Dinner at Mine

by Chris Smyth

  Twenty-one

  Marcus entered the living room pretty confident of what he was going to find, so he couldn’t help smiling to himself when he saw the big African mask propped in the corner. Perfect. He ticked off the vibrant fabrics on the wall, the array of appropriately ethnic knick-knacks on the bookshelf.

  And was that . . . Yes, it was! A beanbag! It sat bunched on the floor underneath a poster advertising the Dalai Lama’s autobiography. Marcus hadn’t seen a beanbag in years. It was even better than he had hoped. On his way over, he was surprised to find he was actually looking forward to the evening, so certain was he of the opportunities for condescension.

  ‘What a very striking mask,’ he said to Justin in a warm and patronizing tone.

  Justin said, ‘Thanks. I’d better get on with the salad,’ and hurried back to the kitchen.

  Rosie and Stephen were crouched on the floor with Barbara and an array of her pots. Marcus lost some of his amused certainty as he looked at them. The pots unsettled him. Yes, they were crude and childlike, but that was the point, surely?

  Could they actually be good? Marcus didn’t want to risk mocking them if there was any chance they might be proper art. That could bring real humiliation.

  ‘Barbara, these are lovely!’ Sarah said. ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘I’m just putting them away.’

  ‘Oh go on!’

  Barbara finished stacking the box and stood up.

  Rosie handed back the one she had been looking at. ‘Barbara was just telling us that this one was inspired by a bout of chickenpox she had as a child.’

  Oh come on! That had to be ridiculous, didn’t it? Marcus was all ready to say something when Barbara turned and looked him in the eye. The comment withered on his tongue. He found Barbara unsettling. It didn’t help that she was so attractive. Marcus always found beautiful women difficult, unless he could establish early on that they were willing to defer to his intelligence. But it wasn’t just that. Barbara was unreadable, and Marcus couldn’t tell if she didn’t understand his jibes, or had somehow found a higher level from which to look down on him.

  Sarah protested some more as Barbara carried the box away, but then the doorbell went and Justin said they were ready to eat.

  Charlotte and Matt arrived within minutes of each other, but obviously not together. Marcus watched as they conspicuously avoided looking at each other. That matchmaking attempt certainly hadn’t worked. Served Rosie right. Charlotte sat down on a folding chair on the other side of the room to Matt, well out of his eyeline and with everyone else in between them. Clearly, nothing happening there.

  ‘Dinner’s ready,’ Justin said, putting a bottle of wine and a stack of tumblers down on the coffee table. ‘I know it’s not elegant, but we haven’t got much space, so I hope no one minds eating off their knees. Please, sit down where you can.’

  Marcus scrambled for one of the remaining chairs. It was rigid and uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to end up on the beanbag. Neither did anyone else, it seemed. In the end, Barbara curled herself up on it, leaning back against the bookcase.

  ‘Well, this is cosy, isn’t it?’ Marcus said as Rosie started handing round wine from the bottle Justin had brought out. ‘It’s just like being a student again.’

  He took a sip of wine. ‘Oooh! It really is like being a student again.’

  ‘Marcus!’ Sarah exclaimed.

  ‘No, it’s disgusting, isn’t it?’ Barbara said with sudden force. ‘Justin buys it because it’s Fairtrade. He hasn’t noticed that it tastes like shit.’

  There was a shocked silence.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rosie said carefully. ‘It’s not that bad. Just . . . unusual.’

  ‘It’ll do the job,’ Charlotte said. ‘Can I have a top-up?’

  Justin came back with a plate in each hand. He signalled to Barbara to help bring in the rest, but she ignored him. Rosie jumped up and went to fetch them from the kitchen.

  They settled down in uneasy silence.

  ‘Justin,’ Sarah said as they began eating, ‘what was the name of that Peruvian writer you were telling me about last time?’

  ‘Peruvian?’ He looked blank. ‘Oh, you mean Bernardo Hidalgo? He’s Bolivian.’

  ‘Oh! How embarrassing!’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘But you were really raving about that book. What was it called?’

