I was in the kitchen when my sister burst in, arms full of plastic bags containing, I knew, bags of crisps, nuts, and salsa, laughing wildly at something one of her friends said. I heard some others following her in, I couldn’t tell how many. Bright and lively, although Jane works as a technician on various movie sets, she always seems to befriend the actors rather than her fellow techies. As she was back in Britain, she asked if she and some of her friends could come round to my London flat rather than trying to party in a hotel. I was delighted, and agreed to get in some booze and make my famous chicken wings.
I came into the sitting room, where people were making themselves comfortable, and gave my sister a hug, and she introduced me to the six or seven others as they unpacked the beers they’d brought me. Someone threw me a can, and I stood for a moment trying to put the names Jane had thrown at me to faces I recognised. Most were unknown, although some were vaguely familiar. Only as I glanced into the furthest corner of the room did I see her. A petite blonde was folding an expensive-looking jacket and looking for a space to put it. I recognised her at once, as a real Hollywood star and a woman I had fancied for years. It was Kirsten Dunst.
I opened my beer, to give my hands something to do, as I walked across to her, and offered to put her coat in my bedroom. She smiled, and accepted the offer, saying that the coat was a gift. As I came back from my bedroom, I went across to the kitchen. I had pulled the last wings out of the over and was “knocking back” the bread dough for some pizzas when, to my further amazement, Kirsten slipped through the door, looking stunning in a sleeveless black top that subtly accentuated all her perfect curves, and some fantastically tight tan trousers.
“Do you need any help?” she asked, sweetly.
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I said, struggling to sound controlled, as though cute movie stars were always wandering into my tiny kitchen.
As I divided the dough into balls, we chatted. I was at something of a loss for words, obviously, but I asked a few questions, and Kirsten seemed to be quite happy to talk. She was quiet, and had a habit of running her finger over her lower lip as she thought that, in my besotted state, I found adorable. She was talking to me quite confidently, but claimed to be very shy, and only came to the party because she didn’t want to dine alone in London – knowing of the reputation of the tabloids, and the sleazy nature of many of my fellow Londoners, this struck me as very sensible. Soon, though, she stopped talking about her, and began asking about the cooking I was doing.
“I’ve never had the chance to cook. You don’t really, as an actress, and I never lived away from home before it was all restaurants and parties. To me, a homemade pizza comes out of a box and goes into the oven.”
This was a good topic for me – as a caterer I save money and improve results by cooking everything from basic ingredients. A lot of my success with women is due to my ability in the kitchen. So I talked her through making dough, tomato sauce, and so on, as I started to roll the dough.
“Can I do one?” she asked, face as eager as a child. Well, of course, I couldn’t say no, so I handed her the rolling pin, and got out a second apron, and dropped it over her head. Taking a deep breath, I reached behind her to grab the ties, and secured it over her flat stomach, my thumb just brushing the patch of bare skin below her vest. If she noticed anything, she didn’t say, and instead turned to the worktop to begin rolling, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth slightly.
Well, I don’t want to be rude, but she was dreadful. I mean, awful, so bad that I had to knead the dough back into a ball and let her start again. I showed her how to flour the pin, and then stood back, giving her a few instructions as she began to roll. Eventually she turned to me, and laughed in frustration.
“I can’t do it! You’ll have to show me.”
“Sure,” I said, moving to take the pin back from her.
