Dinner at Mine (6 page)

She brooded on this until Marcus returned, tucking his notebook into his back pocket, with a broad smile across his face.

Matt watched him sit down. ‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ he said. ‘And you certainly seem to have enjoyed yourself.’

Charlotte tried to suppress a snort of laughter, and drops of red wine came out of her nose.

Stephen had reached the stage of the evening when he kept his right hand resting on the base of his wine glass between sips. He had finished his main course and was sitting
back in his chair, arm stretched out to grip the glass. The wine had padded the corners of his earlier irritability and he felt sated and much better disposed to the conversation.

Matt was telling a story about the stupidity of one of his clients, a man who was trying to sue a supermarket that had sold him a bag of pistachio nuts, because the packet did not warn him to
take the shells off before eating them. Stephen emitted a warm, alcoholic chuckle.

The worst of the evening was over now. The tense preparation and the stilted, effortful small talk had all been washed away by the passage of wine. Stephen was enjoying himself. Certainly, he
would have preferred to have his feet up on the coffee table watching
Lewis
, but he was having a tolerable time. With most of the food out of the way, conversation was flowing a bit easier
too, keeping itself going spontaneously rather than through determined questions from Rosie.

‘So I asked him, “What actually happened when you ate the nuts?” and he said, “I cut my lip.” So I said, “Just remind me how much you want to claim for
that.” He looked at me and said: “Two hundred grand. What? It was quite a bad cut.”’

A ripple of laughter spread round the table. Stephen sat up sharply as he heard Rosie laugh louder than the rest. What did that mean? Why was she simpering like that at Matt? But she was
standing up now, and Stephen decided that the overeager laugh was a sign of tension, a way of trying to leave the table without appearing rude. He settled himself back in his chair, and had another
sip of wine.

He knew she was going to check the crumble. He knew that, really, he was supposed to be doing that. Sod it, though. He was comfortable now. She would be fretting about it anyway, so there was no
point both of them running about. Besides, the busier she was, the less anxious she got. Stephen poured himself some more wine.

‘Here we are, everybody,’ Rosie said, setting down the bubbling crumble dish. ‘Stephen, could you start serving while I get the cream?’

Reluctantly, Stephen let go of his glass and cracked the top of the crumble with the big spoon. Thick seams of sugary fruit juice bubbled up between the golden peaks of crumble, which separated
into textured continents of browned, rocky crumbs. Stephen congratulated himself. He had judged the mixture just right.

Rosie returned with the cream. Stephen had served out all eight portions before Marcus said: ‘I thought we were having figs?’

‘We were, but I just couldn’t find any that were good enough today,’ Rosie said smoothly. ‘The local organic shop had an excellent batch in recently, but they’d run
out this morning and I thought there was no point trying to do it with sub-standard figs. So Stephen stepped in and made a crumble.’

‘Stephen, this is delicious,’ Charlotte said, her voice muffled by a huge mouthful of creamy fruit.

‘It really is,’ Matt said. ‘I’ve nearly finished mine.’

‘Yes, it is nice,’ Marcus said. ‘Good to have some hearty British fare after all that Mediterranean stuff, eh?’

Stephen ignored him. Rosie had gone to fetch the dessert wine.

A glass of Vin Santo washed the crumble down nicely, Stephen thought. One blanket of sticky, sugary warmth wrapped round another, but with the crunchiness of the crumble top there to give a bit
of bite. Stephen helped himself to seconds. Almost everyone asked for some more, and he eked out the last charred scrapings from the rim of the dish with quiet satisfaction. He did make a good
crumble. He offered the dessert wine round again before draining the last of the bottle into his glass and sinking back into his chair.

A stuffed lull settled over the table. All efforts were now focused on digesting the thick mix of doughy crumble, leaving little energy to spare for conversation. Laboured breathing spread out
around the room.

Despite his discomfort, he appreciated the silent companionship of surfeit. Everyone, he felt sure, was happy and relaxed, content to let the evening coast pleasantly towards a quiet end.

‘I know!’ Rosie said. ‘How about a game?’

Stephen groaned inwardly.

‘What about charades?’ Rosie went on. ‘It’s been ages since I played that.’

‘I don’t think I can move,’ Sarah said.

‘Really?’ Rosie coaxed.

‘Definitely not,’ Charlotte decreed.

