ROSIE GREEN: It’s our party, but will we pass the stress test?

‘Green, bring salads – but not your rubbish ones.’ 

I think the boyfriend is referring to my regular offering of shredded little gems with a token few slices of withered cucumber. We are co-hosting a barbecue and divvying up the jobs. He’s got meat. I’m doing sides. 

I am also taking creative control over aesthetics – think candles, flowers and festoon lights. It feels like a big deal. 

The last time I had lots of friends over for dinner I was married, Wills and Harry were still on speaking terms and Corona was a beer not a virus. 

Fast forward four years and here I am with my new amour, ‘red or white-ing’ with guests. 

I mean, it’s about time; our combined social debt is verging on embarrassing. Because that’s the thing about divorce – when you’re in the midst of it you are about as likely to throw a dinner party as JLo is to embrace ready readers and flannelette housecoats. 

To have emerged from this period and now be at the hosting stage of a relationship is a cause for celebration – but I also feel it might be a test. Because entertaining can be high stress. Things can go wrong. A defective gas bottle for the BBQ, glasses unearthed from the back of the cupboard with more smears than a Tory leadership campaign. No ice. You know, catastrophes on a grand scale. 

Who knows, we might have very different styles. One of us could be very relaxed – all about throwing together a dinner for 15 from the leftovers in the fridge, Ready Steady Cook style. Hummus and rice, anyone? 

Or the opposite – where party prep involves a planning committee, a theme and Google Meet invites. Or where formal judgments are made if you pass the port the wrong way and cut the nose off the Lincolnshire Poacher cheese. 

And what if we don’t gel as a team? Maybe he’ll just want to ply everyone with drinks and forget about the food altogether. I once went for Sunday lunch at a friend’s with a hangover and a voracious need for calories to absorb the gallons of dry white I’d consumed the night before. Upon arrival I spotted the chicken, uncooked on the surface. Where it remained for the next two hours. By the time it made it to the table I was in ketosis. But I digress.

The good news is we are having it at the boyfriend’s house, which saves me doing the pre-party ‘show homing’ (ie, shoving all the detritus in the spare room).

‘Don’t worry,’ he reassures me. ‘I won’t be coaster-ing.’ He informs me this is a verb and describes the practice of shoving coasters under people’s drinks in a passiveaggressive manner.

I like his relaxed nature on this front. Mainly because I am prone to some household anal-retentiveness, so don’t need any encouragement in that area.

In my defence when I displayed these characteristics, money was tight and the home decor was new. Still, I think clingfilming the kitchen island pre-party was probably a bit much. At least I didn’t go so far as to present people with heel protectors. Or insist on those wine glass tags. Shudder. 

So did it bring us closer? Well a psychologist would say all that teamwork, sharing joint goals and creating memories must be good for bonding. And it was. 

Nobody got food poisoning, the booze didn’t run out and we didn’t have an argument – so I’m chalking it up as a success. 

We even navigated a major moral dilemma. Together we had to decide whether to tell the vegetarian that the couscous they had just consumed was made with chicken stock. I think that’s called trauma bonding.