Dinner at Mine (29 page)

Marcus was mortified to be on the receiving end of a patronizing shrug. But Angel had made up for it by giving him the name of L&M in Finsbury Park. They were wholesalers, didn’t do
retail, but if you phoned up and asked nicely, they might let you come round and pick up some ingredients of superb quality at almost Spanish prices. Ever since, Marcus had been itching to try it.
He had phoned up on Tuesday to place his order, and a bored and surly man had conceded that he could come by on Saturday morning.

He stepped up to the door and inspected the bell. L&M, it said, behind a layer of grime. Marcus was delighted. You didn’t get much more authentic than this.

No one answered for some time. Finally a voice said, ‘Yeah?’

‘Marcus Thompson. Here to collect—’

‘Hold on,’ the man interrupted.

Marcus waited on the doorstep. From across the street, a youth in a hoodie eyed him incuriously.

The door jerked open and an unshaven man in a faded tracksuit gestured at Marcus to come in. He didn’t look very Spanish. The man led him into a tatty office with three battered desks.
This wasn’t quite what he was expecting.

Then the man disappeared. Marcus could hear one of the three elderly computers grinding away under the desk. He sat down on a swivel chair and a strip of foam bulged through a tear in the
fabric. Where were the shelves groaning with tempting produce, the legs of jamón dangling from the ceiling?

The man came back with a single plastic bag.

‘That all?’ he asked, with obvious contempt.

‘Yes,’ Marcus said.

The man exhaled loudly. ‘Forty quid,’ he said.

Marcus peeled off the notes.

Outside, he inspected the jar of smoked paprika and squeezed the greaseproof packages of ham. They bulged enticingly. Already he was feeling happier. Mentally he began reconfiguring the
experience so that the dirty office only underlined that this was not somewhere ordinary customers went. Once he had done this, the man’s rudeness was simply a sign of the efficient way he
was used to dealing with busy buyers.

‘Farmers’ markets?’ Marcus practised saying in an offhand tone as he returned to the car. ‘Yes, they’re all fine and everything, but if you really want proper
high-quality ingredients at reasonable prices these days, you have to go wholesale.’

The rest of the shopping was pretty routine after that: to the butcher’s to pick up the oxtail and kidneys, then a sweep of the greengrocer’s. He was back home at about the time he
normally left the house on a Saturday.

Marcus drained his coffee and returned to the kitchen worktop full of vigour and purpose. Oxtail next, he thought. Let it simmer for the rest of the day. He tossed the meat in
flour and let it stand while he chopped up root vegetables and celery. That done, he browned the meat quickly in the bottom of a big Le Creuset pan, took it out again, and began building up a rich
base of braised vegetables, stock and wine. When they had formed a satisfying broth, he put the meat back in, along with a muslin parcel of star anise, orange zest and an array of other spices.

Soon it was bubbling away nicely on a low heat. For this dish, more than any other, Marcus was hoping someone would ask him where he got the recipe. He wanted the chance to say, ‘This? I
adapted it from a Heston Blumenthal one, with some suggestions by Mark Hix. Do you think it works?’

With the oxtail done, Marcus felt he was making excellent progress. It was time to tenderize the octopus.

He pulled the creature out of its bag. With the seepage of water it had deflated, and it sprawled, shrunken and grey, on the worktop. Pushing aside the tentacles, Marcus groped tentatively into
the hollow of its body. The hard, slimy flesh gave way to something gooier.

‘First, turn the octopus inside out,’ the recipe said. Of course. Simple, really. Marcus pushed down on the soft domed head from the outside and tried to force it through the hole in
the bottom. The head buckled and then the forces balanced for a moment, until Marcus shoved harder and the creature popped, its head bursting out through the bottom of the body, sending a fine mist
of entrails and fat flying across the kitchen.

Never mind; clear it up later. Marcus carried the octopus carefully to the sink, and began hacking out the internal organs now dangling precariously on the outside.

It was unpleasant work, particularly scraping off the encrusted deposits of gelatinous yellow fat. But even as he felt his gorge rising, Marcus was grimly satisfied. Cooking did not get much
more real than this.

