Dinner at Mine

by Chris Smyth

  Chris Smyth was born in 1980. He is a journalist for The Times and lives in north London. Dinner at Mine is his first novel.

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012

  A CBS Company

  Copyright © Chris Smyth, 2012

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Chris Smyth to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN PB: 978-0-85720-505-6

  ISBN Ebook: 978-0-85720-506-3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Contents

  Dinner at Rosie and Stephen’s

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Dinner at Matt’s (with Charlotte)

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Dinner at Justin and Barbara’s

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Dinner at Marcus and Sarah’s

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Dinner at Rosie and Stephen’s

  One

  ‘Did you remember to get yuzu juice?’

  ‘What?’

  Rosie looked up from the chopping board and called louder out of the kitchen door.

  ‘Did you remember to get yuzu juice?’

  In the hall, she heard Stephen slam the front door and drop his bag on the floor with a thump.

  ‘What?’ Stephen asked again, testier this time.

  Rosie’s voice never quite carried out to the hall. She chopped a few more beetroot wedges before replying again, listening to Stephen’s footsteps coming towards the kitchen.

  ‘What are you saying?’ he demanded as he appeared in the doorway, flushed and slightly out of breath from the journey home.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, putting the knife down to go over and give him a kiss on the cheek. ‘How was work?’

  ‘Hello,’ he mumbled back at her, exhaling sharply. Rosie couldn’t detect any alcohol on his breath. ‘What were you saying?’

  ‘I was just wondering whether you got a chance to go to that Asian delicatessen near your office.’ Rosie could feel him staring at her as she moved back behind the chopping board. ‘Do you remember that I asked you this morning to try to find some yuzu juice?’

  ‘What the hell is yuzu juice?’

  ‘It’s a sort of Japanese fruit. Something like lime, I think.’

  ‘Oh God, are we having people round?’

  Rosie sliced another beetroot before answering, watching Stephen as his eyes moved round the kitchen, taking in the large pots on top of the stove, the casserole in the glowing oven and the detritus of garlic husks, aubergine tops and unidentified trails of seeds scattered along the worktops.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You haven’t really forgotten, have you?’

  ‘Oh bugger, we’re not doing that stupid Come Dine with Me thing, are we? Is that tonight?’

  Rosie chopped the next beetroot in half quite brutally.

  ‘We just don’t usually . . . on a Friday . . .’ Stephen tailed off.

  ‘You said you’d do pudding,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘I thought something with figs and honey might be nice. It would go with the rest of the meal.’

  Rosie felt the evening’s first twinge of anger as she watched him standing there, working out when to say what they both knew he was going to say.

  ‘How about a crumble?’

  Rosie replied in a flat voice: ‘There are pears in the fruit bowl and blackcurrants in the fridge.’

  ‘Pears?’ Stephen looked alarmed. ‘I don’t know how to—’

  ‘Jesus, Stephen, I thought we could do something at least slightly different. It’s hardly a huge departure from apples, is it?’

  ‘All right, all right. When are they coming?’

  ‘About forty-five minutes. You’d better get on with it.’

  ‘Where’s Jonathan?’

  ‘I put him to bed early.’

  Rosie gathered up the pile of cold, boiled beetroot slices and scattered them into the bowl of lentils she had taken out of the fridge to warm up. She added chopped onion, lemon juice and maple syrup and tossed the salad more aggressively than the recipe suggested.

  Stephen stopped and turned on the way out of the kitchen. ‘By the way, I’m afraid I . . .’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ she snapped. ‘I can use lime and mandarins instead.’

  ‘Sarah! There you are!’

  She was still closing the front door when he rushed out of the living room to confront her.

  ‘Sorry, Marcus, I had a ton of marking to do.’

  ‘Did you get my message?’

  ‘I’ve been in such a rush . . .’ Sarah shook herself out of her coat, feeling tiredness begin to advance as she hung it up. If she sat down now, she wouldn’t want to get up until Sunday afternoon. ‘I thought I’d just nip upstairs to get changed, then we can go straight out,’ she said.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Marcus said, a little impatiently.

  ‘I thought I’d wear my green dress. Are you going to change into something nice as well? That would be—’

  ‘No – I mean about our approach.’

  ‘Approach to what?’

  Marcus gave her that stare she hated, the one that combined frustration with private amusement.

  ‘You didn’t read my message, did you?’

  ‘I’ve been so busy . . . It’s been a difficult day.’ She fought to keep the edge out of her voice.

  ‘Well, it was you who said yes to this.’ Marcus prodded expertly at the sore point.

  ‘Don’t be like that . . .’ The edge was there now.

  ‘I’m not. I just want to agree our approach.’

  ‘Approach to what? We’re just going round to Rosie and Stephen’s for dinner.’

  ‘No, we’re doing Come Dine with Me It’s a competition. We need to work out how we’re going to win.’

