by Edward Docx
‘Rache, Phil – this is Jasper.’
‘Hello,’ I nodded, very politely. ‘Sorry that I am a little late.’
‘Oh don’t worry, I’ve only just got here’ – this from Rachel, with a sort of game-show-contestant wave.
‘And I came over early to give Maddy a hand anyway’ – this from Phil, standing to offer me his hand.
‘Jasper, I’m afraid we’ve all got to sit at the table tonight because … well, there’s nowhere else really. My chair is the one nearest to the oven’ – this from Maddy (Maddy!) as she bent to take a bottle of white wine out of the fridge. ‘What would you like? You can have a glass of Phil’s delicious white or I can fix you a vodka and tonic or something if you prefer to get started that way?’
‘The white wine sounds great.’ With a cheerful face to screen my writhing soul, I took my appointed seat – opposite Rachel, I noted – and prepared myself for Calvary.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Madeleine said, in her not very apologetic way, as she handed me a glass, ‘but everything seems to take ages.’
‘Well, you know I’ve offered to lend a hand at the weekend,’ beamed Phil. ‘Whack on some tunes, get it done, have some fun.’
I glanced at Madeleine. She was leaning back against the sink, wiping her hands on a tea towel with a hey-why-not? expression on her face. Underneath her apron, she was wearing a man’s white vest.
Rachel joined in. ‘You are so brave, though, Mad, doing it all. I never dared to touch a thing when I found my place. I had to get all these men to come in and do everything. Even then it turned out to be an absolute nightmare. Just about everything that could go wrong did and it took for ever and I couldn’t cope with any of them after a week. Except for the two painters: they were absolute lambs.’
‘Oh, I’m only doing the easy bits – the decorating. All the serious stuff, like putting in the shower and the bathroom and all this –’ Mad (Mad!) indicated the kitchen area ‘– is being done by the professionals. Plumbing, tiling and gas are way beyond me.’
I took a tentative sip of my wine: a muddy Pinot Grigio from the reed-riddled fields of some reclaimed Italian marsh.
Rachel pressed on. ‘But it’s coming along, though, Mad. I mean, on the phone I thought you were inviting me to an absolute bombsite. And even though you are such a sweetheart I thought that there was no way that it was going to be so nice. And the patio is just perfect.’
‘Yes, well,’ Madeleine laughed politely but quite without sarcasm, ‘apart from the patio doors, which are rotten, and all the rewiring and replastering and putting the fireplace back together, and buying some furniture and the bathroom … I suppose it’s almost finished. But you’re very kind, Rache. And I’m glad that I have finally got some people round because it reminds me that progress is being made.’
Clearly, I had walked into a trap. This was atrocious. Dinner parties make me ill with boredom at the best of times but when there are only four people present and two of them will never say anything interesting in their entire lives, and the hostess is insanely attractive and all you want to do is be alone with her, but instead she is contriving to set you up with the other woman while she eggs on the other man, oh then, truly, you know you are lying at the bottom of a pit, impaled on the rusty spikes of life’s pitiless sense of humour. But there was no hope of rescue. If Madeleine (or Maddy, or Mad) had the hots for another, then – whatever my feelings for him or for her – my duty was clear: I must not cause an unseemly disturbance or let my wretchedness poison the air; I would serve her best by passing quietly away. I must lie where I had fallen and courteously wait for death. That was all there was left for me to do. But how cruel of her to treat me thus … how cruel.
‘What’s this we are listening to?’ I asked, addressing Madeleine as she threw what looked like rocket leaves on to her salad.
‘This is the Oscar Peterson Trio – and this song is “You Look Good to Me” – the live version from Chicago. Or, hang on, is this the New Orleans recording? I’m not sure. What number does it say on the machine behind you, Phil?’
‘Erm … Hang on … Track six.’
I hate the word track.
‘Yes, I thought so – it’s Chicago.’
‘Well, it certainly smells good to me,’ offered Rachel.
‘It’s going to be ready pretty soon, actually,’ said Madeleine. ‘I’ve misjudged everything and made it all too quickly. Do you ever mix with jazz, Phil?’
