’ 
‘But why is your mum’s version called Homerton Mess?’ Moh asks, ‘Was the restaurant in Hackney?’ 
‘Not Homerton, HomEton.’ Megs corrects. 
‘I don’t get it.’ Moh says, frowning. 
‘After that, whenever we were out and we’d ask for something, especially food, Phelia would say—’ 
‘There’s Eton Mess at home,’ finishes Sam, laughing.
‘Which soon became Home, Eton Mess,' Megs explains. ‘Then just HomEton Mess. Code, in other words. But also, don’t expect something to be better than what you can do yourself just because it comes from a stranger’s hand.’ 
Moh nods, but Girl Francis shakes her head and says, ‘I don’t know. I still don’t get it.’
‘It’s OK. I don’t think you’re meant to. It’s not for you. Sephy says this without any hint of malice.

Megs dims the lights, and they sing 'Happy Birthday', out of tune and for Bex, very tipsily. 
There aren’t any candles, but Sam cracks through the semi-hard surface of the HomEton Mess, down to the gooey centre, and everyone applauds.
Megs spoons generous amounts into each bowl, and they eat in silence, the only sound being the scraping of spoons. Everyone has a second helping, and Girl Francis has a third.
‘So, did you enjoy it, then?’ Sephy asks her as they stack the empty bowls for washing.
Girl Francis shrugs, running a finger along the lip of her bowl to catch the rest of the cream. ‘It was OK.’
Everyone wants to sculpt the birthday girl, who is more than a little tipsy. Hopefully, she shakes it off before Phelia gets home. Otherwise, I’m going to have to explain how she is drunk at a strictly no-alcohol-allowed party. Megs thinks, taking the glass of rum fruit punch from her and cajoling her to drink some water instead.
They clear the space, pushing the coffee table out of the way, and Sam poses, unable to sit still without collapsing into fits of giggles. Megs gives everyone clay and sets of sculpting kits. Boy Francis puts on a Roberta Flack record as they work the clay. Cutting and smoothing, shaping, and pinching.
Boy Francis’ sculpture is a bulbous head with a too-big nose and one eye higher than the other. Megs knows the ears she added will probably fall off in the firing, but she’s proud of the hair texture effect she added. Pavlov walks all over Cameron’s, leaving tiny wet paw prints on the cheeks.
Just after midnight, Phelia messages to let Megs know she’ll be getting an Uber home in an hour. That’s the cue to hide the remaining rum and rinse the punch container. Sam has fallen asleep on Megs’ bed, so Megs gently takes her shoes off and covers her with a blanket. ‘Happy birthday, Sam.’ She whispers, kissing her cheek.
‘Sh loved it, love shu.’ Sam slurs back in response.
Boy Francis helps put the front room back together and the damp sculptures on the windowsill to dry.
They are reminiscent of the decapitated heads above the Tower of London.
Boy Francis has drunk too much to drive, and while they wait for the taxis, Sephy gives Megs a quick self-conscious smile.
‘I have to collect my Young Reporter of the Year award at a ceremony for The Beacon, and I wondered if you wanted to come with me. Can I call you when I get home?’ 
‘Yes, to both of those things.’ Megs says. 
They say their goodbyes, Sephy drawing a lipstick heart onto Sam’s sleeping cheek. As Megs helps both Francises into the taxi, Girl Francis turns to her and grips her hand, her face serious. 
‘That HomEton Mess? Please tell your mum it’s probably the nicest thing I’ve ever eaten.’ 

When Phelia gets home, Sam is snoring in the bedroom, and Megs is knocked out on the couch, her phone still connected to another sleeping girl on the other end. 
On the coffee table is the HomEton Mess bowl. Empty and licked clean.