  ‘Marcus,’ she said as she pushed past him towards the bedroom, ‘we’re just going out to have a nice dinner with our friends.’

  How could she be exasperated with him already? They hadn’t even made it past the hall.

  ‘I’m not worried about our turn yet, but we have to know what we’re goin
g to say tonight.’

  Marcus followed her into the bedroom. He seemed so cheerful. Was she being unreasonable? No, because he was never cheerful these days except at someone else’s expense.

  God, that was a horrible thing to think about someone, wasn’t it?

  ‘Look, Marcus,’ she said, trying to sound conciliatory. ‘I just want to have a nice, enjoyable evening talking to our friends.’

  ‘Well, that bit’s up to them. Depends how enjoyable you find talking about kitchen appliances. Or how the baby’s constant drooling is actually a sign that he’s terribly advanced for his age.’

  ‘Please don’t be rude about our friends, Marcus. I really hope you’re going to be polite.’

  ‘Of course I’m going to be polite.’

  ‘Good.’ Sarah took off her suit jacket and began unbuttoning her blouse.

  ‘That’s the approach I was going to recommend, you see? Be very friendly, and say complimentary things about the food.’

  ‘Marcus . . .’

  ‘But afterwards be quite strict about scoring it. We won’t mention the flaws, but we need to make sure we remember them.’

  ‘Marcus . . .’ She tried to look stern, but knew this would be difficult, standing there in her bra.

  ‘Look, I’m not saying we should cheat, or be unfair, or anything like that. Just, you know, precise. Make them earn the marks.’

  ‘Do you have to take it so seriously?’

  ‘There’s no point in doing it otherwise.’

  ‘What about having fun?’

  ‘That is the fun. Honestly, Sarah, I think it’s you who’s not getting into the spirit of things. Have you even looked at the menu?’

  ‘Marcus, I’ve not had time.’ She turned away from him to take off her trousers. Maybe he had a point. She was hardly in the mood to be the life and soul herself, was she? All she really wanted to do was have a large glass of wine and go to bed early. In fact, that was more or less all she ever wanted to do now. Perhaps it wasn’t Marcus; perhaps it was the thought of going out into the cold again and talking for hours that was making her irritable.

  ‘Chilled Spinach Soup with Avocado and Crunchy Bacon Croutons to start,’ Marcus read. She hadn’t noticed he was holding a notepad. ‘Well, add bits of fried bacon to anything, it’s going to taste nice, isn’t it? So we really need to hold them to a higher standard there.’

  ‘Marcus . . .’

  ‘Then Breast of Duck with Pomegranate Molasses and Okra. Who knows whether they’ll pull that off? It reeks of Trying Too Hard.’

  Sarah exhaled sharply. No, it was definitely him that was making her irritable. She was standing there, wearing only her underwear, and what was he doing? Waiting in the doorway reading out a menu. He wasn’t even looking.

  ‘And serving it with Candied Beetroot and Lentil Salad? I don’t think that’s going to work. Not the same sort of flavours at all. It doesn’t even go with the vegetarian stew.’

  ‘Marcus . . .’ Not that she felt up to doing anything, obviously, but he hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘Then Ricotta with Figs and Honey for pudding. Well, it’s definitely not fig season. I can’t stand green figs; there’s no point to them at all if they’re not black and oozing and that isn’t going to happen at this time of year. Not a good sign.’

  ‘Marcus, they’ve cooked for us before. You enjoyed it.’ She rummaged through the wardrobe, looking for the green dress.

  ‘Actually, I remember it being distinctly mediocre. The lamb was overcooked and the salad was watery. If there’s no improvement on that I don’t think we’ve got much to worry about.’

  ‘Is this because you find Rosie and Stephen boring?’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s nothing to do with that. It’s just part of the competition.’

  Sarah struggled to zip up the back of her dress herself, not wanting to ask him for help. ‘Look, just be nice for me. Please? It will be so embarrassing if you are rude about the meal.’

  ‘Weren’t you listening? I’m going to be nice about the meal. And then if it’s bad, I’ll give it a very harsh mark afterwards. OK?’

  Sarah snagged the zip on her finger and swore silently. ‘Let’s just go. I don’t want to be late.’

  A damp, auberginey waft escaped from the pot when Rosie lifted the lid. She prodded at the contents anxiously with a wooden spoon, and a chunk of vegetable bobbed gently in the stew. It was too watery, she decided, not nearly gooey enough. Maybe it would be all right in another hour. She turned up the heat and dumped in another few spoonfuls of tamarind paste and most of what was left in the jar of honey. She wouldn’t be needing it for dessert now. The mixture bubbled thickly as she stirred it, burping up a sickly sweet gust much more powerful than she had anticipated.

  Immediately, Rosie decided she had overdone it. The dish was ruined. The evening was over already and the competition lost. She might as well throw everything away and tell everyone to stay at home.