  ‘Ten Thousand Times Six. It is brilliant.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s hard to say, exactly. Some of it’s set in pre-revolutionary Chile, but then part of it is about a research professor at a Canadian university, and then there’s a bit in a favela in Rio de Janeiro.’

  ‘Right.’ Sarah sounded a little bit doubtful.

  ‘I’m not explaining it very well, but it’s fantastic. Has anyone else read it?’ Justin looked expectantly round the room.

  ‘Is that the one that’s six hundred pages?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is quite long, but it’s really worthwhile. Have you read it?’

  ‘Well, my book club was thinking about it. But there’s a rule against books with more than three hundred pages. So we didn’t, in the end.’

  ‘Well, it sounds great,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll have to note down the name so I don’t forget again.’

  ‘You can borrow it if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be great.’

  Marcus was finding this difficult to take. He hadn’t read the book either, but he had instantly taken a dislike to it. So he asked: ‘Has anyone read the new one by Bilaj Tunek?’

  There was a gratifying silence.

  ‘It’s very good,’ Marcus said. He’d read only the back cover, but felt sure that a Turko-Bulgarian Nobel Prize winner beat a boring South American. ‘I’d definitely recommend it. Lyrical, without ever losing sight of reality.’ That was what that quote from the Guardian had said, wasn’t it?

  ‘What about the new Anthony Hargrave?’ Rosie asked. ‘Has anyone read that?’

  ‘The one about child abuse?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Yes. It was very harrowing.’

  ‘God, there are so many books I need to get round to reading!’ Sarah said. ‘It won all those prizes, didn’t it?’

  Marcus felt he should say something. ‘Hargrave’s a total charlatan,’ he declared.

  ‘No, it’s very good,’ Rosie said. ‘But it is a bit . . . well, it’s hard going.’

  ‘Is that the one they’re making a film of?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s right!’ Rosie agreed. ‘It’s going to have . . . oh, what’s his name? The one that was in The Tudors?’

  ‘Oh he’s hot!’ Charlotte exclaimed. ‘I’ll see it if he’s in it! Even if it is about child molesters.’

  ‘No, actually, maybe it’s not him.’ Rosie hesitated. ‘Maybe I mean the one from that film about Anne Boleyn . . .’

  ‘Not so hot.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Was he the one in The Green Lantern?’ Matt said.

  ‘He doesn’t sound very hot.’

  ‘Hey, has anyone seen Inception?’ Rosie asked. ‘We got sent it on DVD this week, and it was totally incomprehensible.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it,’ Justin said.

  ‘It’s all about trying to break into someone’s dreams,’ Sarah said. ‘Except that you can get stuck in them and then they can hack into yours. No, wait . . . Is that right?’

  ‘I thought it was that you die if someone wakes you up while you’re in someone else’s dream,’ Rosie said.

  Marcus felt compelled to put them right. ‘It’s all about the uncertainty of identity,’ he said. ‘All of Christopher Nolan’s films are. If you can’t control your subconscious, are you really you any more? What is “you” anyway?’

  ‘What a load of bollocks,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Well, in the end we decided to give up and watch The Apprentice instead,’ Rosie said.

  Marcus retired sul
lenly from the conversation. He couldn’t contribute to this. How had the conversation slipped so quickly from translated fiction to reality TV? But the pause allowed him to appraise the food for the first time. He had eaten almost half of his aubergine cheesecake without really tasting it. Not a good sign.

  The idea was a good one, he had to admit. But he was relieved to discover that the dish didn’t live up to its name. The roast aubergine was fine, sure, if a bit monotonous. Yes, the dusting of herbs was all well and good, but the cheesy filling was just bland. Justin wasn’t putting on much of an advert for a vegetarian diet.

  When Justin asked if anyone wanted seconds, there was a long pause. Marcus savoured it.

  ‘Rosie?’ Justin asked. ‘Would you like any more?’

  ‘It was gorgeous, really lovely,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think I could.’

  Marcus could tell this was insincere; she was clearly being overeffusive because she hadn’t thought of anything good to say about it before.

  Justin went round the room, but everyone declined a second helping.

