Dinner at Mine

by Chris Smyth

  With the casserole dish soaking in the sink, Justin went back to the living room and tried Barbara again. This time her phone was off.

  On Sunday morning, she had sent him a text, saying she was OK. He had replied with six messages, all of them asking questions. He hadn’t heard back.

  And so, on Thursday evening, finding her clothes gone, he had turned round and gone back to the office.

  All Friday, he had dreaded the weekend. As he sat on the sofa after ending the call with Rosie, the days stretched out ahead of him, trackless and terrifying.

  Trying not to think about it, Justin roused himself from the sofa and went into the kitchen to make coffee. He hadn’t used the pot since last Saturday, and behind it in the cupboard were his and Barbara’s weekend bowls. They had been made by a friend of hers, and Barbara had decreed them too delicate for everyday use. This time on a Saturday morning, he and Barbara would usually be having a late breakfast, maybe reading the Guardian – him the foreign pages, her the magazine – or if the weather was good, going for a walk in Abney Park.

  He took both bowls out of the cupboard, but filled only one of them with cereal. Very suddenly, Justin felt his eyes welling with tears.

  Twenty-seven

  ‘What a shame!’ Rosie exclaimed as she opened the door to Sarah. ‘You’ve just missed Jonathan. He’s having a nap.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Sarah stepped into the hallway. ‘I’m sorry I’m a bit later than I said. I haven’t seen him for ages. I don’t want to wake him, though.’

  Rosie smiled tightly at her. ‘No,’ she said.

  Sarah wondered if she had been rude. Surely not, not with such a good friend. But she found it so hard to tell what you were and weren’t supposed to say about other people’s children. She pulled off her jacket, feeling an itchy patch of sweat under her clothes. It was one of those early spring days when it was too cold not to wear a coat when you left the house, but by late morning a jacket felt cumbersome and a little foolish.

  Rosie took the jacket, got a hanger from the hall cupboard, hung it up, and closed the door. Sarah was always amazed at her discipline in keeping this up every time. Sarah would long ago have started piling them over the banister that protruded invitingly into the hall. As she waited, Sarah felt the slight awkwardness she always felt in Rosie’s new house, as if at any point she might accidentally be ruining an expensive soft furnishing.

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t really sit in the living room,’ Rosie said. ‘Stephen’s watching TV.’

  ‘That’s fine . . .’

  ‘I’ll just get him out to say hello.’

  ‘Oh no, don’t bother.’

  Sarah wondered if this was impolite as well. She didn’t mean it like that; she had always liked Stephen, actually, and felt he was a calming influence on Rosie. Maybe she should say something . . .

  But Rosie was already leading her into the kitchen. Sarah leaned heavily against a worktop, taking some of the weight off her feet.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rosie asked. ‘You seem a bit tense.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Honestly.’

  ‘So how was the school?’ Rosie asked over her shoulder as she filled the kettle with water.

  ‘Oh God!’ Sarah exhaled.

  ‘What?’ Rosie turned away from the tap. ‘Was it awful?’

  ‘No. It was amazing.’

  ‘Right. Oh.’ Rosie put the kettle on to boil.

  ‘The facilities! Unbelievable. They have their own theatre, tennis courts, a swimming pool. A second orchestra. Can you believe that? A second one.’

  ‘That’s great, isn’t it?’ Rosie replied. ‘Normal, green or peppermint tea? We’ve got something with ginger in as well, I think . . .’

  ‘Normal, please,’ Sarah said firmly.

  ‘You always said how much you enjoyed doing your drama club with the sixth formers. Until that thing with the police . . .’

  ‘I did! And the students really got something out of it. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Those kids don’t get to do it any more. Of course Tyrone shouldn’t have used the knife, but he was just trying to be realistic. And so now they’ve had drama taken away from them, what am I going to do? Am I just going to abandon them for richer kids who can put on a full production of Hamlet?’

