Dinner at Mine (20 page)

‘You see? You see?’ Barbara was almost shouting now. ‘Everything’s about showing other people the right thing to do! Trying to make us do what you think is
ethical!’

‘That’s not true, Barbara . . . Where did this come from? Anyway, it’s not just what I think is ethical, it’s what we think is ethical. Isn’t it?’

‘But they’re the same thing!’

‘Exactly.’ Justin was very confused now. ‘We both believe that killing other creatures for our own pleasure is wrong.’

‘You’re missing the point.’ She was clearly disgusted with him.

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ he said. ‘I was just making dinner. I don’t even know why we’re arguing.’

‘No,’ Barbara said, with unmistakable sadness. ‘You don’t.’

‘Look, honey, are you all right?’ Justin came across to put his arm round her. ‘I’m worried about you.’

Barbara didn’t react.

‘I don’t know,’ Justin went on. ‘Sometimes I think . . . Barbara, you haven’t changed your mind, have you? You still think killing animals is wrong, don’t
you?’

‘For fuck’s sake, Justin!’ Barbara threw off his arm with a violent shrug.

‘What? What did I—’

‘That’s all you can fucking think about!’

‘What do you mean? Of course it isn’t!’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘You know how much I care for the developing world. But animal welfare is a very important issue. If people knew the conditions—’

‘Jesus, you don’t get it at all!’

‘And I know the health aspect is important to you as well.’

‘Screw the health aspect! There are more important things than a balanced diet, Justin.’

‘Barbara, this is a big thing.’ Justin felt his voice getting louder and more urgent. ‘Are you telling me that you don’t want to be a vegetarian any more?’

‘Fucking hell, Justin! No!’

‘Well, what are you trying to say, then?’

Barbara paused, breathing heavily, for a second or two before she replied with unexpected vigour: ‘That I don’t want to be in this relationship any more!’

Justin stepped back as if she had slapped him. Barbara seemed almost as surprised as he did. They stared at each other in a silence broken only by the whirring of the oven fan.

They stayed like that for several seconds, until the doorbell rang.

While they waited, Rosie considered what should be done with the tangled patch of grass in Justin’s front garden. It clearly hadn’t been mowed for ages, but even
cut down it would be too patchy and full of weeds to make much of a lawn. Maybe a flower bed round the edge. But that would require someone to do some proper gardening.

That was the problem with these shared houses: no one took responsibility. Still, it was negligent of the landlord – or would it be the council? – to let things get into that state.
Just look at the garden gate! Hanging uselessly off one hinge, barely covered in peeling paint.

Of course, she wasn’t judging in any way. Clearly, Justin and Barbara didn’t have much money and that wasn’t their fault. But all the same, a bit of effort would have made a
big difference. Rosie was glad she didn’t live here. Gazing at the plastic bank of doorbells, she remembered how happy she was the day they moved out of the tatty, sub-divided Victorian
terraced house in Finsbury Park into their own single-occupancy Edwardian villa not far from the centre of Crouch End.

‘Do you think you should press it again?’ Stephen asked.

‘Don’t be impatient.’

‘Maybe they didn’t hear it. They would be down by now if they had.’

‘I told you we were too early!’

‘What did you want us to do, wander round the housing estate for twenty minutes?’

‘Well, perhaps we should give them a bit longer. They did say seven thirty.’

‘It’s too late now. You’ve pressed the bell.’

‘Yes, but they haven’t answered.’

Rosie spotted a patch of mould on the wall of the porch as she considered the dilemma. They had been apprehensive about the two-bus journey out to the Tottenham–Stamford Hill borders.
Stephen wanted to take a taxi, but they were going to get one home and it seemed indulgent to Rosie to get two in an evening, so she had felt vindicated when they arrived at the end of the road
early. They had thought about going for a drink, but the pub on the corner had a tattered Sky Sports banner hanging outside so they decided not to.

‘Are you going to press the bell again, then?’ Stephen asked.

‘Let’s give it a bit longer.’

‘They can’t have heard it.’

‘Then maybe they’re busy.’

It was still light outside, but the warmth of spring had yet to arrive and there was a sharp chill in the pale air. Rosie pressed the bell.

It took another thirty seconds for Justin to answer.

Stephen remarked immediately on how flushed he was looking. ‘Slaving over a hot stove, are you?’

Justin smiled briefly, and led them upstairs. As they climbed, Rosie couldn’t help noticing the scuffs and scratches on the staircase.