Rosie looked crestfallen. Stephen decided to risk some teasing. ‘Rosie’s no good at charades anyway,’ he told the guests. ‘She always picks
Ferris Bueller’s Day
Off.’

Rosie gave the company a brittle grin. ‘Yes, but Stephen always picks the film we saw last.’

This was true, Stephen had to admit. Although often he couldn’t remember what the film was called.

‘Well, Marcus always picks film titles in German,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s very annoying.’

‘I didn’t realize you spoke German,’ Rosie said.

‘I don’t,’ Marcus replied. ‘It just makes them harder to guess.’

‘That’s cheating!’ Charlotte protested.

‘There’s no rule against it,’ Marcus said. ‘I’ve checked.’

‘Look, do we have to play a game?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Are we really so boring that we can’t think of anything to say to each other?’

There was a pause.

Stephen knew he ought to say something, but couldn’t think what. All he wanted to do was let the conversation wash over him, stirring only if he spotted something interesting floating
by.

‘I just thought it would be fun,’ Rosie said.

‘How about Shag, Marry, Kill, then?’ Charlotte said. ‘Or, I Have Never.’

‘Or, Mr and Mrs,’ Rosie suggested.

‘No!’ Stephen cried, at exactly the same time as Charlotte.

‘What about that one where you all have to write the name of someone famous on a piece of paper?’ Sarah suggested. ‘Then you take it in turns to put a name on your forehead
without looking at it, and you have to guess who you are by asking yes or no questions.’

‘That sounds great,’ Rosie said. ‘I’ll get some paper.’

Stephen put a lot of thought into his choice. He wanted someone who was unquestionably a household name, but who wouldn’t be immediately obvious. That way he could keep people guessing for
ages, and they’d be kicking themselves when they didn’t get it.

In the end he went for Kofi Annan. Instantly recognizable, but not at the front of anyone’s mind any more.

Justin was the first to draw. He unfolded the torn scrap of paper at arm’s length and slapped it quickly on to his forehead.

‘Move your fingers,’ Charlotte said.

Stephen craned forward to read the name. It didn’t resolve itself. He peered closer.

‘Who the hell is that?’ Charlotte demanded.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Matt said.

‘Marcus!’ Sarah exclaimed.

‘What?’ Marcus asked. ‘Why are you assuming it was me?’

‘Has anyone else ever heard of Farkas Molnar?’ Sarah demanded.

‘You’ve given it away now!’ Marcus protested.

There were blank looks around the table.

‘He was the foremost Hungarian disciple of the Bauhaus!’ Marcus protested. ‘No? No one?’

‘Can I put this down now?’ Justin asked, fingers still clamped to his head.

Sarah nodded and Justin tore up the paper and picked another. Paris Hilton, it read.

‘Happy now?’ Marcus muttered.

Rosie drew next. Stephen felt a twinge of excitement at seeing the name.

‘Good one,’ Sarah said, nodding.

‘OK. Is it a politician?’ Rosie asked.

‘Yes,’ Sarah said.

‘British?’

‘No.’

‘Is it Kofi Annan?’

Stephen went off the game after that.

He stopped playing but they seemed to carry on fine without him. Stephen breathed out huffily, but found himself wheezing. Perhaps that second helping of crumble had been a mistake. He’d
eaten it too quickly and was starting to feel very bloated. Maybe some wine would help. Soothe his stomach.

No, in fact it just increased the pressure. Bugger it. He was going to feel this tomorrow. He listened tetchily as Sarah quickly identified Martin Scorsese. Matt was the last to guess,
pretending not to mind at all as Charlotte goaded him.

Stephen watched Matt with dyspeptic malevolence. After all these years, how had he only just found out? Rosie said he was making too much of it, that it was all so long ago and what did it
matter now? But if that was the case, why had she never told him about it? Why had he only found out by accident from the big mouth of some woman he hardly even remembered from college?

Of course, Stephen had always known that Rosie and Matt had gone out together. Briefly, they said. It was during the first year of university, and only for a couple of months. Rosie said it was
nothing really, just a fling that clearly wasn’t going anywhere. And that was fine. Sort of. Rosie had told Stephen about it when they first got together and he’d got over it then, even
felt an unaccustomed superiority over his friend: he, Stephen, had made it work with Rosie after she had dumped Matt.

