Dinner Party

by Sarah Gilmartin

  ‘To Elaine,’ they echoed.

  ‘Mammy should be here with us too,’ Peter said. ‘We had words this morning, I’ll admit it.’

  Kate nearly spilled her wine, catching the stem of the glass just in time. She looked across the table at Ray, similarly dumb-founded, though he recovered first, as usual.

  ‘Say that again, Peter, will you?’

  ‘I’ve said what I wanted to say.’

  ‘That our mother, Bernadette Gleeson, is in the wrong?’

  ‘Don’t act the blaggard, Ray.’

  ‘The blaggard!’

  ‘Words were exchanged between Mammy and me,’ said Peter. ‘But it was not to be. I’ll say no more about it.’ He closed his eyes for a second, his thick blond lashes confirming the end of the conversation.

  Kate wondered how she would have felt if her mother had shown up as a surprise guest. She pictured her sitting at the table in her cream wool two-piece and emerald teardrop earrings, her hair in the rigid platinum bob that was never greasy, not even if she didn’t wash it for a week. Her face would be pale with powder, two lightly pinked cheeks offsetting her eyes. She would be immaculate as always and the imaginary effort of it gave Kate a lump in her throat.

  ‘Earth to Kate?’ Ray waved a hand in front of her face.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I knew Mammy wouldn’t come, but thanks for trying, Peter.’ Her mother had never been to the apartment, said it was too far a trip for public transport, which implied that it was Kate’s fault for still not knowing how to drive at thirty-two, and in a way, it was. Kate stood to clear the plates. She could smell the sweetness of the meat starting to crisp.

  ‘Peter, you tried.’ Ray pursed his lips. ‘And look, won’t we have a better night without her?’

  ‘Let’s not,’ Peter said.

  Ray said, ‘Come on, you of all people.’

  ‘Yes, I’m the one—’

  ‘We have her every Sunday,’ Ray said.

  ‘Four children she had.’ Peter frowned. ‘That’s not nothing.’

  ‘She’d have monopolized the evening. It would have been Dinner Party: A Tragedy.’ Ray tried to bow in his seat.

  Liz laughed. ‘Or Halloween Dinner: A Massacre.’

  ‘On tonight of all nights.’ Peter grasped his napkin. ‘Have ye no heart?’

  Ray held up his hands. ‘Not another word, I promise.’ As Kate set off with the plates, Liz gave a little snort.

  Stacking the dishwasher, Kate felt guilty. There was more to her mother than Ray would allow. It would be easier, in fact, if she was a monster. Though he was right that she was insufferable at mealtimes. Kate remembered so many meals at home, years and years of meals, where the food mimicked real food in everything but taste, and nothing got done, not a slab of yellowing butter in a dish, without an explanation of the effort that went into it. And nowadays, although Peter did the cooking, perhaps because he did the cooking, Mammy announced herself in other ways. Ray called it The Noise, her ability to hijack whatever conversation was unfolding—the price of cattle, the Middle East, the various accolades of her own grandchildren—and turn it into some story involving numerous people that none of them knew.

  Kate slammed the dishwasher door shut and took a deep breath, five seconds in and out. She reminded herself that her mother was down in Carlow, bothering no one.

  The timer pinged for the root vegetables. As she bent for the oven, the red light shone into her eye. Behind her, Ray appeared with the bread basket and some stray cutlery balancing on top. A fork clinked to the floor.

  ‘Whoops, sorry.’ Ray almost dropped the basket.

  ‘It’s only a fork.’ Kate picked it up, wiped a streak from the herringbone tiles.

  They came face to face when she stood. The skin on his nose was porous, dozens of tiny black dots.

  ‘Remember what she was like?’ he said.

  ‘Not tonight, Ray.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He left the cloth in the sink. ‘Here, Kate. Are you OK? I mean, this year especially, with your man and all.’

  ‘You know his name.’

  ‘Liam the Shithead.’

  Kate smiled in spite of herself. ‘You shouldn’t have told Liz.’

  ‘She gets all sorts of things out of me.’

  ‘You didn’t tell her he was married?’

  ‘Jesus, no.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Did you hear from the wife again?’

  Kate remembered the call from Joanna, the dexterous, violent eloquence of her. ‘Once was enough.’

