by Chris Smyth
How was everyone else taking it? Even though it was ruining his hosting, Matt looked like he was finding it pretty amusing. Stephen looked a little bored and, interestingly, so did Barbara, even though she was supposed to be an active participant in the argument. She was just sitting there, chin propped up on her hand, staring into the salad bowl. Marcus wondered what she was thinking. It was so hard to tell. She seemed to have said almost nothing on both nights. Was she shy? Tired? A bit dim? Secretly contemptuous of everyone round the table?
Marcus bristled at the thought. At least he was willing to say something.
‘Can I help you with the clearing up?’ Rosie asked. She and Sarah were wearing the same pained expression, which Marcus found viscerally insufferable.
‘No, leave it,’ Charlotte commanded as Rosie reached for Stephen’s plate.
‘Honestly, it’s no trouble . . .’
‘No, we’re going to have seconds,’ she said.
‘Oh, it was lovely, thank you, but . . .’
‘Matt, will you give everyone some more?’ Charlotte instructed.
‘Not for me, thanks, Charlotte,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m absolutely full.’
‘Matt, give her some more.’
Matt hesitated for a moment, then went over to the carving board. This time he didn’t put it on the table. Lukewarm helpings of meat were passed round in grim silence.
Justin and Barbara declined seconds of paella and for a while no one ate anything. Sarah tried to stifle a cough that seemed unnaturally loud against the silence. Then Stephen cut a chunk of lamb and put it in his mouth. Was he trying to defuse the situation, or was he still hungry? Matt followed him, then, still looking pained, so did Rosie and Sarah.
The sticky sounds of meat-chewing spread round the hushed table, seeming to get louder the longer no one spoke.
Marcus tried to chew more quietly, but felt the squelching noise must be echoing round the hard surfaces of the kitchen. The meat, herby and flavourful the first time round, seemed to drain of all taste until it became just a fatty lump of animal flesh in his mouth. Marcus forced it down. He could hear everyone else doing the same, gullets pulsing and twitching like trapped rodents.
This was brilliant. The bitter, tasteless seconds were all anyone would remember of the main course. The evening was going down in flames.
Charlotte eventually broke the silence. ‘I’ll just open another bottle of wine,’ she said.
As soon as she stood up, Rosie began clearing the plates. Charlotte looked round, disapproving, but then got distracted by the corkscrew.
Matt scraped a big pile of uneaten lamb into the bin and stacked up the dirty plates in the sink.
‘Who’s for dessert, then?’ he asked.
Fourteen
Stephen was grateful for the lamb; it was solid and filling after a starter that had been too insubstantial to make much of a dent in his hunger. He had needed a large meal after a difficult day, as much for comfort as for sustenance. After his first plateful he had reached that pleasant state of repletion that he knew never lasted long before tipping over into exhaustion.
He had wanted to use this window to throw himself into the conversation, be engaging and amusing for at least a few minutes. But that silly row about vegetarianism shut him out. He had no interest in joining in on either side – he had always liked eating meat, but didn’t want to make a moral point out of it.
Stephen had finished well before everyone else and thought it was probably too early to ask for more. What had he had for lunch? Oh yes, a sandwich from the canteen. Crayfish and rocket. It tasted exactly the same as the prawn cocktail salad sandwich they used to have, but was one pound more expensive.
But then, all the sandwiches in the canteen tasted similar – two slices of soggy bread moulded round a rubbery filling coated in fatty mush. Stephen ate them in rotation: Farmhouse cheese and pickle; Wiltshire smoked ham; Coronation chicken; New York-style pastrami; Crayfish and rocket. Eating them in order saved wasting time thinking about what to have on any given day, wondering about which he hadn’t eaten for a while, or looking fruitlessly for an alternative.
The lamb really was very good. He had felt a twinge of jealousy when Rosie had praised it so extravagantly to Matt. But tasting it had placated him, because he had to admit that it deserved the compliments. Even cooling a bit, the soft hunks of meat were tender and full of flavour, with that unusual mix of spices and just the right amount of fattiness. Stephen paused with a few chunks left on the plate. He wondered why no one else seemed to be enjoying it.