The flat was permeated by a warm, vegetal fug.

‘That smells lovely,’ Rosie said.

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh we love vegetarian food, don’t we, Stephen? It makes such a nice change sometimes to have something that’s just light and fresh and healthy.’

Justin went to get some drinks as Rosie and Stephen sat down on the sofa. Rosie inspected the cluttered living room with its multicoloured silk drapes on the wall, the large Buddha’s head
where the TV should go, the string of fairy lights over the door. It was a bit more hippyish than she was expecting. Barbara was always quite simply dressed, so maybe it was Justin’s
taste.

‘Sorry, I opened yours. I didn’t have anything colder in the fridge,’ Justin said, handing them two tepid glasses of white wine.

‘No, that’s fine,’ Rosie said, feeling slightly put out. It was quite a nice bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and it really would have benefited from going back in the
fridge for a bit.

‘Where’s Barbara?’ she asked.

‘Oh she’s in . . . She’s getting changed,’ Justin said. ‘I’m sure she’ll be out in a minute.’

‘Sorry if we’re a bit early.’

‘No, no, it’s fine. Everything’s nearly ready.’

‘I was worried we might be interrupting something.’

‘No.’

They sat in silence for a while.

‘How’s your week been, Justin?’ Rosie asked.

‘Fine, fine. You know, busy.’

‘It always is, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ They lapsed into silence again. After a while Justin said: ‘I’d better go and check on the main course.’

Rosie thought he seemed a bit stressed. Well, it was probably the cooking, wasn’t it? This was a crucial moment, just before everyone arrived, and you had to make sure you could finish all
the recipes while entertaining as well. Maybe she and Stephen should have stopped off in the pub.

They could hear every movement of the pans in the kitchen next door, so Rosie didn’t feel she could say any of this to Stephen. Then there were footsteps in the hall, a door opening and
whispered angry voices. The door slammed and the footsteps went back to the kitchen.

Rosie and Stephen exchanged knowing glances. The cookery row. So that’s what it was. Well, it happened to everyone, and in Rosie’s experience, the sooner the guests arrived, the
sooner it was all forgotten.

The flat fell quiet. Rosie and Stephen sipped their wine in silence for a while, aware that any conversation would carry straight through the thin walls to the kitchen. The wine was warm, and
they were left on their own, stuck in the middle of a domestic row. Rosie was pretty confident already that the evening wasn’t going to be any sort of threat. The thought relaxed her.

It occurred to her then that there wouldn’t be a dining room, and they would all have to eat in the living room off their knees. Almost certainly with non-matching cutlery. Well, Justin
and Barbara couldn’t be blamed, of course, they didn’t have much money, but the rules were the rules.

‘What do you make of that African mask thing?’ Stephen whispered. ‘Do you think we should get one like that?’

‘Stephen, don’t be rude.’

‘It’s bloody terrifying, isn’t it?’

‘Shh!’

‘But it might be quite useful. If Jonathan isn’t going to bed we could just say, “Do what you’re told or the mask’s coming to get you.”’

‘Don’t be mean. It’s a perfectly nice piece of African art.’

‘Yes, but in the living room? It would be like having
The Scream
on your bedroom wall.’

Rosie couldn’t help giggling at this, and the two of them laughed conspiratorially, leaning into each other on the sofa.

Rosie straightened up quickly as footsteps came towards them.

‘Hello, Barbara! Great to see you! You look beautiful!’ Rosie stood up to greet Barbara with a kiss. She did look beautiful, of course, but her shoulders were hunched forward, and if
she had just changed into those jeans and vest top, Rosie dreaded to think what she had been wearing before.

Barbara smiled faintly at both of them.

‘I must say, it’s smelling lovely in here,’ Rosie said. ‘I bet we’re in for a real feast.’

‘Mmm,’ Barbara replied.

‘So how are you?’ Rosie asked, as Barbara curled herself on to a cushion on the floor. ‘Busy week?’

‘No,’ Barbara replied.

‘Oh well, lucky you. It was frantic at work this week, and then I had to come home early on Wednesday because the day-care centre said Jonathan had a cold.’

‘Mmm.’

‘He turned out to be fine, of course, but I was in such a panic I ran out without finishing and got a bit of a ticking-off on Thursday . . .’ Rosie checked herself.

