Dinner at Mine (15 page)
‘Shall we switch to this?’
‘That stuff was revolting.’
‘It was. Sorry about that.’
‘What was it?’
‘I don’t know. I got it at duty-free.’
‘Jesus. Well, it sure flushed out Mr Smartarse McWanker over there.’
‘That’s good, is it?’ Matt stretched his arm across her to pour a glass of brandy.
‘He’s a wanker.’
‘I suppose he is pretty annoying.’
‘She’s all right. Bit of a drip, though.’
Charlotte noticed her glass was almost full, while his contained only a small measure. She reached across for the bottle and filled his right up to the brim. He did that smile he was always
doing. He probably thought it was enigmatic, but she found it annoying. It was growing on her, though.
‘Cheers,’ he said, splashing brandy on the table as he raised his glass.
‘Cheers.’
‘Well, I don’t think we’ve won,’ Matt said, leaning back in his chair. ‘But it was good fun.’
‘What do you mean? Of course we won. Didn’t you see the faces on those vegemites when they left? They looked like someone had just told them tofu was made of African
orphans.’
‘I meant I don’t think we’ll be getting top marks from them.’
‘Fuck the points. There’s more than one way to win a competition, you know.’
Matt did the bloody smile again.
‘And the tart,’ Charlotte said. ‘They bought the tart.’
‘They did.’ Matt laughed. ‘Just like you.’
‘Ha, ha.’ Charlotte made a face.
‘It was pretty funny, actually. I think we both did well not to laugh.’
‘Did you hear it when Sarah asked for the recipe? That was fucking hilarious. She really meant it.’
‘Well, it was a nice tart.’
‘Bit sticky for my taste, actually. But there we are.’
‘Try Sainsbury’s next time, then, eh?’
‘Waitrose, please.’
Matt inched his chair in a bit closer as he laughed. ‘I’m not sure Rosie was convinced.’
‘No, but she couldn’t prove it, could she?’ Charlotte took a long sip of brandy. ‘You have to be able to prove it.’
‘Do you?’
‘You’re the lawyer. That’s how the law works, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it depends which field of . . . Basically, yes.’
‘There you are, then. Why should dinner parties be any different?’
‘All’s fair in food and law?’
Charlotte had to pause for a minute to work this out.
‘That was rubbish,’ she said.
‘I thought it was quite good,’ Matt protested.
‘No. It was rubbish.’
‘I’ll shut up, then.’
Charlotte nodded. She could see Matt had been leaning slowly towards her, close enough now to see the late-night line of bristles on his jaw. There was a musky scent of sweat and garlic. She
could hear him breathing, deep and regular. She could still go home.
But fuck it, it wasn’t like she was ruining anything special here. And it had been bloody ages as well. Screw it, no point in over-thinking things.
Charlotte watched Matt’s dark eyes move closer. What was he thinking now? Besides the bleeding obvious. Better not to know. The eyes got closer. Charlotte felt a definite buzzing charge
coming from them. It wasn’t just the booze. He’d better hope he lived up to them.
‘Do you want to come through to the other room?’ Matt said softly. ‘The view’s amazing at night.’
Oh no. Don’t speak. The accent could ruin the whole fucking thing.
‘I’m fine in here. No need to bother with that.’
Charlotte reached out and took him by the back of his head. Thank God there was no hair gel, only thick tufts above the hard swell of the skull. She pulled him in.
He looked a bit surprised to begin with, but he soon got over it.
From: Rosie and Stephen
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 23.34
Subject: Dinner
Hi Matt and Charlotte,
Thank you so much for dinner. We had a lovely time. It was so nice to see your flat – the views are amazing! Glad to see that cooking together worked out so well!
We both found the lamb delicious. You will have to tell me what you marinated it in. However (and please don’t take this the wrong way – I say it only because
that’s the nature of the competition), I’m afraid to say that I found the fish very disappointing. It was positively drowned in lemon juice. The pudding was not to my taste.