Charlotte brought over some more wine and Stephen picked up his glass to accept a refill. While his attention was elsewhere, Rosie quickly cleared away his lamb without asking. Perhaps she was hungry for dessert. What were they having? Matt brought over a pot of cream. That was a good sign.
‘Do you need a hand with anything?’ Rosie asked.
‘No, thanks. It’s all under control.’ Charlotte took a large chocolate tart from the fridge and placed it at the centre of the table. ‘There we go.’
‘That looks amazing, Charlotte!’ Sarah said.
‘I wish I’d saved a bit more room,’ Stephen agreed.
Rosie frowned. ‘I thought we were having Espresso Chocolate Cake?’
‘I was experimenting for a while,’ Charlotte said easily, ‘and decided this went better with the meal.’
‘But the menu . . .’
‘You can’t be tied down by a piece of paper, Rosie. It’s all about the taste, isn’t it?’
Rosie bent over and inspected her slice of tart carefully. ‘Did you make this yourself, Charlotte?’
‘Of course. Does everyone want a piece? There’s not even any meat in it.’ Charlotte thrust a plate towards Barbara.
‘Are you sure about that?’ Justin asked. ‘Did you make the pastry as well?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you didn’t use any animal fat in it?’
‘Er . . . no. No, I didn’t.’ Charlotte said it firmly.
‘Really?’ Rosie asked. ‘What did you use, then?’
Charlotte stared at Rosie, and blinked slowly. ‘Flour, mostly,’ she said.
‘Just flour?’ Rosie arched her eyebrows.
Charlotte shrugged. ‘You know, water and stuff as well.’
‘What about butter?’
‘That too.’
Rosie compressed her lips in the way Stephen saw her do when talking to the builders. ‘How did you make it stick?’ she asked.
Charlotte stared defiantly back. ‘You have to knead it for longer,’ she said simply.
‘That’s so much healthier, isn’t it?’ Sarah said.
‘Yes, exactly.’ Charlotte turned to Sarah with a wide grin. ‘It’s very important to be healthy.’
‘But you definitely made the pastry yourself?’ Rosie asked.
‘Of course. Really, Rosie, you’re being—’
‘What did you do with the dish?’ she asked.
‘The dish?’
‘Normally you would serve a tart like that in its baking dish,’ she said. ‘In fact, I don’t know how you’d go about getting it out.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. What’s your secret?’ Rosie settled back in her chair and interlocked her fingers.
Charlotte looked away and coughed delicately. ‘Well,’ she said, after pausing for a moment. ‘I just turned it upside down. And used a knife. That’s why the crust’s a bit damaged, you see? Look.’ Charlotte pointed out the scratches, chips and irregular lumps that scarred the pastry case. Rosie leaned forward and inspected them.
‘OK.’ She leaned back. ‘But why did you need to take it out of the dish at all?’
‘I borrowed it,’ Charlotte said, grinning again. ‘I had to give it back.’
Rosie narrowed her eyes to squint suspiciously at Charlotte. Charlotte held her gaze. They stared at each other for some time.
‘I’ll finish serving, shall I?’ Matt reached his arm deliberately between th
em, breaking eye contact. Stephen caught Charlotte cracking a slight smirk as she looked away.
Stephen smothered his slice of tart in cream. He glanced sideways at Rosie as he did so, but she didn’t even notice. She was glaring at what was left of the dessert and her whole body was rigid. Stephen could sense her frustrated determination. He found it incredibly sexy.
He loved it when she was like this: resolute, single-minded and moving with restrained power beneath her dress, like a panther tensing to pounce. It made him think of the time just before they got married when she’d had an argument with her boss about a pay rise. She’d filled herself with righteous fury, marched into the MD’s office and walked out with double what she’d originally asked for. Then she’d come home half ablaze with delight, half still simmering at the original injustice, and they’d had sex on the living-room floor. Thinking about it, Stephen began to sweat slightly.
