by Chris Smyth
‘Matt, are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ he said, a hint of laughter in his voice.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, absolutely fine,’ he said as breezily as he could through a mouthful of blood. ‘I think I might just need to clean up a little, that’s all.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing, really.’
‘But he hit you!’
‘Yes.’ Matt felt no need to elaborate.
‘Justin, why did you hit him?’
Justin was breathing heavily. Matt could see his lips twitching slightly. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered.
‘What’s that, Justin?’ Rosie spoke loudly and firmly, as if to her toddler.
Matt put his hand to his mouth again as Justin struggled to speak, not so much to wipe away the blood as to cover a smile. Justin was realizing that he had lost his position of moral superiority. Matt suspected that he had no idea what to do without it.
Justin shrugged. ‘He deserved it,’ he said.
‘Where’s Barbara?’ Rosie asked.
‘She’s gone,’ Matt said.
‘Oh.’ Rosie nodded, then adopted the same condescending tone again. ‘Now, Justin, I know you’re upset, but that’s no reason to hit anyone. You know that violence isn’t the answer.’
‘No. But . . .’ Justin tailed off.
‘Do you think you can apologize to Matt?’
Justin started. ‘I . . .’
‘It’s all right, Rosie,’ Matt said with a magnanimous wave. ‘It doesn’t matter. All forgiven.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, it’s no problem.’ Matt moved over to pat Justin on the arm. Justin recoiled from his touch and Matt enjoyed looking down at him from his unexpected perch on the moral high ground. They both knew that every sympathetic gesture only rubbed it in further. Matt almost hoped Justin would hit him again.
‘No hard feelings, eh, Justin?’ he said.
Justin jerked upright. ‘I’d better go,’ he said.
Matt left it to Rosie to reply. She failed to think of any reason to object.
‘What’s going on out here?’ Marcus’s face appeared in the doorway over Rosie’s shoulder. ‘It’s time for pudding.’
A fat drop of blood crested the bulge of Matt’s chin, and he made no attempt to stop it as it rolled off the edge and hit the floor with a soft, wet plop.
‘Oops, I’m sorry,’ Matt said. ‘I’d better clean that up.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Marcus checked his wooden floor wasn’t damaged before looking expectantly from Matt to Justin.
‘Justin hit him,’ Rosie said.
‘Oh.’ Marcus didn’t seem quite sure what to do with this information. ‘Well, I hope it’s made you both hungry because the apple fritters are ready.’
‘I’m going to go now,’ Justin said.
‘What? You can’t.’
‘It’s OK. I’m not hungry. Thank you for your hospitality, but . . .’
‘I don’t care if you’re hungry or not. We have to do the scores.’
‘Marcus,’ Rosie said. ‘Maybe you should just let him . . .’
‘I haven’t gone through all this to let him give up now,’ Marcus snapped. ‘We can do it while eating pudding if you like, but we’re bloody well going to do it.’
Justin crumpled further into himself, and shuffled after Rosie back to the table.
‘I’ll just go and wash my face,’ Matt said.
In the bathroom, he checked the inside of his lip and saw it was already beginning to heal. He wiped the drying blood off his chin, and savoured his luck. Matt even felt a bit sorry for Justin. He tried so hard to present himself as the noble victim, but it was difficult for people to see you as noble when you were that desperate. And then the punch. It was a tactic that might have worked if he’d tried it from the beginning. People would have understood it. But after basing everything on the moral aura of being wronged, it was a disaster. With one right hook, he’d given it all away. Now Matt could claim victimhood.
After splashing his face with water, Matt went back to the dining room. It was obvious that everyone knew what had happened. They stopped talking and stared at him as he walked over to his chair. Charlotte was laughing quite openly.
‘Are you OK, Matt?’ Rosie asked again.
‘Absolutely fine,’ he said.
She was looking at him with concern across her face, her head tilted slightly to the left and a narrow crease of worry between her eyebrows. He smiled back at her with warm relief. Her disapproval seemed to be melting. Perhaps, after all, it would not be so hard to get back in her favour. It was clear that she still cared about him.
Echoes of his old feelings bounced around his chest, more than memories, less than emotions. A long spell of her disapproval would have been difficult. Matt tried to decide what she was thinking as their eyes met. But it seemed only to be motherly concern.
Matt drained his glass and let wistfulness seep through him. He did still think about Rosie. Not every day, but sometimes. It had been his decision to end it all those years ago. She had been talking about moving in together, but he’d been only twenty, for God’s sake. Far too young to be tied down. He’d wanted some time to enjoy himself. No, that wasn’t it. He’d wanted some time when he didn’t have to care about anyone else. A year later she’d moved in with Stephen.
He didn’t regret it. There was no point regretting anything. He would certainly never do anything now. It would be too irrevocable. Matt couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t want to walk away again, and there would be no coming back after that.
A sharp cry of ‘Fuck!’ from the kitchen cut through his introspection. Matt guessed that Marcus had burned himself on a pan. He realized it was the first thing anyone had said since he and Justin had sat down.
A few moments later Marcus came through with a tray.
