Dinner at Mine

by Chris Smyth

  But seeing the children use a tree tub and a dustbin for goalposts made Justin scold himself for being so judgemental. Maybe, in fact, Matt’s decision to move here showed a worthy commitment to socially mixed living, a desire not to use money to run away from the less fortunate, but to join them in pushing the authorities to make conditions better for all. If it was right to send your children to a state school, perhaps it was right to buy in to a council estate as well. Justin took the working lift as confirmation of this. He resolved to apologize at a suitable point in the evening.

  Surprisingly, there was no one else there when he arrived. Charlotte seemed in a bit of a huff as she poured him a drink. Perhaps she had quarrelled with Matt. Was she actually his partner? Presumably she was, although she didn’t seem to know where the wine glasses were. Perhaps she hadn’t moved in yet.

  When they were sitting down, facing each other over glasses of wine, Justin asked, ‘So how long have you two been together?’

  ‘We’re not.’

  ‘Oh. I . . . Well, I thought . . .’

  ‘It’s Rosie’s fault.’

  ‘Is it? I’m not sure I understand how . . .’

  ‘Never mind. Where’s your wife? I’ve forgotten her name.’

  ‘Barbara. She’s not my wife. We have decided not to get married until gay couples everywhere in the US have the right.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked at him with obvious mystification.

  ‘Barbara feels very strongly about it and I’m fully in support of her,’ he explained.

  ‘Right,’ Charlotte said in a tone he couldn’t read. ‘Is she coming?’

  ‘Yes. But she’s launching her new ceramics exhibition first.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a pause after that. Justin thought Charlotte might ask a bit about the exhibition, but she didn’t. So instead he asked, ‘What kind of work do you do?’

  ‘I’m an accountant.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Justin didn’t want another silence, so he thought he should carry on. ‘Is that for one of the City firms?’

  ‘No. It’s the same place Rosie works. We design and manufacture kitchen appliances.’

  ‘I see. Do you enjoy it?’

  ‘No. Not particularly. But that’s work, isn’t it?’

  Justin was a little shocked by this, and couldn’t think of anything to fill the next silence. The humming of the Sky+ box seemed to be unusually loud. Charlotte took several sips of wine while Justin fiddled with his glass.

  After a while, Charlotte asked, ‘Are you a fan of Come Dine with Me?’

  ‘Oh we don’t have a TV.’

  ‘Right.’ That tone again.

  ‘We both feel it tends to be a distraction from the more important things in life, you see,’ he explained.

  ‘Can I get you another drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, er, no, thanks. I’ve hardly even started this one.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, honestly, I’m fine.’

  ‘How about some nuts, then?’ Charlotte stood up.

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘I’m sure I can find some peanuts or something. You must be getting pretty hungry.’

  ‘Actually, I’m intolerant to peanuts. If I eat one, I start to swell up and—’

  ‘Cashews, then?’

  ‘No, really, I’m fine.’

  ‘Let me see what I can find. Maybe Matt has some kind of organic snack.’

  Justin thought it would be rude to object this time. Charlotte left the living room very quickly.

  For a while, Justin remained perched on the edge of the sofa, his body bent forward at the forty-five-degree angle he used to signal interest in a conversation he was finding difficult. After Charlotte had been gone for several minutes, he stood up and immediately noticed the view that appeared once he was looking down out of the window. In the bruise-coloured dusk, the landmarks of the City dazzled against the forest of lights stretching off in every direction. The Gherkin and the other skyscrapers seemed incredibly close, as if they shared with the tower block a high-rise space that ignored distances occupied by lesser buildings.

  Coming closer to the window, Justin could see what must have been Smithfield market almost directly below. To the left he saw a strange warren of thick stone walls with ancient beamed roofs that seemed oddly out of place among the concrete and brick. Away to the right he could make out the top of the glowing dome of St Paul’s, cradled in a ring of taller office blocks. Although it was a small flat, Justin now understood what Matt saw in it. How wonderful to have the whole city spread out below you like that.

  Justin turned away from the window. Odd that there was no one else here. Perhaps he should have gone to Barbara’s exhibition after all. He looked at his watch. Ten to eight. Where was Charlotte? Well, never mind. Justin put down his wine and opened the battered Eastpak rucksack he always carried with him. If he could start reading over the section he’d written that morning, then that would set him up well for the weekend. Relaxing into the sofa, he began to read.

  He had barely got halfway through the statistics on mosquito-net penetration in rural Malawi when the doorbell went. Soon, he heard Barbara’s voice in the hall. Reluctantly, he put the report back in his bag and stood up as Barbara and Charlotte came into the living room.

  ‘Hi, my love,’ he said.

  ‘Hi, Justin,’ she replied.

  They smiled at each other but Barbara didn’t come over to kiss him.

  ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Yeah. A large one, please.’

  ‘Red or white?’

  ‘Whatever. Red.’

  When Charlotte left, Barbara flopped down in the recliner and exhaled noisily. ‘What a shitty day.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The launch was a disaster.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come.’ He sat down facing her.

  ‘It wasn’t that. That’s not important.’