  ‘I really couldn’t,’ Marcus said happily. ‘It was so . . . filling.’

  ‘Are you all sure? There’s only a little bit left?’

  ‘It was too heavy, Justin,’ Barbara said. ‘No one wants any.’

  ‘Right, well, I can have it for lunch tomorrow.’ The forced lightness of Justin’s tone could not disguise the look of surprise on his face. ‘Now, does everyone mind giving me their plates? I need to wash them up for the main course.’

  ‘We can keep the same plates,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘The only thing is,’ Marcus said, forcing down a smirk, ‘I’ve still got quite a lot of the cheesecake left on mine.’

  ‘Yeah, I couldn’t finish it either,’ Barbara said, putting her plate down slightly out of Justin’s reach. ‘It wasn’t very good.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Marcus said carefully. He didn’t quite know where this was going. ‘It was certainly an interesting idea, so maybe it was the execution that was wrong.’

  ‘Marcus . . .’ Sarah warned.

  ‘Perhaps it was just over-reliant on seasoning for flavour.’

  ‘You mean it didn’t taste of very much,’ Barbara said.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Marcus was pleased by the very slight emphasis he put on the word ‘say’.

  ‘No, it was bland, Justin,’ Barbara said. ‘Would it have killed you to put some better herbs in?’

  ‘Well, I’ll know for next time, won’t I?’ Justin’s voice was strained. He was staring straight at Barbara, but she wasn’t looking at him now, gazing down instead at a worn patch on the carpet.

  ‘Yeah. Next time,’ she said faintly.

  Marcus felt uneasy. He couldn’t work out what was going on, and it was unnerving him. Normally, he would have written it off as classic host’s self-criticism, designed to elicit more praise. But, well, it wasn’t herself Barbara was criticizing, was it?

  ‘Do you want any help clearing up?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Justin said.

  ‘No, go on, I’ll stack the dirty plates.’

  Justin let Rosie pile up half the dishes and follow him into the kitchen.

  Sarah got to her feet as well. ‘Can I help with the washing up?’

  The room fell quiet without them. The sounds of running water and clattering crockery were very distinct.

  Marcus was still unsure what was going on. Maybe Sarah was trying to find out. Usually, people conspired to keep his criticism veiled: they would pretend he wasn’t being rude, and he would pretend they weren’t taking offence. But he had a game plan, and he thought he might as well stick to it. When Justin came back in with a bowl of salad, he asked: ‘So, Justin, what are we having for the main course?’

  ‘Chickpea, Swiss Chard and Tamarind Stew,’ Justin replied, as Marcus hoped he would.

  ‘Tamarind?’ he said in feigned surprise. ‘You had that at Rosie’s, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we did,’ Justin said.

  ‘I thought so. You must be a big fan, to serve it again.’

  ‘I like it, yes.’

  ‘He puts it in fucking everything!’ The violence of Barbara’s reply knocked the room into silence again. Marcus didn’t feel like breaking it.

  Then Charlotte said: ‘If only he’d do that with meat.’

  Justin went back to the kitchen without reacting. After staring intently out of the window for a while, Barbara stood up and picked her way between the glasses on the floor. She went out into the hall and disappeared.

  A few seconds later the front door slammed. It was pulled shut with such force Marcus could feel the vibrations through his hard plastic chair. Well, he thought with a certain shocked satisfaction, I don’t think we’ve got much to fear from tonight’s entertainment.

  Twenty-two

  What was that all about, Charlotte wondered without really being interested in the answer. Barbara had always struck her as a bit of a moody cow. Probably she thought of it as being enigmatic and soulful, but Charlotte knew the type from school: willowy, manipulative girls who used their pretty thinness as an excuse to behave as self-indulgently as they wanted. She’d probably decided she was allergic to cumin or something. Well, screw her. Charlotte wasn’t going to pretend to care. She was pretty sure that if everyone ignored her, Barbara would slink back later on.

  Charlotte poured herself another glass of wine. Of course, if Barbara didn’t come back, it would make things more difficult for Justin, which was a bonus. Charlotte had promised herself she wasn’t going to get sucked in to this stupid bourgeois competition – she didn’t give a fuck whose napkins were the most tasteful – but she wanted to make damn sure that Justin and his sanctimonious nut roast bloody well lost.