‘No – we use a lot of jazz funk but not much of the older stuff, which is what you mean. It’s kind of bad to synch in – you would end up laying it over the top.’
‘Shame – it’s the best.’
Weakly, I took another sip. ‘Are you a DJ?’
Phil laughed. ‘No way. I just gig sometimes at this bar near Old Street. I’ve got a full-time day job.’
‘Can I lend a hand, Maddy?’ Rachel asked. ‘I so feel guilty about just sitting here and watching? And it does smell outrageous.’
‘You could slice up that loaf of bread over there – that would be great.’ Madeleine was concentrating on the food. ‘And then we are done.’
‘What do you do by day?’ I asked Phil, very nicely.
‘I am a sort of special adviser – for the Government.’
I placed my glass quietly on the table. ‘Right. On what? I mean, on what do you advise?’
‘Europe.’
‘Sounds very front-line. And interesting. Have you spent a lot of time there?’
‘Where?’
‘In Europe – France, Germany –’
He smirked. ‘I get over to Brussels a lot and some of the other summits. But you know how it is with working – never seems like there’s enough holidays. Last couple of summers I did Mauritius and Thailand. But I’m planning to go to Italy with the gang this summer. I need to rack up some quality EU time. Oh yeah, and of course I’ve done the Eurostar minibreak thing in Paris. Which is a laugh. How about you?’
‘I lived there for ten years.’
‘Where?’
‘In Europe – France, Germany, Italy a bit –’
‘Lived there?’
‘Yes. I went to school in Germany – and France.’ I shrugged in a very friendly way. ‘But it must be great to be part of the decision-making process.’
‘It is, man. We have our bad days but I’m glad I’m part of … the project. I think we’re still making a difference … where it counts.’
‘Right.’ The air seemed to be collapsing, giving way at last to a vast universe of anti-matter. For the first time in my life, I needed an inhaler. ‘Excuse me just a second.’ Dizzily, I stood. ‘Madeleine –,’ I stressed all three of her syllables, ‘would it be OK if I poured the red into some glasses, I mean, if we’re getting near to the food being ready?’ In Italian, I thought, it would be four: Maddalena.
The food at least was good. Madeleine judged her salads well – just the right amount of each ingredient so that all flavours were able to participate without fear of being bullied into corners by rocket leaves or trampled underfoot by marauding goat’s cheese; and an understated dressing that supported rather than deluged. All the same, I couldn’t help but observe, Madeleine was one of those people who sifted her plate, rejecting baby-gem lettuce leaves here, teasing tomatoes out of the way there, so as to get a free run at what she clearly most enjoyed: forkfuls of feta and olives. And yet, given that this was the taste she herself evidently hankered after, there were surprisingly few olives around: her ability to suppress her own cravings in order to play to the palates of her guests was telling – most people just prepare food the way they themselves like to eat it.
The lamb, too, was cooked to within range of perfection, though had we been alone and had the moment presented itself, I might have tentatively floated the idea of rosemary spears – a method of piercing meat that is to be roasted with metal kebab skewers and then packing the holes with said herb, rather than relying upon the pouting caprice of an unbaptized bouquet
garni. Honey and cider performed reliably as ever and I was almost sprung from my death-trap by the surprise appearance of a troupe of parsnips that arrived at the last minute to the zesty tune of a lemon juice march. But my cheer was short-lived and by the time the ice-cream hove into view even my staunch and secret ally, the Gigondas, was all but exhausted.
Rachel said something like: ‘I don’t understand how to take advantage of the equity in my property.’
Phil said something like: ‘Everyone loves the creative guys in an advertising agency – they’re so anarchic – but me I prefer the planners. They’re the ones with the real ideas.’
Rachel said something like: ‘I am definitely voting for Danny – he’s got an amazing voice and he’s such a nice guy. You can so tell.’
Phil said something like: ‘If you’re going to move to New York, then it has to be Brooklyn.’
And time passed like a wounded slug hauling itself across a runway to die.