I’ll leave it there. Although Stephen liked it.
I also feel bound to dock marks for your hosting. I know that you don’t entertain very often, and that you’ve never done so together, but you really
shouldn’t leave guests on their own. Also, while I was willing to overlook the two odd plates, I think that using three different types of unmatching bowls was going too far. Of course,
far worse than that is deliberately picking quarrels with the guests. Quite apart from what they thought, it made things very awkward for the rest of us. So we have decided to give you a
six.
Yours,
Rosie and Stephen
From: Marcus Thompson
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 00.10
Subject: Dinner Score
The conception of the dishes was too simplistic. However the execution was effective, producing a pleasant, fresh starter with a good balance of plain
flavours. The main course was satisfying, with good-quality meat, competently seasoned and cooked. It had, though, lost much of its appeal the second time round.
In addition, the side dishes were uninspired and too basic. A ladleful of beans and a piece of bread is unpromising to begin with, particularly so when the beans are all
texture and no taste. The side salad’s use of roasted avocado did show a certain imagination, though, and the overall score would have been better if there had been more of
this.
The tart was over-heavy and could have been presented more attractively. It looked rather stark sitting on its own in a dish. It relied too heavily on sweetness and not
enough on counter-flavours. The pastry was dry. As such, it might as well have been from a supermarket.
As a recognition of my part in the incident, I will not penalize you too harshly for the bad feeling generated by the argument. We were also late, which no doubt delayed
the start of the meal. As a result our score will be generous, I think.
Score: 6
Marcus
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From: Justin Davidson
To: Dinner At Mine
Sent: 08.46
Subject: Dinner on Friday
Dear Matt and Charlotte,
I was too busy working on Saturday to have any chance of writing this, and I think that has turned out for the best. I’m ashamed to say that I was
extremely angry when I left the dinner on Friday. I was thinking all sorts of nasty things which I am not proud of, and will not share with you. A little distance has given me a chance to calm
down and recognize that perhaps I was partly at fault for the argument. Perhaps I should have understood that, while Barbara and I are both deeply committed to vegetarianism, as guests in a
meat-eater’s house it may not have been the best moment to make our case. So I offer sincere apologies for our contribution to disrupting the harmony of the evening.
Apart from that, we both enjoyed ourselves. The paella was very tasty and I certainly appreciated the variety of vegetables and spices it contained – five a day on
its own! Barbara particularly enjoyed the unusual salad that came with it. The salad to start was nice too, and the harissa was a great touch, but I did feel that maybe it was one salad too
many. But, of course, you are not used to vegetarian cooking, so you did very well in the circumstances. I didn’t eat much of the dessert, so I can’t really judge that. The wine was
very plentiful. So, on balance, 6½.
Did we agree that it was our turn next?
Justin
P.S. I promised Barbara I would take off half a point from the score I wanted to give, as she is a bit less forgiving than me about what happened, which
is, of course, her right.
Sixteen
‘The problem with Ed Ruscha is that he limits too many people’s idea of America to highways and empty spaces.’ Marcus tapped his exhibition guide against the
wall panel as he said this, satisfied with the pithiness of his own judgement. He turned to Sarah. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘Probably,’ said Sarah, not really looking at the painting.
‘Of course, he did a lot to create that aesthetic,’ Marcus continued, moving back to study the painting from a different angle. ‘So I don’t say that as a disparagement of
his work. It’s just that the whole open road, badlands stretching off to the horizon, fifties motel in the distance sort of look – it’s become a cliché. When people look at
it, they don’t really see it; they tap into those ideas. Probably trying to think of the name of the film it reminds them of.’
‘Mmm. Maybe.’ Sarah glanced at the canvas quickly, before her eyes drifted back towards the exit.
‘Am I boring you?’
‘No, of course not,’ Sarah said. ‘You know I appreciate your views on art.’