At that moment, he wasn’t really sure what she was getting angry about – did she think Charlotte was lying about the cake? – but her black and red dress pulled tight over her breasts with every deep, irregular breath. Under the table, he reached out and stroked her thigh. She batted his hand away without looking at him.
The rejection smarted. Stephen poured himself another glass of wine and attacked the dessert. It was good – a deep, textured, chocolate goo, broken up with crunchy chunks of hazelnut. The cream sunk through each mouthful of chocolate, giving a cool freshness to each sticky bite. But the richness was so intense that Stephen quickly hit his limit, and with every mouthful began to feel his stomach straining against his trousers. He took a few more forkfuls, regretting now the seconds of lamb. As his breathing grew laboured, he reluctantly accepted he would have to stop. He put down the fork and reached for his glass, taking very small sips to ease the pressure on his digestion.
‘This is very tasty, Charlotte,’ Sarah said. ‘The hazelnuts in it are great. They really break up the sweetness.’
‘Good, that’s what I hoped,’ Charlotte replied. ‘Much better than espresso, I reckoned.’ She grinned at Rosie.
‘Yes, without them the sweetness could become too overpowering, couldn’t it?’ Marcus said. He seemed to be enjoying himself, Stephen thought.
‘Tell me, Charlotte,’ Rosie asked. ‘Did you put molasses in?’
‘Nope.’
‘Because it isn’t just sugar, is it? How did you get such a rich sweetness?’
‘That would be the secret ingredient.’
‘Secret ingredient? What’s that?’
‘It’s a secret.’
‘Ha, ha. Very good. Go on, tell me.’
Charlotte caught Matt’s eye. She nodded at him.
‘I know it’s got some dulce de leche in it,’ he said.
‘Yes, that was it,’ Charlotte admitted. ‘Dulce de leche.’
‘Really?’
‘Honestly, Rosie. Anyone would think you were accusing me of not making this myself.’
‘Oh no, of course not.’ Rosie shook her head very quickly at the thought.
‘Good. Because I spent a long time baking this, you know.’ Charlotte sipped her wine.
‘Oh yes, it shows. I wouldn’t for a minute suggest you were passing off a shop-bought tart as your own. Not for a minute.’ Rosie shook her head again, slowly this time, then stopped. ‘Only, you’re always saying you’re no good at cooking.’
‘Well, you know . . .’ Charlotte waved a hand modestly.
‘And the funny thing is, I bought a tart just like this from Tesco only the other week.’
‘Really? What a coincidence.’ Charlotte did not flinch.
‘Oh no!’ Sarah protested. ‘This is much nicer than anything from a supermarket!’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ Charlotte said.
‘Yes, with prepared food you get this horrid sort of packaged preservative taste.’ Sarah screwed up her face. ‘It’s unmistakable. That’s why I never eat them. And of course they’re terribly bad for you.’ She tutted. ‘Honestly, Rosie, stop being so suspicious. It’s very rude.’
‘Yes, Rosie, really!’ Marcus admonished, while grinning. ‘You can tell it’s not professionally made – it’s far too lumpy and irregular for that.’
‘Yeah, cheers, Marcus,’ Charlotte said.
Rosie opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it. She stood up. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’
On her way to the toilet, she stopped by the door and peered very closely into the bin.
‘All right, Rosie?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Fine.’ Rosie straightened up quickly.
The conversation took a while to get going again after Rosie had left the kitchen. Justin still looked grumpy. Stephen thought this should be the moment when he stepped in and got properly involved in the evening. But his window of gregariousness was closing. His full stomach had made him irritable, and then a wave of tiredness hit him, quenching the party spirit and leaving only the fizzling nausea of an impending hangover.
Sarah finished her last bite of tart and put down her spoon with an excited clatter. ‘Ooh, I know,’ she said through a sticky mouthful of chocolate. ‘Shall we play another game now?’
‘Fuck no,’ Charlotte replied.
Slightly stunned by Charlotte’s vehemence, Sarah fell silent until Rosie came back, when Sarah said she needed to go to the loo as well. Marcus and Stephen had to stand up while Rosie hung back by the door. The act of dragging himself upright gave Stephen another throb of discomfort in his stomach. He accepted it was time to go home.