A while later, I was at the sink with my back to them, having firmly insisted that I would wash up despite protests of varying sincerity from the others. Rachel was expounding her views on horoscopes: ‘Just because you can’t prove something to be true or argue about it or whatever doesn’t mean it isn’t true – I mean, there are heaps of things which we do on gut feel, aren’t there? Even at work. And maybe the way we feel is – you know – governed by other things that we don’t know about – things that are nothing to do with us. Of course, I’m not saying that I totally believe everything – but there are different tides caused by the moon and where we are in relation to the other planets and they do find out how things are interconnected all the time. It’s a bit like when Sam – my ex – when Sam and me went to Barcelona last year before – you know – we had total relationship meltdown – and we got to this hotel in a really horrible mood and I said that it just felt wrong and then Sam moved this desk away from the window and suddenly everything sort of fitted back together – between us as well, I mean – and it suddenly felt like we were meant to be there. That’s when I started getting into feng shui. Actually, Mad, you might want to think about that for in here …’
I was doing a very thorough job, taking care to wash each piece of cutlery separately. If nothing else, Madeleine would have the cleanest knives in the world. I was desperately grateful for the break. I imagined myself in the 1870s as some bearded Fellow of the Royal Society, an eminent anthropologist touring the New World, exhibiting a happily babbling Rachel and a relaxed but thoughtful Phil to eager and astonished lecture halls. They were my two prize specimens – beyond all previous discoveries – of human ignorance, and they were making me a fortune. My thesis: that they represented some strange genetic projection and that if we did not amend our ways, then by the beginning of the twenty-first century, all twenty- and thirty-something people would become like them.
‘And now. Ladies and Gentlemen,’ I would declaim with a flourish, having ushered off the Talking Monkey and the Boy with Two Heads, ‘we come to the sum and substance of this evening’s lecture, the apogee – if you will.’ (I cough.) ‘Some few years ago, it was my grave privilege to discover, languishing in the London slums of Fulham Broadway and Clerkenwell respectively, two people, seemingly in their late twenties, whom, in the interests of science, I felt must be brought before the world that we may further our knowledge through observation and examination, and that we may see what horrors we are already breeding for the future, even as we go about our lives unknowingly.’ (Anticipatory rustling.) ‘I need hardly say that their legend has been growing ever since their discovery and I know that many of you will already be acquainted with their names from the pages of our better scientific and anthropological journals …’ (A low buzz of affirmation) ‘… Ladies and gentlemen, without further circumlocution, it is my great pleasure to introduce to you all Miss Rachel Forsythe and Mr Philip Felton …’
There is general applause, which gradually gives way to murmurs of trepidation and sighs of wonder as my assistants wheel on Philip and Rachel, parking them at their places at the dinner-party table which is set downstage and slightly to one side. Once in their positions, the two specimens start talking quietly, sometimes addressing one another, sometimes turning to make some remark to the two well-dressed dummies that make up the four.
Now I stride forward on the stage and, punctuating my address with waves of a great stick, I let fly.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, let us consider first the case of Miss Rachel Forsythe. Be in no doubt of the fine education she has received; imagine, if you will, the long line of teachers who have so bravely attempted to inculcate her with learning; witness, too, the constant access she has always enjoyed to the science, culture and endeavour of our times; observe her natural status in the world – the opportunities she has had to travel, to work, to rest herself in some of the most beautiful places on earth; note the social energy that craves combustion all around her. And yet …’ – here I would pause dramatically,– ‘… and yet witness, ladies and gentlemen, how little – how extraordinarily little – she has managed to understand.’ (The auditorium gasps in collective horror; Rachel does not pause from her chatter.) ‘Come! Ladies! Gentlemen! Marvel at the paucity of her contribution to life’s great discussion! Wonder at her failure to apprehend the woven structures of power and influence that rise on every side! Look on aghast as joy and suffering alike go soaring by! Laugh to listen to her account of human relations! Weep to witness what she offers as insight! Gape as she prizes horoscopes over history, as she seizes sentiment from the flames of emotion and clutches to her bosom a sheaf of charred parlour fads! Gawp at her blank naivety as she walks, head down, beneath the architecture of ideas that support her world! Gasp to find her over-dressed and half-asleep in the great concert hall of existence, while around her very ears the choir sings of the glory of God! Herr Gott, dich loben wir!’
The audience is on its feet, hands spontaneously, wildly clapping.