  ‘I’m sorry anyway. Did that gallery owner . . . I’m afraid I’ve forgotten his name – did he not come?’

  ‘Dieter Tunhelm? Of course he didn’t. But I don’t care about any of that. I was standing there, drinking wine out of a plastic cup, looking at my work, and I thought: this is all a bunch of crap.’

  ‘Oh no! Some of it’s very nice!’ Justin leaned forward to show her how strongly he felt.

  ‘It’s just twelve ugly lumps of painted clay. What’s the point of it?’ Barbara waved her arm dismissively towards the television. ‘They say, if at first you don’t succeed, try again. They say, if you work hard enough, you’ll be successful. But what if you’re a talentless nobody? They don’t say anything about that.’

  ‘You’re not a talentless nobody!’ Justin insisted.

  ‘I think I’m done with it.’

  ‘No!’

  Barbara wasn’t looking at him. ‘And so I just left. I couldn’t take it any more.’

  ‘That’s a little bit mean for Mary, don’t you think? She put a lot of effort into—’

  ‘And then I walked around for a long time thinking I just wanted to go home. But I didn’t. I came here.’

  Justin patted her on the arm. ‘That was the right thing to do.’

  ‘And now I’m thinking I don’t want to spend an evening talking to these people.’ Barbara’s face hardened. ‘And you know what I thought? If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here.’

  Justin smiled affectionately at her. ‘That’s a sweet thing for you to say.’

  Barbara stared at him again. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  She stopped as footsteps came towards the door. Justin was surprised to see it was Matt bringing in the wine.

  ‘Here you are.’ He put a glass down next to Barbara. ‘Hey are you OK? You look like you’ve had a bad day.’

  ‘Yeah, you know . . .’ she mumbled.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No – tell me.’ Mat
t sat down on the recliner’s footstool and pulled in closer.

  Barbara shrugged. ‘All right . . . I had my exhibition launch today.’

  ‘It didn’t go well?’ Matt asked in a soft, understanding tone.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What was it? Was someone rude about it?’

  ‘It wasn’t anyone else’s fault. It was just me. I looked at my work and I realized it was just garbage.’

  ‘That must have been tough.’ Matt patted her knee.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.’ Barbara straightened in the chair.

  ‘No, it’s good. Look, I hope you don’t mind if I say this – but things probably aren’t as bad as you think.’

  ‘They’re pretty bad.’

  ‘The thing is, this is a common response among artists. They work on a piece for so long, really throw everything into it, and then when they are done they can hardly bear to look at it. That doesn’t mean the work’s no good. Not at all.’

  Barbara seemed to consider this. ‘You think so?’

  ‘Absolutely. In fact, I think I was reading somewhere that the same thing happened to Picasso. He made ceramics, didn’t he? Well, I read that he was so disgusted with what he’d made one summer, he told his assistant to smash everything in the studio. Fortunately, the assistant didn’t do it, just stowed them all away somewhere, and when he brought them out again after Picasso’s death they were recognized as some of his finest works.’

  Barbara brightened. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yup. Now, I’m not sure I can promise you’ll make as much cash as that assistant did . . .’

  Barbara laughed. She had a warm and open laugh, Justin thought. It made him happy to hear it.

  ‘But all I’m saying is, things will turn out a lot better than you think now,’ Matt said.

  The doorbell went.

  ‘I’d better go and get that.’ Matt stood up, patting Barbara’s knee again on the way.

  When Matt had gone, Barbara looked at Justin questioningly. Justin was touched.

  ‘What a nice thing for Matt to say,’ he said.

  Twelve

  Rosie could see Charlotte puzzling over the table settings while Matt poured out wine in the kitchen to her left; in the living room to the right Barbara and Justin faced each other in silence across the coffee table. That was poor hosting, she noted with a hint of triumph. Definitely a potential mark against.

  Was it wrong docking points in the hall before she had even got her jacket off? No, that was part of the game, surely.

  In fact, if Matt didn’t come and hang it up for her soon . . .

  ‘You can come and sit at the table straight away,’ he said, taking Rosie’s jacket from her. ‘It’s about ready.’

  ‘Can’t we have a look round? I haven’t been here before.’

  ‘Sure. If you like. There’s the living room. Go on in.’

  ‘Hello!’ Rosie waved at Justin and Barbara. She registered the bookshelf for further snooping, but went straight to the window.

  ‘What an amazing view!’ she exclaimed. It was fully dark now, and towards the horizon the lights of the city merged into the stars, twinkling gently through the haze of distance.

  ‘It’s great, isn’t it?’ Matt said, joining her. ‘It’s a small flat, but I’ve always felt this makes up for it.’

  ‘It must feel like you own the whole city!’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘No, it’s fantastic. I bet you wake up every morning thinking London is there for the taking.’

  Matt didn’t reply to that. They stood side by side for several moments, watching the lights in silence.

  It wasn’t until the doorbell rang that Rosie noticed Stephen standing behind them. She moved away quickly. Not that, you know, but it might look . . .

  ‘I’d better go and get that,’ Matt said.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Rosie agreed. She moved towards the bookshelf while Matt let in Marcus and Sarah. By the time he called them all through to the table, she had not found anything she could picture Matt enjoying reading.