Only, it turned out, she hadn’t dumped Matt. No, he had dumped her. And Stephen had only just discovered that. Rosie had apologized for not telling him. But it sounded more like she was
apologizing for him finding out. She said she hadn’t wanted it to be awkward at the time, and later, well, there was just never the right moment. Stephen could understand that, he supposed,
not telling the truth when you were twenty-one. But what about the decade since? Yes, it had started as a small lie, but it had been getting bigger every year since.

Not that he was worried, exactly. If they were going to run off together, then, as Rosie said, they would have done that by now. He didn’t doubt that she loved him. He was angry, yes, but
it was more that . . .

It was that Matt had gone along with it. That was the really insulting thing. Matt obviously saw it as Stephen taking up with one of his cast-offs, in that egotistical way he had. But instead of
saying so, he decided that Stephen’s confidence was so fragile he had to pretend that he had never wanted Rosie to go. He’d not actually said as much, but he’d definitely let
Stephen think that. It was so bloody condescending.

And all the possibilities it raised about the break-up. What if . . .

Oh God, why was there no more wine? Brandy, though. There was plenty of that in the drinks cabinet.

‘Darling, could you help me with the plates?’ Rosie asked as Stephen hauled himself to his feet.

‘In a minute,’ he mumbled as he moved, more unsteadily than he expected, to the cupboard in the corner. He offered the brandy round and it came back with almost half the bottle gone.
Jesus, how much wine had they got through? It had been good, though, hadn’t it? Must make a note to order more of that next month. What was it called? Don’t put the empties in the
recycling without checking. Better tell Rosie to do that later; he’d be bound to forget.

He reached out to accept the conveyor belt of dirty bowls being handed down from the end of the table. They clashed against each other loudly as he tried to stack them. ‘Oops,’ he
muttered.

‘Darling, do you want me to carry those?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

Rosie laughed nervously.

Stephen reached out to take the two bowls being offered to him by Barbara. As she bent forward, arm outstretched, he noticed how the thin material of her strappy top clung to the curve of her
breast, while rumpling out in the middle to show an inviting scoop of cleavage. Great figure she had, really. Very pretty all round. Hadn’t said very much this evening, but that was kind of
sexy, wasn’t it? Not knowing what she was thinking.

‘Stephen? Will you offer people coffee?’ Rosie picked up the dishes in front of him. She added under her breath: ‘The dishwasher’s full. If you’re not going to
play, can you do some washing up?’

Stephen blinked at her. He got up slowly. Maybe a walk would do him good.

When he returned from the kitchen, everyone but Charlotte and Rosie had gone silent.

‘She is!’

‘She is not!’

Scraps of crumpled paper littered the table, but the game seemed to have halted.

‘Yes, she is,’ Rosie insisted. ‘Nadia Comaneci is a world-famous gymnast who’s won five Olympic medals.’

‘That doesn’t make her famous,’ Charlotte replied. ‘It’s not even a real sport.’

‘Yes, it is. Rhythmic gymnastics is a very physically and mentally demanding sport.’

‘Come on! It’s just exercise. Keep fit.’

‘No, they’re very different things.’

‘They’re the same thing,’ Charlotte said loudly.

‘Look, Charlotte, I used to do rhythmic gymnastics at school . . .’

‘There’s a surprise.’

‘Charlotte . . .’

‘Go on, then. Explain.’

‘Rhythmic gymnastics is a complex, synchronized sport about displaying grace in time to music’

‘While waving ribbons?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘That’s callisthenics. It’s keep fit.’

‘It’s not the same thing at all. Rhythmic gymnastics is an Olympic sport.’

‘So? Table tennis is an Olympic sport. Doesn’t mean it’s not ping-pong.’

What the hell was going on? What were they talking about? Stephen couldn’t understand it. Was he even drunker than he thought?

‘What do you know about it?’ Rosie asked.

‘Not much.’ Charlotte shrugged.

‘There you are, then.’

‘But I do know it’s the same thing as rhythmic gymnastics.’

‘Why don’t you go and Google it?’ Marcus suggested. ‘That ought to settle things.’

Charlotte and Rosie both glared at him. How on earth had this argument started, Stephen wondered. What were they even arguing about?

‘I don’t know why you always think you know better, Rosie.’