Dinner at Mine (19 page)

‘Anyway, I hope we haven’t ruined your evening,’ Rosie went on. ‘I’m sure you’d much rather be out having fun.’

‘It’s OK. I’ll probably go to Gemma’s party later.’

Rosie frowned. ‘You know we won’t be back until quite late? Maybe even midnight.’

‘Yeah, no problem. Only losers turn up before midnight.’

‘Goodness, how energetic! What time do these parties finish?’

‘Dunno. Depends on how good they are. Sometimes we go on to an after-club in King’s Cross.’

‘Gosh, I wish I had your stamina! I’m delighted if I make it past eleven these days.’

Lily shrugged, as if to say: What do you expect? You’re old.

‘It must be fun, though. What sort of music do they play?’

‘Commercial Dance, Electro, Dubstep,’ Lily said, sounding bored. ‘A bit of R ’n’ B.’

‘That sounds like fun,’ Rosie said with a shudder of distaste. ‘Oh Stephen, that looks much better, doesn’t it? I bought that jumper for his birthday,’ she
explained. ‘It’s cashmere.’

‘Yeah, great.’ Lily didn’t look up. Her eyes flicked from TV to phone.

‘OK, well, have a quiet evening. This bit, at least! Call us if anything goes wrong.’

Lily waved the back of her hand in goodbye.

As they walked to the bus stop, Rosie said: ‘Do you remember when we were that age and could go on partying until dawn?’

‘Seems like a long time ago,’ Stephen said.

‘It’s amazing, isn’t it, the way she seems to be permanently on the way to a party, or dealing with the fallout from the last one?’

‘It does make me feel old.’

Rosie grabbed his arm as she was struck by a thought. ‘Oh God, Stephen, do you remember that club in Soho we used to go to when we first came to London?’ The dimple appeared on her
right cheek as she broke into a wide smile.

‘The one where the jukebox was that fifties American car?’

‘That’s right, and that old man was always trying to sell everyone fake drugs.’

‘He can’t have been too much older than we are now.’

‘Oh don’t say that!’

‘It’s true.’

‘I know.’ She laughed ruefully. ‘And who was that man who had the grotty flat in Mile End?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘I just remember sitting for hours on bare mattresses, talking to weird drunken men with beards until the early morning.’

‘Yes, and there was that fight once. Ended with someone falling down the stairs.’

They walked on in silence for a bit towards the bus stop, a light breeze blowing an empty crisp packet along the pavement beside them.

‘God,’ Rosie said with feeling. ‘I’m glad we don’t have to do that any more.’

‘Me too,’ Stephen replied. ‘Shall we get a taxi?’

Justin kept a wary eye on the onions. They hissed gently in the frying pan and he stirred them with the caraway seeds anxiously, looking for signs of blackening. Although a
high proportion of his cooking began with browning onions, Justin had still not quite mastered the technique of achieving the right golden, caramel glow. Inevitably, some chunks of the onion would
wizen to brittle shards, giving a faint but noticeable acrid taint to the whole dish.

So far, it was going well. Justin gave the mixture another stir, releasing a pleasant scent of caraway tinged with nutty onion. There was no angry crackle as the ingredients moved in the pan,
only the soft murmur of warm olive oil. Justin decided it was safe to leave for a moment.

He turned away from the pan and fetched a chunk of feta, a tub of cream cheese, a pot of double cream and some eggs from the fridge. He crumbled the feta into a bowl, then stirred in the other
ingredients. The result was lumpy, streaked with egg yolk, and looked very unappetizing.

Justin began whisking. His fingers quickly became tired. At times like these he had to concede that a food processor would be useful. The mixture would have been smooth and fluffy within seconds
and he could have gone back to stirring the onions. But really, how many times had he whisked anything in the past year? Almost never. And it was so wasteful to own something that you hardly ever
used. Just another piece of plastic cluttering up the flat. Really, it was much more satisfying to do it this way. He carried on whisking.

Out in the hall there was a loud click as the bedroom door was pulled open. Barbara exited at an aggressive slouch. Justin expected her to go back into the living room, but instead she came
silently into the tiny kitchen.

‘Hi, honey,’ Justin said in surprise. ‘Have you come to give me a hand?’