  Rosie had to turn sideways to squeeze into the folding chair jammed up against the wall by the extended table. Sarah and Marcus were already ensconced at the far end, and if either of them needed to get out, everyone would have to get up. Justin and Barbara had a bit more space on the other side of the table.

  ‘Do you mind if we push the table out a bit?’ she asked. ‘We’re a bit squeezed on this side.’

  ‘We haven’t got that much room.’

  ‘Just a bit.’ Rosie began pushing before Justin could object further. It was a bit rude of her, yes, but she wasn’t the host any more. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said.

  The other end of the table jutted past the fridge, deep into the kitchen where Matt was arranging something on to plates. Rosie noticed, with a sense of satisfaction, that two of them did not match.

  The fish glistened under the bright halogen kitchen lights. Rosie was unreasonably irritated to see that the non-matching plates had been given to the vegetarians, as if they were meant to look different.

  ‘This looks lovely, Matt,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is it organic?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s fish,’ Marcus snapped back at her before Matt could respond.

  ‘So?’

  ‘It swims wild in the middle of the bloody ocean. How could it be organic?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s about not having any nasty hormones and stuff in it, isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’ Marcus rolled his eyes. ‘It’s about how something is farmed.’

  ‘Well, fish can be farmed.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘Is it farmed, Matt?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘It’s from the fishmonger Jamie Oliver uses,’ he said. This seemed to end the conversation.

  Rosie took a forkful of fish. The flesh was firm and meaty, but as she bit into it she was pleased to discover that the citrus overpowered everything else; she could barely taste the delicate flavours of the uncooked fish over the acrid tang of lemon and lime. She took another bite. No, this one was hardly better, the marinade still overwhelming everything else.

  Rosie grew in confidence. The starter wasn’t a threat, and she couldn’t believe Charlotte’s pudding would be, so it would all come down to the main dish. And surely roast lamb couldn’t compensate for two indifferent courses? It was reliable, yes, always likely to score well, but it was never going to be spectacular, was it? Rosie watched Justin and Barbara eat their salad. Some kind of puffy grains dominated; they looked dry and bland. That surely wasn’t going to rescue Matt.

  Rosie took a third forkful. The ceviche was almost half gone now. Just as well. That one tasted of nothing but lemon. Poor fish. To have died simply to become a way to mop up lemon juice. Rosie pushed the last bit round her plate and smiled.

  ‘Mmm!’ Sarah said. ‘It’s so light and powerful at the same time.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s really subtle and refreshing.’

  ‘Yes, it’s very nice,’ Stephen added in a low mumble. ‘Very fishy.’

  Well, Rosie thought, that was politeness, wasn’t it? It didn’t really mean they liked it.

  ‘I must say, Matt, this is actually pretty good,’ Marcus said. ‘Simple, but very nicely balanced.’

  Rosie was thrown. That sounded sincere. Grudging, yes, but that only underlined the point. Not ‘It’s very lemony, isn’t it?’ or ‘Mmm, the lime really comes through, doesn’t it?’, but straightforward praise. And if Marcus liked it, maybe Rosie was wrong. Maybe the others did too; maybe the course was going to put Matt out ahead. What hadn’t she noticed? Was her palate missing some kind of subtlety?

  ‘Rosie, what do you think?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Oh it’s lovely,’ she said emphatically. ‘Really very good.’

  ‘It’s so easy to make,’ Charlotte said.

  As they discussed the dish, Rosie began to feel better. She had
praised it, but she didn’t like it; perhaps the others were doing the same. Marcus still had to cook, so there was no point making himself unpopular by slagging it off. Had they all been lying when Rosie cooked? Surely not. They really had seemed impressed. Even Marcus had liked some of the pomegranate molasses . . .

  But that’s what they’d want her to think. How good was she at telling when her friends were lying? Pretty good, she thought. But then, they hardly ever lied, so . . . But of course, maybe she was actually very bad at telling, and they lied all the time.

  It suddenly seemed desperately important to have a way of knowing who wasn’t being honest. Rosie looked suspiciously round the table.

  ‘. . . but I’ve never been too bothered by the idea of getting older,’ Sarah was saying. ‘It just seems so trivial in the end, doesn’t it?’

  Hmm, Rosie thought.

  ‘It’s the helplessness I can’t stand,’ Stephen said, unexpectedly animated. ‘Just drifting away from youth, quite slowly, actually, but watching it, examining it, knowing there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.’

  ‘I like not having to pretend to be young any more,’ Justin said.

  ‘But you do, you do,’ Stephen said. ‘New generations spring up behind you, all optimistic and hopeful, and you’re expected to keep up with them.’

  ‘Jesus, Stephen, you’re not even the oldest here,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Who is?’ Justin asked. Everyone looked round the table. Justin continued: ‘Charlotte, how old are you?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Matt, what about you?’

  ‘Matt’s younger than I am,’ Rosie said.

  ‘No! Really?’

  ‘No need to sound so astonished, Justin. Some people are.’

  ‘No, I just meant . . . you know. I assumed he was older . . . Sorry, Matt, I only meant, sort of, late thirties.’