When he had cut out the eyes, Marcus put his largest pan on to boil and washed the octopus thoroughly. Its top half was looking very battered by now, but that was probably OK. He scooped up the
tentacles trailing over the side of the sink and cleaned each one thoroughly, letting them drop into the bowl with eight pleasing thuds.

When the water in the pan had risen to an angry boil, Marcus hooked the creature with a wooden spoon, raising it up so that the tentacles hung to their full length – almost two feet.
Pausing for a second to admire it, Marcus plunged the octopus into the boiling pot.

The water became suddenly still, and Marcus watched the end of a tentacle moving slowly in the hot eddies below the surface. Gradually, the bubbles returned. When the pot was boiling fiercely
again, Marcus reached in with the wooden spoon and some salad tongs, and hauled out the octopus.

It came out wreathed in clouds of steam, re-inflated and magnificent, the supple skin white under the spotlights. Marcus laid it aside to cool, and when it was lukewarm to the touch he plunged
it back in.

He repeated this several times until the kitchen was full of salty steam. On the fourth go he left it in there, and turned the heat down to a simmer. Happy with his morning’s work, he
decided it was time for some lunch.

‘. . . And then Dave actually started taking his shirt off on the dance floor,’ Louise said. ‘Everyone was cheering, of course, but he didn’t realize
they were taking the piss, so he whipped it off and started whirling it round his head like some sort of arthritic Chippendale.’

Charlotte started laughing as she raised the cappuccino to her lips.

‘So there he was, flab flying, everyone whistling, and someone shouts, “Get ’em off!” And he starts undoing his belt. You could see the faded elastic of his boxers and
everything. I swear he would have got completely naked right there if he hadn’t tripped over his own trousers and landed flat on his face. The bouncers had to carry him out.’

Charlotte snorted into the coffee and felt frothy milk surge up her nose.

‘You should have come,’ Louise said as she pushed back her chair. ‘It turned into a pretty good night. Although I do feel terrible today. Do you want to share a muffin when
I’m back from the loo?’

Charlotte wiped the froth away with a napkin and nodded. Louise picked up her handbag and headed towards the Ladies’. Charlotte did feel a little disappointed to have missed out. It
sounded much better than usual.

Still, even if she’d missed a good laugh, and spent a dull evening in front of the TV watching an old episode of
Inspector Morse
, the main aim had been achieved. Charlotte felt
great. She had slept for ten hours, and had not the slightest hint of a hangover.

Shopping with Louise, Charlotte had felt bright and alert, despite the crush on Oxford Street. But Louise, it was obvious, was suffering. Her eyes had that creased and sunken look that Charlotte
recognized so well from the mirror. They had bought a couple of tops and Charlotte a pair of burgundy ankle boots before Louise said she had to stop for coffee.

Charlotte took another sip of cappuccino, keeping it all in her mouth this time. With an empty chair opposite her, she instinctively took out her phone. No calls, no messages, no e-mails.
Charlotte kept it out anyway, preferring to fiddle with something rather than stare awkwardly into space while passers-by looked in at her through the window.

She was even looking forward to dinner at Marcus’s house. No, that was putting it too strongly. But she wasn’t resenting it. After last time, it was going to be entertaining. For
her, at least. It would be excruciating for Justin and Barbara. And all the better for that, obviously.

She almost regretted leaving early last time. She hadn’t really wanted to, but Rosie had insisted she take the first taxi. She had wanted to wait until Matt got back, but there was no way
she was going to admit that to Rosie. On the way home, she had sent him a text, but he hadn’t replied.

What had happened afterwards, though? She had wanted to have a proper gossip with Rosie about it in the office, like they used to, but Rosie didn’t work on Mondays, Charlotte was in
meetings all day Tuesday and Wednesday, on Thursday Rosie was ‘working from home’, and Friday was her other day off.

The thought immediately gave Charlotte something to do with her phone. She snatched it up, found ‘Rosie Mob’ and tapped out a text.

Charlotte stared at the plain black letters in their white bubble. They sat solid and impersonal on the screen.

Bastard. Fucking lecherous bastard. Charlotte felt a surge of emotion. She fought it. The feeling, whatever it was, annoyed her. She didn’t want to care about it – didn’t care
about him – but it was insulting. Yes, that’s what it was. Insulting. Fucking insulting.