‘Right,’ he said with weary determination. ‘Apple Fritters with Cinnamon and Mascarpone.’
They smelled good, in fact. Thick, warm and syrupy. Matt discovered that being punched in the face had made him hungry again. He attacked the pudding greedily. Next to him, Barbara’s place remained conspicuously empty, while Justin prodded glumly at his fritter with a spoon. Still no one said anything.
About halfway through her fritter, Rosie did. ‘Yes, it’s interesting this, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘The mix of styles. Sort of American we’re on to now, with the syrup? After a bit of Spanish and British. Would you call this fusion?’
‘I certainly would not,’ Marcus replied, as if his family had been insulted.
‘No? What is it, then, this mix?’
‘It’s not a mix. It’s perfectly consistent. It’s classic English food with a heavy Spanish inflection.’
‘Inflection? Would that be the octopus?’
‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Nigella’s never done it on TV. Is the apple straightforward enough for you?’
‘It’s a bit sweet, actually.’
‘You know what?’ Marcus said. ‘Shall we just do the scores now?’
There was a shuffling round the table as people took out their phones. Justin said his didn’t do e-mail, so Marcus went to get his laptop. The silence became looser as everyone began composing their verdicts.
Matt did not take long to structure his judgement. His thumbs moved quickly over the keypad of his BlackBerry. He pressed send and saw a tick appear next to the message, confirming that it was gone. The others were still hunched over their devices. Rosie and Stephen were whispering urgently to each other as Rosie made notes on a spiral pad. Justin typed slowly.
Charlotte’s fingers were flying over her screen. She was grinning malevolently as she typed and Matt couldn’t help but laugh silently as he thought about what she must be writing. Matt didn’t put his BlackBerry down. She had been good fun, Charlotte, hadn’t she? He hadn’t really meant for it to be over so quickly. If Barbara hadn’t come along, it probably would
n’t have been.
She would be impossible to live with, of course, and had a clear double chin as she looked down at her iPhone. But that was OK; he wasn’t thinking about it as a permanent thing, just a bit of fun. She was entertaining and lively. It was worth a try, wasn’t it?
His thumbs began moving over the keypad again. How to phrase it? Nothing too specific. There was no need to overcommit. Should he apologize? Yes, it would definitely be helpful. It would allow some ambiguity about his intentions. He tapped out a couple of sentences. Yes, that would do.
‘Sorry about last week. Do you want to go out for a drink after this to make up for it?’
He sent it as a text. There was no indication of whether it had arrived. Charlotte was still fiddling with her phone. She didn’t look up. He couldn’t read her face.
She lay the phone on the table and pushed it away slightly: far enough to signal she had finished the message, but near enough to see any reply.
For several seconds Matt held his phone cupped in his palm, ostentatiously not looking at it. Then it vibrated powerfully in his hand, sending a shiver all the way up his arm. He clicked on the message.
‘Fuck off,’ it read. There was a little emoticon of a clenched fist.
From: Matthew Phillips
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 22.31
Subject: Assessment of dinner cooked by Marcus and Sarah, by M Phillips
Food:
Asparagus: Somewhat bland. Sauce enjoyable. 7
Kidneys: Intense flavour. Well spiced. Juice combined pleasingly with brioche. 9
Octopus Salad: While visually impressive, the dish was a disappointment. Tough and over-chewy, with flavour quickly lost. Other ingredients somewhat meagre. 6
Oxtail Stew: Satisfying thickness. Sharpness of the vegetable complementing meat well. 9
Apple Fritters: Enjoyable. Perhaps too heavy considering other courses. 7
Ambience /Hosting:
Wine: Pleasant Tempranillo. Not plentiful, however. 7
Conversation: Aggressive, hostile. Often intellectually incoherent. 5
Company: Generally adequate, apart from one episode of violence. 7
Overall average: 7
Matthew Phillips Barrister
New Green Chambers
Sent from my BlackBerry®
From: Rosie and Stephen
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 22.34
Subject: Dinner
Hi Marcus and Sarah,
It feels a bit odd doing this while you’re watching us. You’re staring, actually. It’s a little bit off-putting. If I were you, I would choose this moment to go and make some coffee or something. That would be tactful.
Of course, you must be very upset that the evening wasn’t a success. Please don’t worry, though; a lot of it wasn’t your fault. We’re not going to hold you entirely responsible. You can’t be blamed for Justin and Matt.
Although, a good host should probably know how to separate guests who aren’t getting on. I don’t mean to judge, but there were at least a couple of moments when you could have headed the whole argument off.
The problem is, I think, that Marcus is not very warm as a host. It’s all very well aiming for technically impressive food – we’ll come to that later – but so much of the enjoyment is about atmosphere. It’s your task to create that. I’m sorry to say you didn’t do a very good job. It obviously doesn’t come naturally, but it doesn’t even feel like you were trying. I mean, if no one’s saying anything, you have to jump in there and get the conversation going again.
And not to harp on, but people were running out of wine. You just can’t let that happen. I know you were distracted by all the dishes you were trying to do, but no one ever said this was easy. Perhaps you’ll blame Sarah for that, I don’t know.