What was wrong? This seemed like more than some silly bickering about how thick you chopped the carrots. There was something about Barbara’s sullen silence that made Rosie want to keep
babbling, to soften her up with the comforting inanities about everyday life. But she could already tell it wasn’t working.

Barbara showed no inclination to restart the conversation, her eyes drifting away from Rosie and Stephen on the sofa to gaze out of the narrow window at the council block opposite. She was
obviously distracted by something.

The visa! Maybe that was it. Barbara had mentioned to Rosie a while back that there had been some difficulty in renewing. With government bureaucracy it could be dragging on. That was enough to
make anyone worried, wasn’t it, the idea of being kicked out of the country? Poor Barbara. It must be so hard without a proper job, and not even the status of a student to fall back on. Not
that being an artist wasn’t a proper job, but, well . . .

A thought popped into Rosie’s head. It made perfect sense. She couldn’t see why she hadn’t thought of it before. Maybe Justin and Barbara could get married! It would certainly
sort out the visa problem. And it would be fun, wouldn’t it? They were such a sweet couple. Surely Justin wouldn’t wait long to propose, not in this situation. Would the wedding be in
America? That would be annoying. Perhaps Rosie could have a word. If it was in London, that would be great. Barbara was so creative – the table settings would be fantastic.

Stephen was always teasing Rosie for wanting everyone to get married, but it just made everything more convenient, that was the thing. Especially with dinner parties and so on. There was none of
that awkward ‘Are they still together?’ or ‘Do we know the partner well enough?’ No irritating odd numbers, either. Plus she liked the weddings. After a flurry of a dozen in
eighteen months, a couple of years back, there had been almost nothing, and Rosie was looking forward to some more. Didn’t they say mid-thirties was a good time, as people realized it was
more or less now or never? So there should be some to look forward to soon.

Rosie often wondered why Marcus didn’t get on with it. Sarah had once told Rosie that he said he didn’t really believe in marriage, that it was just a piece of paper, a legal
formality, so why all the fuss? Well, that was just the sort of thing men said when they were too lazy to propose. Usually, they changed their minds if their friends nagged them enough. Then it
became less effort just to get it out of the way. Rosie resolved to start work on Marcus soon.

‘Can I use your toilet?’ Stephen asked, getting up from the sofa. ‘Thanks,’ he added, rushing gratefully towards the door. Rosie realized no one had said anything for
some time. Barbara was still sitting cross-legged on the floor, radiating taciturn hostility.

‘So, Barbara,’ Rosie said with a bright smile, ‘I’m really keen to see some more of your pots.’

Barbara grimaced.

‘The ones in the café were so interesting, and you said you had some more at home. I’d really love to see them.’

‘I’m not ready for that right now,’ Barbara mumbled.

‘Oh come on, it’ll be fun. You can explain them all to me.’

‘No, I . . .’

‘Come on! Don’t be shy!’

Eventually Barbara uncrossed her legs and went silently out of the room. She returned with a small cardboard box of ceramics.

‘So what’s this one?’ Rosie asked, taking the top piece out of the box. ‘It’s very pretty.’

‘Nothing,’ Barbara said. ‘It’s just a piece of trash.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s fascinating. Why don’t you explain it to me? Like this crack all the way down the side – I assume that’s meant to be there?’

‘That was kind of the point.’ Barbara said the words in one deep sigh. ‘How can you have a pot with a crack in it, right? You can’t use it. So what’s the pot for?
Is it just decorative? Can it mean something? Is an object still the same thing if its essential purpose is gone? That’s what I was trying to ask.’

‘How interesting!’ Rosie turned the fractured pot over in her hands. ‘And what’s the answer?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh I see. Thought-provoking.’

‘You’re right. The whole thing’s just garbage.’

‘Stop it.’ Rosie hit Barbara playfully on the upper arm. ‘What about that one?’ She picked out a waxy yellow vase with an irregular, dappled surface.

‘This . . . ?’ Barbara rubbed her left shoulder with her right hand. ‘It’s kind of hard to . . .’ She stared at the pot. ‘I guess the foundation for this was
my grandmother. The texture of her skin, you see? I wanted to recreate that . . . I mean, she was ill and it didn’t seem human and at the same time it obviously was . . . I don’t know,
I . . . I guess I tried to take that and put it in another medium, you know, to see what happened to those textures and associations when they weren’t attached to a breathing body. Or even a
non-breathing body. Does it still mean the same thing, you know?’