  Ray tipped the salad into the bin. ‘Well, at least it’s done. Over. Those scallops were something else by the way. Did you get enough?’

  Kate pretended not to hear. Her brother stooped to help her manoeuvre the Wellington out of the oven. The pastry was golden, just about to flake. The layers held their shape as she lifted it from the tray. It was the best pastry she’d ever made. A feeling of pure bliss came over her at the tiny pastry cow she’d carved onto the top for Peter.

  ‘Wow!’ said Ray. ‘Will I ring the Michelin crowd?’

  ‘It’s kind of pretty, isn’t it?’

  ‘Kind of? You’re an artist.’ Ray moved away as she arranged the plates.

  The smell of the meat, salty sweet in its buttery blanket, wafted through the kitchen. Sticking the wooden spoon into the gravy on the hob, she broke the skin that had started to form. The liquid shimmered as the bits dissolved.

  ‘We never see you any more, Katie.’ Ray took a beer from the fridge. ‘You should come round more. The girls miss you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know, I miss them too.’

  ‘How’s work going?’

  ‘Anthony’s in Frankfurt for the week so I’m just answering phones.’

  ‘Conville Media,’ Ray trilled. ‘How may I direct your call?’

  ‘Hilarious,’ she said. ‘It’s not all bad. Me and Diya took a two-hour lunch yesterday and no one noticed.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘We nearly didn’t come back, but I bottled it.’

  ‘Diya’s still mad as ever?’

  ‘She’s the best.’ It was true—their friendship was one of the reasons Kate was still there, languishing away in her marble reception prison.

  ‘Any word on the accounts job?’

  ‘Hmm.’ She’d forgotten she’d told him, the night of the stroganoff when he’d been waiting outside the bathroom.

  ‘The one where you’d travel.’

  ‘Didn’t get it. They gave it to Francesca. She’s been there longer than me.’

  But really it was because Kate’s boss Anthony had said he couldn’t do without her. A man is nothing without a good PA! And she’d wanted to say, no, Anthony, a man is nothing when he’s dead—bludgeoned into oblivion by a stapler.

  She cracked the pastry with the carving knife. The meat was a rosy pink, the juices running off the board. Ray went to the sink to get her a cloth.

  ‘There’ll be other jobs,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, reception’s not that bad. You get to hear the goss, see all the hangovers. I could do a nice sideline in painkillers.’

  ‘But your degree,’ he said.

  She tapped her temple. ‘Still got it.’

  ‘What about—?’ He gestured around the kitchen. ‘Has Liam said?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I suppose you can’t stay on, not really?’

  ‘I know. I’m looking.’ The truth was, Liam had given her a soft deal and she couldn’t afford anywhere as nice. ‘But the sea, the promenade. I—’

  ‘The promenade?’ He eyeballed her. ‘You’re not back running?’

  ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I’m not.’

  He looked over at the bin. ‘You’ll get through this. You just need to focus on the positives. That’s all you need.’

  Kate hacked into the Wellington, messing up the slices, the duxelles spreading across the board like dirt.

  ‘Careful,’ said Ray. ‘Watch the poor goat.’

  ‘It’s a cow.’


  Ray laughed and Kate joined in—it did look more like a goat—but there were tears underneath the laughter, the fizzy pressure of them at her nose. For a moment, she felt her sister’s presence in the room. In the warm, warm kitchen, sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar, jumping like a black cat onto the island, her sister, a ghost, dark with love. It was the same every year around the anniversary. You could call it a visit, or you could call it hell.

  Kate let go of the counter.

  ‘Do you ever think of her, Ray?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘But it seems so long ago.’

  ‘You’ve Liz and the girls.’

  ‘It’s mad they’re twins too.’

  ‘That’s how genes work, you fool.’

  ‘Do you still miss her as much?’

  ‘I—’ Kate heard the clack of heels.

  Liz landed in, her large, abstracted eyes everywhere at once. ‘You pair are having the time of your life in here while I’m out there listening to your man go on about his one true love—sewage. Of all the things to bring up at a dinner party.’ She left an empty wine bottle on the counter. ‘Is there another in the fridge?’

  Kate looked at Liz looking at the mess on the counter.

  ‘I forgot to chill the next one.’