  Rosie nodded understandingly. ‘Chinese, Ceylon or Darjeeling?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got some English Breakfast if you fancy something stronger.’

  ‘Yes, English Breakfast, please.’ Sarah watched Rosie carefully warm the teapot with hot water. China cups and saucers were laid out on a tray, and Rosie added a plate containing four biscuits. Sarah still made tea in the same chipped mug she had taken to university.

  ‘So are you going to take the job?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘They haven’t formally offered it to me yet. But I think they will.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Sarah’s voice rose to a wail. ‘I mean, the pay’s great, the boys are well behaved.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’ Rosie poured the boiling water into the pot and took an Orla Kiely tea cosy out of the drawer.

  ‘I feel I’d be abandoning my current students. And my future ones. Just to go and teach rich kids. They really need me in Dalston. I feel like I’m making a difference. Am I going to walk out on that for an easier life?’

  Rosie nodded and picked up the tray. ‘Shall we have this in the dining room?’

  Sarah followed her out of the kitchen. From the living room she heard a burst of gunfire, followed by rapid dialogue from Stephen’s cop show. Rosie walked quickly past the closed door.

  ‘I see your dilemma,’ Rosie said as she poured the tea. ‘But you do keep saying how much the school has been getting to you recently. How tired you are . . .’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘How your energy and enthusiasm have gone, the kids are getting harder to control . . .’

  ‘But that’s—’

  ‘How you’ve started dreading going in in the mornings . . .’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘It’s OK to need a change from that.’

  Sarah put both hands round her cup and drank, breathing in dense fronds of steam. It took her a while to reply.

  ‘Do you know what I asked myself as I was walking round the school?’ she said. ‘“What would Justin do?”’

  Rosie’s brow creased. ‘Justin?’

  ‘Yes. It seemed like a good way to measure these things. He’s committed and engaged in the world. What would he do?’

  Rosie looked puzzled. ‘I can’t say I’ve thought about it.’

  ‘I mean, I was wondering if he’d ever been tempted to leave his charity and go to work for a consultancy or a lobbyist or something like that.’

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘But he wouldn’t, would he? He knows what’s important in a career – not money, status or a cushy time, but the knowledge that you’re making people’s lives better.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of selling out, you see? It’s about knowing that what you have is more valuable than money.’

  ‘Have you talked to him about it?’

  Sarah was taken aback. ‘No. I mean, I . . . I haven’t spoken to him since last week. Since . . .’

  Rosie tutted. ‘Yes, that was a shame, wasn’t it? So rude of Matt. I do hope it’s all right this evening.’

  ‘I felt so bad for Justin.’ Sarah put the cup down with a clatter. ‘He’s such a lovely guy. He didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘But he reacted so well to it, didn’t he?’

  ‘He’s certainly been very understanding.’

  ‘Other men would have treated that as a total humiliation. But he was so calm and dignified. Do you think he’s OK?’

  ‘Well, he said he was fine this morning.’

  Sarah’s hand missed her cup as she reached for it. ‘Really? You’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes. I had to check if he was co
ming tonight.’

  ‘And is he?’ Sarah picked up the cup carefully.

  ‘Yes, he’s coming.’

  ‘That’s just like him, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘The nobility of it . . . the ability to rise above his own concerns and focus on what other people want.’

  Rosie broke a biscuit in half.

  ‘Maybe he’s too understanding for his own good sometimes,’ Sarah went on. ‘I mean, he should be angry with Barbara, shouldn’t he? She behaved appallingly! To casually insult your partner like that, in front of everybody, then walk off! And that’s even without whatever might have happened between her and Matt.’

  ‘Well, I think they did, don’t you?’ Rosie leaned forward excitedly. ‘Have you tried to phone her? I did, but she wouldn’t answer. If you—’

  ‘I can’t help feeling guilty about the whole situation. If I hadn’t brought Barbara into this thing, she would never have met Matt, and it would never have happened.’