‘No,’ Barbara said, opening the fridge. Justin was forced back towards the hob by the outward swing of the door.

‘It would be great if you could have a go at a bit of whisking. My wrists are really aching.’

‘Have you seen my rice milk?’

‘It’s in there, isn’t it?’

‘You’ve moved it.’

‘Let me look.’ Justin manoeuvred awkwardly round the fridge door and quickly located the carton.

‘Here you are, see?’ He handed it to Barbara, who had taken a box of cornflakes out of the cupboard. ‘Barbara, what are you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘But we’re going to be eating soon. People are coming in about an hour.’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘Didn’t you have any lunch?’

‘No.’

‘That was silly. I’m cooking a nice meal and you won’t be able to eat it if you stuff yourself with cereal.’

‘Don’t lecture me.’ Barbara splashed rice milk over her bowl of cornflakes and returned with it to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Justin put the carton back in the fridge with a prickle of irritation. These were her friends who were coming over. The whole thing had been her idea. So why was he having to do all the
cooking?

As Justin went back to the laborious whisking, the irritation began to dig harder. It wasn’t as if he was asking her to do much. Just a bit of chopping and stirring. It had been a long
week too. The Malawi project was entering its final stages and he was supposed to be sending it out for stakeholder review next week. If he hadn’t been trying to whisk cream cheese and eggs
into a light, fluffy texture, he would have been incorporating the final comments from their in-country programme head. Ideally, he would have spent most of the day on it, but even a couple of
hours while Barbara did some cooking would have been helpful.

Really, it wasn’t as if she was busy. She didn’t seem to have done anything all week. Not even the washing up. He’d come home on Thursday night to find a huge stack of dishes
waiting for him in the sink. That had annoyed him so much he had almost said something.

Justin forced the whisk through the thick peaks of creamy cheese. Surely that was ready now? A familiar sense of tiredness began to close in around him, like butter enfolding an egg white. Why
didn’t she just—

The smell of burning onions cut off the thought. Justin dived across to the frying pan and pushed it off the heat, stirring quickly. A harsh sizzle flared up in place of the gentle hiss,
releasing more of the bitter tang.

Justin felt the frustration rising in him. He stood in the centre of the kitchen, eyes closed and hands splayed outwards at his sides, trying to force it down.

One, two, three, he counted. One . . . two . . . three . . . It was OK, he told himself. Nothing to worry about. He was so lucky, compared to ninety per cent of the world’s population.

With this effort of will, Justin stopped the anger boiling any higher. Don’t think about it, that was the key thing now. Concentrate on the good things. Look at what was going well.

He sifted through the onion with a wooden spoon. Only a couple of chunks and a long stringy sliver were properly burned. He fished those out and threw them away.

Now he could make the aubergine cheesecake. This was the enjoyable bit. Everything was OK, really.

The discs of roasted aubergine were cooling on the side. They were exactly the right golden colour, Justin thought. He began arranging them in a baking tray, balancing them on their sides and
filling the gaps with plum tomatoes and handfuls of oregano. Then he spooned the fluffy cheese mix over the top, watching it ooze invitingly into the space between the vegetables.

Justin scattered more herbs over the top and took a moment to admire the dish before putting it in the oven. That looked good, didn’t it? He was already feeling hungry. This was going to
be a real vegetarian feast. Thank God for Yotam Ottolenghi. His recipes were so original. Justin had heard that he wasn’t really a vegetarian, which was disappointing. But never mind.
Justin’s dinner was going to show his guests that you didn’t need any meat at all to make a delicious, healthy meal that was a really good mix of flavours and textures.

Justin still felt guilty about the argument at Matt’s. Sure, Charlotte had been a bit rude about pushing the point. But, really, he blamed himself. If he hadn’t let himself be
provoked, the whole silly quarrel could have been avoided. Yes, she had been confrontational and aggressive about her views, but wasn’t he supposed to rise above that sort of boorish
behaviour? To calmly and rationally explain his position, and refuse to see a point of principle become a shouting match? But instead he had got sucked in and let it all unravel into a meaningless
argument.

