Act I - Dinner Table Chaos
Sydney looks glamorous from the outside - harbour views, shiny skyscrapers, beaches that make postcards jealous. But try living here, the cost will eat your soul before breakfast.
I’m Mark. On paper, I work at a tech company - spreadsheets, presentations, all that. People call me ruthless at work. Truth is, I’m just terrified of mistakes.
Then there’s Amber, my oldest friend, and possibly my loudest critic. She was the girl who once smoked behind the bike sheds and punched her classmates for fun. These days she smokes in my kitchen and bullies me instead. Still, she’s the only reason I haven’t starved to death.
Wai is Will’s mate from tennis - forever sweaty, forever hungry, and forever convinced life’s just one big game. Amber says he needs house-training. She’s probably right.
And Will… well. Will’s a nursery teacher. Kind, patient, disgustingly polite. The sort of man who can calm a screaming toddler with a smile. But is he really, though?
So here we are: four people, one dinner table, and a recipe for chaos. Literally. Because I may or may not have already dropped the pasta in the bin by mistake.
SCENE: Kitchen
MARK (muttering, dead serious):
Two hundred grams. Exactly. Not one strand more.
(The door bursts open. Amber storms in with a bag of cheap wine and a cigarette tucked behind her ear.)
AMBER:
Bloody hell, mate, are you cooking dinner or applying for a science grant?
MARK (straight-faced):
Precision is important. Consistency is everything.
AMBER (rolling her eyes):
Darling, the only thing you're consistent at is being hopeless. You nearly burned rice and the saucepan last week.
MARK (defensive, fumbling with the spaghetti):
That was an… isolated incident.
AMBER:
Yeah. Like the Titanic was an isolated incident.
(The door swings open again. Wai bounces in, racket bag slung over his shoulder, dripping with sweat, slurping from a bubble tea.)
WAI:
Oi! Did someone say dinner? Smells like… edible chaos.
AMBER (eyeing his sweat-drenched T-shirt):
You're disgusting. Go shower before you infect the food.
WAI (grinning, pinching a tomato slice from the chopping board):
What, and miss this entertainment? Not a chance.
MARK (slaps Wai's hand away):
That's for the sauce!
WAI (mock wounded):
Sauce? You mean tomato purée with a superiority complex.
(Amber snorts. The door opens a third time. Will enters, jacket draped over his arm, smile polite.)
WILL:
Evening. Smells… ambitious.
AMBER (with a wicked grin):
Look who's finally here to supervise. The rest of us are just waiting to see whether Mark feeds us or kills us.
(Will steps closer to Mark, takes the wooden spoon from his hand, inspects it.)
WILL (calm, but with an edge):
You hold this like you hold your authority at work - tight, nervous… terrified of slipping.
MARK (stiffening):
I...I'm not nervous!
SCENE: Dinner Table
(The four sit around the cramped table, plates of pasta steaming. Amber gulps wine straight from her glass, Wai is already shovelling spaghetti like it's a race, Mark is nervously adjusting cutlery, and Will sits calm, watching the chaos.)
AMBER (sighing theatrically, twirling her fork):
You know, ever since that wedding last week, I've been wondering… maybe I could actually make a proper wife. Cooking, folding laundry, being all… elegant at barbecues.
WAI (snorts, nearly choking on pasta):
Elegant? You? You drink wine like it's a sports drink and shout at the kettle when it boils too slowly.
AMBER (slams fork down, leaning across):
Excuse me? Whoever marries me gets loyalty, good food, and world-class insults. That's a package deal.
WAI (grinning, waving his fork for emphasis):
Package deal? More like survival training. Whoever marries you deserves a medal for bravery.
AMBER (rolling her eyes, with mock sweetness):
Says the man-child who thinks bubble tea counts as fine dining. Honestly, you've got the palate of a twelve-year-old.
WAI (spluttering):
At least I don't eat crisps for breakfast and call it 'continental'.
AMBER (raising her glass, smug):
Better than living off protein shakes and ego.
WAI (jumps up, furious, waving his fork):
Excuse me?! Girls at school were queuing up for me, alright?
AMBER (eyes narrowing, voice dripping with venom):
Queuing up? To complain about your creepy flirting, more like.
WAI (gasps, clutching chest in mock outrage):
Lies! Absolute lies!
(Amber and Wai slump back into their chairs, still glaring but too tired to keep the quarrel going. Amber gulps her wine, Wai stabs sulkily at his pasta. A beat of silence falls.)
AMBER (suddenly, with a wicked grin):
Right, enough about us. Let's hear from the love experts. Mark, Will, what do you two think about marriage?
(Mark nearly chokes on his wine. Will sets down his fork calmly, as if he'd been waiting.)
WILL (mildly, with a small smile):
Marriage? Doesn't interest me. But children… they're wonderful. My nursery lot - funny, messy, exhausting. If only you could have children without the rest of the contract.
AMBER (leaning back, smirking):
Trust you to say that. Sweetest man alive.
WAI (snorts, mouth full):
No thanks. I can barely look after myself. Kids would outgrow me in a week.
(Amber rolls her eyes. All attention shifts to Mark. He stiffens under the gaze.)
MARK (awkward, muttering):
For me… marriage has always been about ticking boxes. My parents ask when, I nod along. It's… less about my life, more about theirs.
(A pause. Amber and Wai exchange a glance. Will tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, tone deceptively soft.)
WILL (voice low, edged with mischief):
So you'd chain yourself to someone just to keep your parents quiet? How very… obedient.
MARK (flustered, defensive):
It's not obedience, it's… efficiency. Less drama.
WILL (smile sharpening, gaze fixed on him):
Or maybe it's pretending someone else's script is your life, when you're terrified of writing your own.
(Mark's face flushes crimson. He drops his eyes, fiddling with his napkin. Will sips his wine, casual, as if he hadn't just skewered him.)
AMBER (clapping her hands suddenly, forcing brightness):
Alright, that's enough philosophy with pasta. We're not auditioning for Love Actually.
WAI (grinning, relieved):
Yeah, and you're no Keira Knightley, trust me.
AMBER (snorting):
Better than you - you're more Saturday morning cartoon than Hugh Grant.
(While Amber and Wai bicker, the camera lingers on Mark's uneasy expression, the Sydney night glowing outside like a silent witness.)