  ‘It’s still wine, isn’t it?’ Liz said. ‘And you’ve ice?’

  Kate nodded.

  Liz’s gilded head was already in the freezer when Kate remembered the dessert, the big surprise.

  ‘You’ve gone all out, Kate Gleeson!’ Liz glanced back at them. ‘Is it safe to have meringue in the freezer like that?’

  ‘It’s safe.’

  Distracted, Kate carved the meat the wrong way, some slices bigger than others, one centimetre, two centimetres, three, impossible to tell now. She couldn’t make out the next question, not even when Liz repeated it.

  ‘Are you OK, Katie?’ Ray touched her shoulder.

  She nodded.

  ‘Come on, Raymond.’ Liz tipped ice into a bowl. ‘Save me from sewage.’

  As Ray shrugged and left her to it, Kate looked at the Wellington getting cold on the counter. She put two slices on their plates and one on her own.

  ‘Look at this feast.’ Peter helped set the platter in the centre of the table.

  Splashing balsamic over the vegetables, Kate could feel Liz’s eyes on her but she kept going, asking Ray about his business as she spooned out the parsnips.

  ‘Did the dry needling bring in clients?’

  Ray shook his head. ‘The problem is the clinic up the road.’

  ‘The problem is this guy spends his days gossiping,’ Liz said.

  ‘I do not.’ Ray jigged in his chair.

  ‘Tell them what Daniel Hartigan said yesterday.’ Liz came in close. ‘He’s treating the principal of the secondary school. Goodbye waiting list.’

  ‘But the girls are only five,’ Kate said.

  ‘Lia is five going on fifteen. Tell them the story, Raymond.’

  ‘Client confidentiality,’ he said.

  ‘Go on, you’re no fun. And would you take off that jacket for Christ’s sake?’

  Ray obeyed, draping the jacket over the back of his chair. His shirt made his teeth look unnaturally white. Kate wondered if he’d had them done. Her brother was a long way from Cranavon these days, and it made her both hopeful and sad.

  ‘Come on,’ said Liz.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘No telling tales.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell me?’ Liz poked Ray in the belly. He smacked her hand away, his thick brows coming together as he tried not to laugh. ‘Right,’ he said eventually. ‘There’s this old chapel on the school ground. And one of the fifth years, right.’

  ‘Wait till you hear who her father is.’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s a well-known TV presenter.’

  ‘Of the Sunday Night Show!’

  ‘Jesus, Liz.’

  Liz reached over the carrots for the warm Sancerre. ‘Wha?’

  Between the pair of them, they managed to entertain the table for the duration of the main course. The story had something to keep everyone happy—a fifth-year student selling handjobs in a disused chapel—plus Liz the human footnote to keep things rolling. The playlist had turned to ’70s classics at some point, its overlapping, showy melodies matching the bright energy of their back and forth.

  ‘But tell them what she said, Raymond.’

  ‘I’m telling them.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘Tell them the line, won’t you? It’s the best bit, come on.’

  ‘She said—’ Ray convulsed for a second, ‘She said, with a straight face to Dan Hartigan, that her profits had grown faster in the first quarter than the Tesco case study they were doing in Business.’

  Liz howled laughing.

  ‘Well,’ said Peter. ‘I’ve heard it all now.’

  Kate pushed her pastry to one side. It wasn’t often she ate red meat and it was filling. She looked around the table at the sated faces and thought that the evening had been saved, after all. Liz deflaked the remaining slices of Wellington with her sparkly silver fingernails. Peter slumped in the chair, twirling his glass like a connoisseur. ‘A mighty feed, Kate,’ he smiled. ‘You’re an excellent cook. You should do it more often. We’d be here in a flash, wouldn’t we, lads?’

  ‘Dinner’s not over yet,’ Ray said. ‘Isn’t that right, Katie?’

  ‘That’s right. Dessert’s the best bit.’

  ‘I didn’t realize it was a competition,’ Liz said. ‘You’re so… what’s the word?’ She started to laugh. ‘We played this game in work on our last night out where you had to think of the perfect word to describe a person. We should do it now!’

  Kate forced a smile.

  ‘Just one word?’ Peter frowned. ‘You can’t sum up a person in one word.’

  Kate finished her water, reached for the jug and refilled everyone’s glasses, all the ice cubes clinking out.