As Sarah squeezed past them, Marcus asked, ‘Do you entertain often in here, Matt?’
‘Not this many people.’
‘No, I’m sure it’s normally more intimate.’ Marcus looked at Charlotte as he spoke. Matt laughed politely. Charlotte wasn’t listening.
‘How long have you had this place?’ Marcus asked.
‘About three years.’
‘Tell me, do you know who designed this estate?’
‘No, it’s a sixties tower block, isn’t it?’
‘Oh no, I would say early eighties,’ Marcus said.
‘If you say so.’ Matt shrugged.
The conversation petered out after that. Neither of them seemed willing to put in the effort to keep it going.
Stephen had been here only once before and he was startled to hear Matt say he had been in the flat three years. It was a nice enough place, but Matt could clearly afford better. Stephen, who felt a twinge of anxiety every time he thought about his mortgage, resented the thought that Matt was piling up far more cash than he knew what to do with. Even worse was the thought that he was investing it all somewhere, and would suddenly turn out to be a multimillionaire.
Stephen was fairly sure he wasn’t jealous of Matt. Well, maybe he envied his money. Professionally, Matt probably was doing much better than Stephen, and he had the cash to go with it. But that was just income. That wasn’t Matt. What did he have to show for it? Living alone in a sparse flat at the top of a council block.
Then there were the women. Matt always seemed to have someone new. But what was the point of going through all that effort, risking so much embarrassment, just to throw it all away and start again every time? Even now Matt was probably trying to sleep with Charlotte. Stephen could tell from the appraising way Matt looked at her. God, it must be so tiring.
‘Does anyone want any coffee?’ Matt asked.
‘No, thanks,’ Justin said. He had clearly been waiting impatiently for this cue, because he added very quickly, ‘In fact, we’d better be going.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
Matt didn’t push the point.
Fifteen
Thank God they’d gone. What a couple of clench-arsed prudes. Charlotte smiled into her glass of wine. God, that had been fun. The looks on their lemon-sucking faces! Why didn’t people have arguments like that more often? It was so much better than chit-chat about house prices and whatever boring
rubbish they had talked about at Rosie’s. And it was exactly what they deserved too. Even the mention of the words ‘vegetarian option’ brought up Charlotte’s hackles, made her picture moralizing killjoys. And she wasn’t wrong, was she? Worst of all, they were always so dull. To Charlotte’s mind, being a bastard was forgivable; being boring never was.
Charlotte couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said, but she knew she’d won the argument. That was why Mr and Mrs Lentil Tofu were scuttling off home to their organic veg box. He was more of a dick, obviously, but she was fucking annoying, with her floaty, I’m-too-spiritual-for-you hippy bollocks, as if she hadn’t noticed that she’d tied her halter-neck so tightly that it practically screamed ‘Please look at my tits!’. Fuck it. They were gone now. Maybe everyone else could start enjoying themselves as well.
‘More wine, anyone?’ she asked, louder than she expected. ‘Or is it time for some shots? Did I see a bottle of sambuca in your drinks cupboard, Matt?’
‘I hope not.’
‘Whatever it was, bring it out.’
‘Not for us, thanks,’ Rosie said, standing up. ‘We ’d better be going.’
Stephen grimaced and began struggling to his feet.
‘You sure?’ Charlotte gave her a crooked smile. ‘Maybe some tequila?’
‘No, we’ve got to get back. The babysitter, you see.’
‘Oh, right, the babysitter.’ Charlotte laughed. ‘Well, give my regards to Julian . . . No, what’s his name?’
‘Jonathan,’ Rosie said tightly.
‘Yes, Jonathan, that’s it.’
‘Thank you so much for dinner, Matt,’ Rosie said. ‘It was lovely.’
‘And me! Don’t forget my delicious tart.’
‘Yes,’ Rosie said.
Charlotte managed to wait until they were out of the front door before bursting out laughing.