  ‘Yes, but have you spoken to her? Did she . . .’

  ‘Oh no, I didn’t think it would be right.’ Sarah couldn’t understand the eagerness in Rosie’s voice. ‘We need to show our disapproval. I mean, I always forgave her being a bit moody sometimes because of her “artistic temperament” and so on. But that doesn’t excuse this, does it? That might work if you’re Gauguin or someone and you’re providing something of value to civilization. But Barbara’s pots. Well . . .’

  ‘I’ve always quite liked them.’

  ‘Yes, they’re fine – maybe enough to excuse persistent lateness when we meet for coffee, or long silences at dinner parties. But not this.’

  Rosie seemed impatient with this aspect of the discussion. ‘Yes, but do you think anything actually happened?’ she asked with renewed enthusiasm. ‘Did she and Matt . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t want to think about it! It makes me feel so bad for Justin.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘And I really do want to know what he would think about this job. I mean, I was wondering what he would say when they showed me photos of the school trip to Mount Kilimanjaro. Is it good that privileged kids are seeing Africa and raising money for the less fortunate? Or are they just using Africa as a backdrop? I mean, think of the carbon emissions. Rosie, what do you think Justin would say?’

  Rosie leaned back in her chair. ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘I just feel like he’d have something humane to say about the whole thing. Wise, even. I wish could talk to him about it.’

  Rosie fiddled uncomfortably with the tea-strainer. ‘How’s Marcus?’ she asked.

  Sarah was surprised by the question. ‘Marcus? Oh he’s fine.’

  ‘Good.’ Rosie poured them both more tea. ‘And what does he think of your dilemma?’

  ‘He can’t take it seriously at all! He just laughs and says it’s obvious I’d enjoy myself more if I took it, so I should just get over myself.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Rosie said carefully, taking a small bite of her biscuit.

  ‘God, he’s been disgusting about the whole competition thing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, he laughed all the way home last week. Taking the piss out of Justin and his taste in wall hangings.’

  ‘They were quite . . .’

  ‘We had a bit of a row about it. The taxi driver even had to turn up the radio. But Marcus isn’t sorry at all. That’s his problem, though; he only seems to enjoy himself when he’s looking down on someone.’

  ‘Surely not,’ Rosie muttered.

  Sarah had always suspected that Rosie secretly thought this too. ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t always like this. I mean, yes, he was always competitive – remember when we played that game of Trivial Pursuit at Stephen’s birthday?’

  Rosie shivered slightly.

  ‘But at least then he could see he was being ridiculous, and laugh about it afterwards. You can’t imagine how he’s been about this dinner! I dread to think what he’s doing at the moment. And if I try to say anything, he just snaps at me.’

  Rosie shifted in her chair. ‘What are you cooking tonight?’

  ‘I don’t even know. It’s like he doesn’t want me to get involved.’ Sarah looked at her watch. ‘But I’d better go back and offer to help.’ She sighed. ‘Otherwise I’ll be blamed for that as well.’

  Rosie smiled uneasily. Sarah could tell the conversation was putting her on edge. She had always felt that Rosie didn’t like Marcus, and now that Sarah was moaning about him a bit, she probably wasn’t sure if she could join in. Yes, that must be it.

  ‘See you tonight,’ Rosie said as she retrieved Sarah’s jacket from the cupboard.

  ‘I’m sorry I missed Jonathan,’ Sarah replied.

  ‘Next time.’

  ‘See you later, then. It’ll be great to see how Justin’s getting on tonight, won’t it?’

  Rosie gave her that brittle smile again on the way out.

  Twenty-eight

  Matt sprinted through the outer gate and ran flat-out across the courtyard, holding his breath as he pushed himself as fast as he could towards the main door.

  It began to open as he approached, and he had to jink sideways to avoid colliding with a young mother in a flowing headscarf, who shrank away in shock as she came out of the block, hurrying away with her two children.