  Peter rolled a leftover piece of gristle between his fingers. ‘What did they pick for you, Liz?’

  ‘Innovative.’

  There was a giddy kind of silence.

  ‘Fair play,’ Peter said.

  ‘Come on. Let’s do it for each other.’ Liz slugged her wine. ‘Each of us in turn. Do me first, I can take it, I promise. And you’re not allowed innovative, that’s cheating.’

  ‘It’s a fine way to start a fight at a dinner party,’ Peter said.

  ‘Why?’ Ray’s brows shot up. ‘What are you afraid of, bro?’

  Liz started to giggle.

  ‘Peter’s right,’ Kate said. ‘For example, I’d have to pick sap for you, Ray-Ray. Let us never forget the man who cries at dog movies.’

  ‘Who had to wait until the cinema cleared before he could leave,’ Peter said, laughing.

  Liz hit the side of the table. ‘We watched it again at home. Same thing! Lainy said he was a baby.’

  ‘Well, they hadn’t changed the bloody ending, had they?’ Ray wrinkled his nose and pretended to beg. ‘He was so cute. Just like Copernicus.’

  Liz topped up the wine glasses, but Kate covered her own and ignored the eye roll. She half rose from the table, hoping that would be the end of the game.

  ‘I’ve an idea,’ said Ray. ‘Let’s do the word thing for Mammy.’

  ‘No,’ said Peter.

  ‘Chicken,’ said Liz.

  Ray sat forward. ‘Go on, Peter, try and capture our mother in a word.’

  Peter’s folded his arms. ‘A lady.’

  ‘That’s two words,’ Ray said.

  ‘Ladylike.’

  Ray doffed an imaginary cap but Peter stayed unsmiling, the stern bulk of him shrinking the table.

  ‘You go, darling.’ Ray rubbed Liz’s arm.

  ‘Darling?’ said Liz.

  They all watched her, the non-sibling, the outsider.

  ‘Well, now.’ Liz smiled at Peter. ‘I need assurance first that it won’t leave
this table.’

  Kate nodded and Peter pointed at her nodding. Liz took up Ray’s hand, looked deep into his eyes. ‘And what about your assurance—darling?’

  Ray grinned. ‘Why would a net start a fight between two rackets?’

  Liz rounded her fine, full lips that still had a hint of lipstick. ‘The best word for your mother is—’ She took a dramatic inhale, ‘delicate.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peter, who was visibly relieved. ‘A fine figure for a woman of age.’

  ‘Sicko!’ Ray said. ‘Don’t let the lads in Griffin’s hear you say that.’

  Peter folded his serviette, the vein on his temple bulging. He excused himself from the table and asked for directions to the facilities, though he knew well.

  ‘Good,’ said Ray. ‘I wanted him gone for mine.’

  ‘You’re awful.’ Liz continued to play with his fingers. ‘Go on, so.’

  Ray withdrew his hand.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Maudlin.’ He sat back in the chair, satisfied. ‘It’s the perfect word, every time we go down. Even at Christmas.’ He thought about it. ‘Especially at Christmas.’

  Liz congratulated him on his choice but Kate thought he was being unfair again. Their mother wasn’t always down in the dumps. She was sometimes delighted with life, but there was generally a frantic quality to it. Kate supposed it might be a disorder of some sort, if they’d had that kind of thing back in the day. The word came to her unbidden and she blurted it out.

  ‘Undiagnosed.’

  It sounded cruel out loud, especially with Liz’s high-pitched laughter. ‘Perfect!’

  ‘Welcome to the party, Kate Gleeson.’ Ray looked over his shoulder and reached into his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve been waiting for the right time for this. You might think it’s mad but—quick, before Peter comes back.’

  ‘What?’ Liz was typing away on her phone, only half listening.

  The door of the living room banged shut.

  ‘That’s a fine hand cream you have in the bathroom,’ Peter announced.

  Ray took his hand out of the jacket and straightened it on the chair back.

  Kate went to ask but he shook his head.

  ‘Very unctuous,’ said Peter.

  ‘Now there’s a word,’ said Liz. ‘It’s almost as good as Maria Burke’s.’ And off she went on the best put-downs from her work party and the fights that had ensued. Whatever was in the jacket was forgotten.