Marcus studied her for traces of sarcasm. ‘Well, what, then? Aren’t you enjoying the exhibition?’
‘No, it’s interesting . . .’
‘You don’t look interested.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘Right, then, I’m going to carry on.’ He gestured towards the next room.
‘It’s just that I’ve got something I need to tell you,’ she said.
‘Is it about Jasper Johns? You were in front of that one for a very long time.’
‘No. It’s nothing to do with the exhibition.’
‘Can’t it wait, then? We’ve got a whole room of Abstract Expressionists to go.’
‘How long do you think you’ll be?’ she said with a trace of irritation.
‘I don’t know. A while.’ He was within his rights here. They were here to look at the art, after all.
‘Don’t be too long.’
I’ll be as long as I like, Marcus thought. ‘Why don’t you go and look at the Warhols again?’ he said. ‘You like those.’
Sarah didn’t protest, so Marcus moved on round the corner to the next section, admiring as he always did the beauty of the poured-concrete walls. Sometimes he thought the gallery building
was more appealing than what was on display there – the way the sober elegance of the grey concrete had retained the delicate grains of the wooden panels that had been used to set it. The
contrast between the mass of the material and the surprising lightness of the finish was always deeply pleasing to him.
Sarah didn’t follow. She was still standing by the Ruscha, looking lost and nervously tearing strips off her gallery guide. Marcus felt a pang of annoyance. How often had she been here
since he bought her the membership for her birthday? Once with him, but never on her own, he was sure. He’d had to start using the pass himself to make the membership worthwhile.
He slowed to a halt in front of a Combine, where half a bicycle glued to the canvas seemed to burst out into the gallery, dragging with it the painting’s clutter of old poster and daubed
red squares. Of course there was something dated about Rauschenberg these days, Marcus always thought, but you couldn’t help admiring the force of it. He leaned in to read the notes on the
wall, which contained a quote comparing the artist to Picasso. Marcus immediately tried to think of a way to dismiss the comparison, but with Sarah not there and no one to tell, it seemed a bit
pointless.
He moved back to critique the work from a wider angle. This done, he continued round the gallery.
Marcus was appraising a De Kooning when he sensed Sarah standing behind him.
‘Don’t you think the problem with this, is that—’
‘Marcus, I’ve got something to tell you,’ she said.
He broke away from the painting and turned to look at her. She was staring at the ground and the exhibition guide was torn to shreds in her hand.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think we need to talk.’ She still wasn’t looking at him.
‘Can’t it wait? This is the last room and—’
‘I’d feel better if I got it off my chest now.’
‘You sound like you’re about to confess something.’ Marcus laughed nervously. Was she going to admit to an affair? Marcus quickly dismissed the idea. It was ludicrous.
‘I sort of am, in a way.’
‘What? Tell me.’
‘I’ve applied for a job at Hampstead College. I’ve got an interview next week. It’s a private school.’
Marcus laughed loudly. A man in rimless spectacles turned round to look at them disapprovingly.
‘I’m glad you think it’s funny,’ Sarah said.
‘No, it’s not that, it’s just . . .’
‘Just . . . ?’ She was irritated now.
‘Nothing. I wasn’t expecting you to say that.’
‘I know.’ Sarah’s head sank to her chest.
‘Well, good for you. Can I carry on looking at the exhibition now?’ Marcus took half a step towards an interesting-looking picture on the far wall.
‘Is that it?’
‘We can discuss it afterwards if you like.’
‘Marcus . . .’
‘All right. What’s the pay like?’
‘It’s about fifty per cent more than I get now.’
‘Excellent! Good work, well done. Now come and look at the brushwork on this with me.’
Sarah reached out and grabbed his arm as he moved off. ‘Wait, what do you mean, “excellent”?’
‘What? It’s a lot of money, isn’t it? I mean, I know you’re not a fan of private schools generally, but you can’t deny the pay’s good.’