Anyway, I can see Matt’s finished already so I’d better get on to the food. Stephen certainly liked the salty cod balls, or whatever they were. Such a pity there weren’t enough for everyone else. Myself, I found them too salty.
I know you said the asparagus was local, and I’ll take your word for it. Perhaps that’s why it wasn’t at its best, so I can see why you felt you needed to jazz it up with that sauce. But really, that was gilding the lily a bit. (Although it isn’t lily season either!)
The kidneys certainly did what it said on the tin. Strong, powerful flavours. Personally, I found them a bit too aggressively meaty. But that’s just my taste. Stephen loved them.
And then the octopus! There’s no denying it looked impressive. But by this point you should have been aware of the danger of trying too hard. I think I once had the same dish in Moro, so I could see what you were trying to do. And I suppose many people would say that it’s better to be ambitious and fail than to achieve mediocrity, wouldn’t they? Personally, I prefer something tasty.
I’m afraid that by the stew it was all getting a bit much for me. I certainly wasn’t hungry any more, and I found it far too rich. The spices didn’t really cut through the stickiness in the way I think you were going for. Although Stephen liked it.
I don’t have much to say about the pudding. You can’t really go wrong with apple fritters, can you? Although they were a little too sweet.
Well, I suppose it’s the moment of truth now. Exciting to think we’ll find out who’s won any moment now, isn’t it? Not that that would affect our scoring at all. So: seven out of ten.
Yours,
Rosie and Stephen
From: Justin Davidson
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 22.35
Subject: Sustainability Concerns
Dear All,
I’m sorry, but I’m not sure what I’m meant to write now. It’s becoming increasingly hard to pretend that food is the most important thing here.
I know you’re all judging me for hitting Matt. It’s true that violence doesn’t solve anything. But he deserved it. I just don’t think that we, as a society, should be tolerating that kind of selfishness and greed. This is someone who just reaches out and takes what he wants, not caring about what that does to everyone else. People have the right to resist aggression, don’t they?
I know I’m meant to be talking about the food. Not that I could really eat very much of it. But in fact I’ve been getting concerned that, from the planet’s point of view, we’re all a little bit like Matt. We all just reach out and take what we want: we kill animals, plunder fish from the sea, spew pollution into the atmosphere flying asparagus halfway round the world. We all know it can’t go on. At least, I hope we do. And for what? So that we can say somebody has won. Why does anyone have to win? That’s the lesson I think we all need to learn from this.
I’d like to leave now. I know some of you will still want a score. I don’t see what good it will do anyone. So: 6½.
From: Charlotte Wells
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 22.36
Christ. Well, I’m glad that’s over. One more of those things and I’d be in serious danger of stabbing someone. I won’t say who.
Was this the worst of the lot? The sad truth is that it probably wasn’t. At least it was entertaining. Justin, you may be one of the most annoying men on the planet, but I was right behind you there. Shame it didn’t turn into a fight, though. God, I would have loved that.
The food was OK, actually. A proper amount of meat this time. If Justin had eaten a couple of those kidneys and built himself up a bit, we’d all have been picking Matt’s teeth out of the Danish furniture. And I did like the stew. I realize it was probably meant to be ironic in some awful way, but you know what? It was a nice, tasty stew.
You had to let us all down with the octopus, though, didn’t you? Just in case we were in any doubt that
you were a massive cock, you had to bring out a fucking octopus on a plate. I mean, why not just shout, ‘Look at me!’, get your knob out and garnish that with parsley? Apart from anything else, I’m sure it would have been less effort for you. It tastes of rubber, for Christ’s sake. (Yes, yes, I mean the octopus.) You can poncify it however you like, but it’s still basically like chewing the end of a pencil.
And look! My glass is empty. Are you offering to top it up? No, you fucking well aren’t. You’re glaring at us all like we’re taking some kind of exam. Well, we’re not. We’re marking you. Then I’m getting the hell out of here.
Score: 7 (And count yourself lucky. It was the punch that got you that extra point.)
Sent from my iPhone
Thirty-four
‘Come on, have you finished yet?’ Marcus blurted.
His whole body was tense, right leg jiggling with nervous excitement, and Sarah felt an acute spasm of repugnance. It surprised her with its intensity. She hadn’t realized things had got that far. There was no doubt that this bloody competition had brought out the worst in Marcus, and she hadn’t liked him for a lot of it. But it was still a shock for her to look at him leaning forward over the table, an impatient snarl on his face as he demanded that Rosie hand over the laptop, and feel so completely revolted.
‘Nearly there,’ Rosie said.
‘Hurry up, you’re not reviewing us for Time Out,’ Marcus said. ‘All I need is a score. Preferably a high one.’ There was no laughter in his voice as he said it.
‘All right, calm down . . . There,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ve sent it.’
‘Give it to me, then.’ Marcus almost snatched the MacBook from her hands.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘The password.’
Sarah had forgotten about this bit. She felt a surge of frustration as Marcus typed his two characters and pushed the computer across the table to Rosie.