Well, tonight there would be no argument. Anyone eating these dishes would have to admit that vegetarian food was just as good as anything with meat in it. Better, even. Much more inventive than
a great big lump of flesh. Even Charlotte and Marcus would be impressed, he felt sure. Justin wasn’t particularly interested in winning the competition; he didn’t think of himself as
competitive like that. But he would be happy if he did his bit for vegetarianism.

Justin smiled to himself as he poured boiling water into a pan to blanch some chard. He wasn’t necessarily hoping that anyone would be persuaded to give up meat – though maybe Sarah
could be tempted? – just to end the mocking. Maybe, after they had praised the taste and freshness of the food, he would begin a little discussion about the moral benefits.

There wasn’t much left to do for the stew now. Justin added the remaining ingredients – tomatoes, chickpeas, coriander and the chard – to the onions, and stirred them as they
cooked slowly. When all the guests arrived, he would put everything in with the tamarind water to simmer together, and that would be that. He could do some rice while it was cooking. Only the salad
to make now. Justin opened the cupboard to look for the quinoa.

As he poured it out, he could see Barbara emerging from the bedroom. Justin was heartened to see that she wasn’t slouching any more. She was looking straight at him as she walked into the
kitchen and put her empty bowl down with deliberate precision.

‘Great! You must be feeling better. I’ve done most of it, but you could give me a hand with clearing up.’

‘How long before they get here?’

Justin looked at his watch. ‘Oh! Only about fifteen minutes now. I didn’t realize it was so late. I’d better get moving with the salad.’

Justin reached for the boiling kettle and poured the right amount of water over the quinoa grains. Barbara stood watching him, without moving.

‘Do you want to help with this?’ he suggested. ‘You could shell some beans if you like.’

‘What are you cooking?’

‘This is just the salad,’ Justin replied, pleased that Barbara was now showing an interest. ‘Quinoa, Beans and Radish Salad. The main dish is Swiss Chard, Chickpea and Tamarind
Stew, with Aubergine Cheesecake to start.’

Barbara nodded slowly, as if she were thinking about this very deeply.

‘You’re cooking that for everyone?’ she asked.

‘Yes, but I think I’ve got it under control now. Although the whisking was a bit boring.’

‘No, I meant . . .’

‘Actually, you could put out some knives and forks on the coffee table. No point laying them out, there’s no room.’

‘So you’re not taking her advice, huh?’

‘What?’ Justin was puzzled. ‘Whose advice?’

‘Charlotte’s.’

‘Oh.’ He laughed. ‘You mean the stuff about the sausages? That was funny, wasn’t it? Could you pass the radishes? They’re by the fridge.’

‘You’re not making them, then?’

‘Of course not.’ Justin squinted in concern at Barbara. ‘Why on earth would I?’

‘I don’t know . . . I . . . I just think . . . you know, she said she wanted something and you’re not even considering it.’

‘Of course I’m not. She wanted meat.’

‘What I’m saying is that someone coming here as a guest made a request of you.’

‘Oh, so that means I have to do it, do I?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not saying you have to do it. But maybe you should consider it for a minute.’

‘OK, let’s consider it.’ Justin reached past her to get the radishes himself. ‘She asked for meat. We’re vegetarians. I said no. What else is there to
say?’

‘We don’t have to eat it. Why can’t she have what she likes?’

‘She can have what she likes anywhere else. But I don’t see why I should have to be complicit in the torture of an animal in my own home.’

‘You’re always talking about respecting other people’s belief systems. Why can’t you respect hers?’

‘I didn’t say . . .’ Justin abandoned the radishes on the chopping board. ‘What, do you want to cook meat for her? Is that what you’re saying?’

Barbara drummed her fingers irritably on the worktop and stared into the distance. Justin was startled by the look on her face.

‘All I’m saying is, why do you have to impose your moral beliefs on other people?’ she asked.

‘I do not! I have a great respect for diversity of—’

‘Yes, you do, all the time. People just can’t be doing something different from you. They’re always doing something wrong.’

‘That’s not fair!’

‘It’s not your job to perfect the world, Justin.’

‘What are you talking about, Barbara?’ Justin stared at her, hoping her face would give him some clue. ‘I’m just not cooking sausages. I’m making a nice, healthy,
tasty and nutritious meal. In fact, I was just thinking before you came in that, when Charlotte eats it, she’ll probably realize that not everything good has to have meat in it.’