‘But Ladies … Ladies, Gentlemen, please … no … no …’ (I hold up my palms and bid them sit) ‘… let me say that she is as nothing … as nothing, I say … as nothing … when compared to Mr Philip Felton!’
Some feel for the back of their chairs thinking to sit down again. Others continue to stand, necks craning towards the stage.
‘Here is a man, I say to you, here is a man quite deluded. In his mind, you can be sure he thinks himself important, influential, thoughtful, amusing, capable … yes, even talented. In his mind, he considers himself a worthy gentleman for a lady. He cuts a dash with the latest fashions …’ (titters) ‘… his hair is arranged in the latest styles, his shoes are smart but carefully informal. His reading, though light, is always au courant, his music the same. Yes, in his mind, he is a reliable friend, a teller of jokes, a man who might hold his head up among his peers and feel a certain pride when he returns to his hometown. He is successful, worthwhile, illustrious, a fellow of ideas and wise counsel – Ladies and Gentlemen – in his mind Mr Philip Felton thinks that he is an adviser … to the Government of Great Britain.’ (Laughter now.) ‘ON THE SUBJECT OF EUROPE!’
There are howls, hoots, near hysterics. I, too, cannot resist a smile of my own.
‘But ask him, please ask him, has he read a single paragraph written in a language other than his own? Would he recognize great Goethe or Dante or Molière if one or all came calling at his bachelor’s rooms in Clerkenwell bearing a little parmigiano for his over-boiled fettuccine? I’m afraid not. But perhaps – I hear you charitably demur – perhaps his ascribed European acumen has its locus in music – clever Vivaldi, holy Monteverdi, beautiful Mozart, heart-broken Beethoven, glorious Bach? Again, no – he does not recognize the strains you hum, ladies and gentlemen. Does he rather love Europe’s painting then – Raphael, Da Vinci, Vermeer, Rubens, Gainsborough? No, he does not. The battle of ideas? Maybe philosophy is the sustenance that has nurtured him on the long road to his present high pass of responsibility; maybe it is Europe’s lengthy conversati
on with itself that animates him when he is alone at night, wrestling with the future of nations? No, ladies and gentlemen, he does not know the philosophers. Well, does he at least have a feel for the history – the wars, the delicate alliances, the conceited kings, the iron queens? No, alas, he comprehends none of this. What about the course of the great rivers – the Rhine, the Danube, the Loire? No. Or the architecture – the palazzi, the castles, the cathedrals? No. The wine? No. The food … (At least surely the food, you cry?) No. No, no, no and no again.’ (Stunned silence.)
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, though this man talks and walks and has the semblance of life about him, nonetheless I tell you: his palate is dulled, his ears are deaf, his eyes are blind, his heart is closed, and his soul is dead. And the platform on which he builds his special advice for Europe, his special advice about the greatest continent man has ever known … his platform is made of nothing more than a fondness for the froth of faux-Italian coffee and the fizz of faux-French wine.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, we are in grave danger: even as we are stalled and stranded by our horror here tonight, we are delivering the future into the hands of people such as these.’
As one the audience rises, there is a hesitation at first, but slowly the applause starts and –
‘How are you getting on, Jasper?’ Madeleine was at my elbow.
I cleared my throat. ‘Almost done.’
‘Leave the rest and come and sit down. I’ve got one more bottle, which we might as well finish, and a tiny bit of cheese.’
And with that those twin jailers cheese and biscuits came swaggering and belching into our midst and I knew that there could be no gracious exit until they had been overcome.
I really don’t know how I made it through the rest of the evening. Somehow I struggled on through the swampy undergrowth of the conversation – thoughts and feelings held in a rucksack high above my head to save them from the mire – laughing here, joking there. But truly the danger was pressing in on every side: Phil trying to enlist me as his laddish sidekick; Rachel, whose myriad insecurities were rising to the surface as she got more and more drunk (like litter emerging from a flooded drain) and who was becoming more and more earnest in her efforts to deny them, pressing me with questions, to which anything even approaching truthful answers would have caused her to have an instant mental breakdown; and Madeleine herself liable at any moment to make some private signal inviting me to take note of Phil’s comments or gestures so that I might add them to my calculations of her chances with him. Her chances with him.