  Calm down. The soup looked fine. The salad was almost ready. The duck breasts were washed and seasoned. Rosie turned the heat down again under the stew and put the lid back on. But why wasn’t Stephen back? He hadn’t even started the crumble. She had wanted him to be part of it, but really she should have just made the dessert she wanted herself.

  Rosie took out a box of crackers and began arranging them on a plate, a dollop of black tapenade on each. It wasn’t part of the menu plan, but she found the repetitive motion soothing. After two dozen crackers, she promised herself, she would start on the crumble.

  ‘Right then,’ Stephen said as he came back into the kitchen. ‘What have I got to do?’

  ‘Just make the crumble. I’ve left all the ingredients out.’ Rosie waved the olive-covered knife at the end of the worktop, where pears, blackcurrants, butter, flour and sugar were laid out in the order specified by Nigel Slater.

  ‘OK, then.’ Stephen headed towards them.

  Rosie noticed that he was holding a large glass of wine. She thought of saying something as he set it down next to the fruit, but he seemed to have cheered up and, with the guests about to arrive, there wasn’t time for an argument. He should really have offered her a drink, but he would just say that she never wanted one when she was cooking. She didn’t, but that wasn’t the point, was it?

  Instead, she asked: ‘Is Jonathan asleep?’

  ‘He was,’ Stephen replied. ‘I’m sure he’ll doze off again.’

  ‘Oh Stephen . . .’

  ‘Look, I didn’t mean to wake him, but once he was up, well . . . you know. I don’t usually see him at all during the week.’

  Rosie listened for a moment, but couldn’t hear crying. ‘Never mind. You seem a bit more cheerful anyway. Was work OK?’

  Stephen grunted. Rosie watched his brow furrow down the middle as he chopped the pears in half. He hadn’t bothered to peel them. Was it too late to say anything? Probably. He filleted the seedy cores and threw the fruits, roughly quartered, into a deep dish.

  ‘Thank you for making the crumble,’ Rosie said. ‘You always do it so well. I’m sure everyone will love it.’

  ‘Who’s actually coming tonight?’

  ‘Sarah and Marcus.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Sarah’s one of my oldest friends . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Sarah.’ Stephen chopped two more pears in quick succession.

  ‘Marcus isn’t that bad.’

  ‘Yes he is. He’s a cock.’ Stephen chopped the next pear with particular force.

  ‘Well . . . Anyway there’s Barbara and Justin. She’s a friend of Sarah’s, a potter, very artistic. I don’t know much about him.’

  ‘Jesus, is there anyone I actually know and like coming to this thing?’

  ‘Yes – Matt.’

  ‘Oh – Matt.’

  Rosie looked carefully at Stephen’s profile, but couldn’t gauge his reaction.

  ‘I thought you’d want to have Matt here. He’s your friend.’

  ‘Yes, he is,
isn’t he?’

  ‘Darling, I don’t know why you’re being weird about it.’

  ‘I’m not being weird about it.’

  Rosie had run out of things to do and her fingers were twitching uselessly.

  ‘I thought you’d like to have one of your friends here.’

  ‘But you didn’t think of asking me?’

  ‘You’ve been so busy recently . . . and when we talked about doing this, you said that was fine as long as I arranged it all.’

  ‘I didn’t know that meant you’d be speaking to Matt, did I?’

  ‘Darling, please don’t make such a big deal out of it.’

  ‘I’m not making a big deal out of it.’

  Stephen turned away to find the mixing bowl, rolling up his shirtsleeves very deliberately. Rosie noticed the cuffs were beginning to fray. She frowned to think he was going to the office like that. Was that one of the ones she’d bought for him last Christmas? No point saying anything now. She made a mental note to buy him another couple of shirts next time she was in M&S.

  ‘Look, perhaps I should have asked Mike and Tony instead,’ Rosie said. ‘I was thinking of it. But then I thought there would be too many men. Is that homophobic? Oh God, it might be. But I don’t think so; it’s just about balance, isn’t it?’

  Stephen asked: ‘Is Matt bringing a girlfriend, then?’

  ‘No, that’s the other thing. I’ve asked Charlotte from work.’

  ‘Do I know her?’

  ‘Yes, Charlotte – she’s the accountant. I mean, you haven’t met, but I know I’ve mentioned her to you. I think she and Matt might get on really well. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve never met her.’

  ‘No. But I think they’re similar types.’

  ‘So now you’re trying to set Matt up as well.’

  ‘No . . . not exactly . . . I just thought they’d get on.’

  ‘Why do you care about Matt’s love life?’

  ‘I don’t . . . I mean . . . I think you’re reading too much into it.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Stephen, for God’s sake . . .’

  ‘Can you turn on the taps, please?’

  He had finished kneading the flour, butter and sugar, and held his white-dusted hands in front of him piously, like holy relics. Rosie obeyed, mixing the water to the right temperature. Stephen washed his hands, dried them, and scattered the crumble mix over the pears.