  Although, in fairness, that cheesy aubergine thing had really hit the spot. As she arrived at Justin’s flat, Charlotte had felt her hangover pushing its way back in through the protective curtain of bacon grease. She’d had to stop at the corner shop and wolf down a packet of cheese and onion crisps before she could face ringing the doorbell.

  The first glass of wine was difficult. She hadn’t really felt like it, and the liquid had tasted sour and alcoholic, but it was important to get started. It wasn’t an evening to be faced sober. The second had been easier, and now, with the third, the hangover was at bay again. Charlotte felt her energy beginning to return. She studied Matt properly for the first time that evening. He was saying something to Stephen and didn’t seem to notice her appraising him. There was less awkwardness than Charlotte had expected. All the same, she looked away before he turned round.

  She took another long sip. That was more like it. The wine wasn’t very good, but the feeling of it was. Tell you what, if they were having that conversation about Barbara’s pots now, there was no way she would have kept her mouth shut. Load of pretentious crap. It needed saying, and Charlotte regretted not doing so. No wonder Barbara was so moody, if she spent her life churning out wanky rubbish in – where the hell even was this? Charlotte had never been to this part of London before, and certainly didn’t intend to make a habit of it. It was a taxi-there-taxi-back kind of place. Charlotte had watched appalled from the window as they drove through canyon-like housing estates, with miserable-looking inhabitants shuffling about between them. They didn’t even look like they’d have the wit to mug you. Twenty quid, though, and another twenty back. The evening obviously wasn’t going to be worth that. Bloody Rosie.

  ‘Make room, make room!’ Sarah charged back in to fuss over the coffee table, clearing space around a big bowl of salad that seemed to be mostly beige. Justin followed carrying a big casserole dish with wisps of steam escaping from beneath the lid. He eased it into the middle of the table.

  ‘That looks amazing, Justin,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Mmm, smells delicious,’ Rosie added.

  Calm down, he hasn’t even taken the bloody lid off yet, Charlotte thought.

  Justin
removed the lid, waved away the heavy cloud of steam that billowed from the dish, and began handing round big bowls of stew.

  ‘Do start,’ he said.

  ‘Is Barbara . . . ?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Please. Start.’

  Rosie picked up her fork.

  Justin thought for a moment before adding: ‘She’s not been feeling too well, you see.’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘She must have just gone to get some aspirin or something.’

  ‘But I could have—’

  ‘Please. Start.’

  When everyone had started eating, Charlotte listened to another round of absurd enthusiasm.

  ‘Mmm. Justin, this is gorgeous!’

  ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Absolutely fantastic!’

  Jesus Christ, Charlotte thought, tone it down a notch! Could they sound any more fake? How much more obvious could it be that they were trying to compensate for Barbara storming off? Not even Justin was going to fall for this.

  ‘Do you really think so? I’m so pleased that you like it,’ Justin said.

  Charlotte looked round the room, hoping someone would catch her eye in private amusement at Justin’s gullibility. But only Matt had the half-smile that suggested he shared the joke. Charlotte let her eyes skate over him.

  ‘It’s really very simple,’ Justin said. ‘It’s just chickpeas, chard, caraway seeds, tamarind paste and a few bits and pieces.’

  ‘Is that all? But it’s so rich!’

  Christ. This couldn’t go on.

  ‘You know what I think would improve it?’ she said.

  Rosie glared at her, but Charlotte couldn’t see any reason to hold back.

  ‘Some nice cubes of aged steak,’ she said.

  Justin didn’t react.

  ‘This salad is lovely too,’ Rosie said with grim determination. ‘So fresh! What did you put into it?’

  Justin had become subdued. He didn’t respond.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘But it’s just a side dish, isn’t it? You really need a chunky main course to go with it, don’t you? Like steak.’

  Justin smiled sadly, but without any sign of annoyance.

  ‘Yes,’ Charlotte tried again. ‘With a nice bit of meat this would be really tasty.’