What a pathetic loser. That was the first sign of a mid-life crisis, wasn’t it, going round chasing after everything in a skirt? Some arty-farty neurotic with slim legs. Poor girl, though.
Charlotte certainly didn’t envy her. Still, she’d probably work it out soon enough and get the hell out of there. Then he’d be left on his own, stuck following his dick around
wherever it fancied, as if he was just a fucking valet to his own cock. She pitied him, really.

Wanker.

Louise was on her way back from the toilet. Charlotte decided not to reply to Rosie. She thrust her phone back into her handbag.

‘OK?’ Louise asked as she pulled back her chair. ‘Do you fancy a chocolate-chip muffin?’

‘Shall we get cocktails?’ Charlotte said.

Louise looked at her, surprised. ‘It’s three thirty in the afternoon.’

‘So?’

Louise shrugged. ‘All right.’

Marcus hurled the octopus as hard as he could into the sink. The whole worktop vibrated at the impact. Marcus gathered up the tentacles, raised the octopus high above his head
in both hands, and threw it into the sink again. Then again, and again. After two more throws, he paused, panting hard, and wiped the sweat off his face.

Fucking thing. Why wasn’t it tender? It was supposed to boil for only an hour, but when Marcus had cut the end off a tentacle to see if it was done, he might as well have been chewing a
bicycle tyre. After two hours he had lost patience and switched to what was described on the internet as ‘the Greek method’.

Marcus let fly again. This time the head ricocheted off the hot tap on to the draining board. He didn’t know if this was working, but it was certainly better for his frustration than
punching the walls.

On the next throw, a loose tentacle snapped out and whipped Marcus’s favourite coffee cup off the window sill, sending it spinning over the edge of the counter to shatter on the floor.

Fucking thing! Marcus pummelled it with his bare fists in the sink. He didn’t have time for this. The octopus salad was meant to be ready by now. He hacked another chunk off a tentacle and
chewed it violently. That was a bit tenderer now, wasn’t it?

But it was still fucking disgusting. What was he doing wrong? Nothing! This couldn’t be his fault. He must have been sold a dud octopus. Marcus cursed the market trader, then cursed
himself for not noticing he was being ripped off.

Why hadn’t he just done the grilled squid he had wanted to do in the first place? Because it was served with pomegranate seeds, that’s why. Marcus’s face flushed with
bitterness. Rosie had already used pomegranate, and now he couldn’t serve it again without being accused of copying. Bloody Rosie. Marcus smacked the octopus resentfully. He had as good as
discovered pomegranate. He’d been using it for years before it was popular. He loved that it could be light and fresh in one dish, sticky and rich in another.

And now it was everywhere. Even the corner shops in Kentish Town had started stocking it, as if people couldn’t bear to be more than two hundred yards from a pomegranate any more. It had
become trendy. He shivered in disgust at the thought. Could he ever use it again without people thinking he was just following the fad?

It had been exactly the same with chorizo. Marcus had been banging on for years about this fantastic Spanish sausage to people who had never heard of it. Then, without warning, it was in
everything. For a while, you couldn’t get a more fashionable food. And look at it now! He’d been into a petrol station the other day, and seen it in a sandwich there. A petrol station!
What next? Ginsters chorizo pasties? Chorizo and onion crisps? Order something with chorizo in it now and you risked being mistaken for an estate agent. You could hardly start telling people that
you liked it before it was famous, could you?

Marcus sighed deeply. Screw it, he thought, let’s get the vegetarian rubbish out of the way. He stuffed the octopus back into the pot of water and dug a marrow out of the cupboard.
Aggressively, Marcus chopped it in half, scored it, salted it, and put the two halves in the oven. Fucking vegetarians. He wasn’t even sure they were coming until Sarah forwarded him a text
from Rosie to say Justin was going to be there after all. Was whatshername, Barbara, even a vegetarian any more? Sarah had told him to assume so. But if she was going to try meat, why would she
turn up her nose at his oxtail and kidneys? It was just rude. He prodded some spinach leaves into a pan, willing them to wilt quicker.