  Matt caught the door before it shut, hurled himself through it and let his momentum crash into the front of the lift. He reached out his hand to steady himself against the wall, panting heavily as his breathing tried to catch up with his pulse. He sank down so that the other hand rested on his knee, supporting the weight of his body, trying to bring his breathing under control. Matt could feel his heart rate still rising from the shock of the sudden acceleration, and forced himself to take deep, slow breaths until he felt the frenzied pumping level off and begin to subside.

  Sometimes Matt would jog all the way up the stairs to his flat, but his ankle was aching and he could feel the beginning of a stitch. In the lift he crouched over, both hands on his knees, waiting for his ragged breaths to even out. It seemed to take longer each time. Today it wasn’t until the thirteenth floor that he could stand upright. Last year, it had been the tenth.

  Matt resented having to go out running at all. He disliked the process: the undignified sweatiness, the time wasted warming up and cooling down, wearing shorts. But much more than that, he resented having become someone who had to make an effort to keep fit. That had happened only recently, and Matt knew it was a sign of age. He would notice it the day after a big dinner or a heavy night – sometimes even without them – when he would be climbing up an escalator on the tube and find himself out of breath by the time he got to the top. It wasn’t anything dramatic. No one watching would have spotted it, but there it was, a sudden tightening in the chest, like a cold hand clamping round his windpipe. That had never happened when he was younger, however much he had been eating or drinking. But now he was forced to think about how fatty Marcus’s cooking might be tonight.

  Matt hoped he would enjoy the clean, measurable progress of running, disciplining himself to go further and faster. But the principle of personal improvement could not disguise the clammy reality of puffing uncomfortably along the pavement, dodging round groups of shoppers. And anyway, he didn’t go out often enough to build up any sense of progress, instead bingeing on miles between weeks of inactivity.

  The lift reached the top floor and Matt let himself into his flat, immediately flushed by the warmth in the hall. Had she turned the heating on? He pulled off his sweatshirt and put away his trainers in the hall cupboard before going to look. But the flat was empty and the boiler was idling. Perhaps it was colder outside than he thought.

  Matt did a few perfunctory stretches and got into the shower. When he came out, he spent a bit longer squatting and flexing, but he knew it was useless. Whatever he did, he would be aching in the morning.

  Dressed, he went into the living to l
ook through his reference books. A precedent had occurred to him while out running and he wanted to look up the details before he forgot.

  To get to the bookshelf he had to step over a scarf trailing between the sofa and the coffee table, and he exhaled testily as his foot was briefly caught in it. The book wasn’t there. He snatched up the scarf with a flash of irritation.

  The floor round the sofa was strewn with sweaters, a shirt and several bits of underwear. It pissed him off. Last night, and the night before, he had ignored it. Now he cracked. Matt went round the room picking them all up, feeling an ache in his lower back every time he bent over.

  It was annoying verging on humiliating to be picking up after her, like some kind of domestic help. Matt folded the clothes into a rough pile and dumped them on top of the suitcase in the corner that he had designated her area, noticing a stray sock as he did so and gathering that up as well.

  This wasn’t really what he’d had in mind last Saturday. Where was Barbara now anyway? Perhaps it was time to talk about what was going to happen next.

  Last Saturday had been good, though. Maybe not great, but definitely good. They had got back and Matt had persuaded her first to have a drink, then to tell him what was wrong. She didn’t want to at first, but they had just been sitting there staring at each other, clearly past the point of polite conversation, but with nothing else to say. So after a while she had told him about the difficulties with her work, with her visa, with Justin. She’d got quite emotional in the end, particularly after her second glass of whisky.

  Matt had found it moderately interesting to begin with – he had never heard anyone get animated about their frustrations with the medium of clay before. He had watched the way her body tensed as she got worked up about a point.

  After a while the anger had dissipated, and when Matt could see tears on their way he moved over to the sofa and sat next to her, putting a sympathetic arm round her shoulder.