Dinner at Mine (23 page)

‘Got that out of your system now?’ Sarah said.

‘I feel a lot better.’

‘Who’s next?’ Charlotte said. ‘Matt?’

‘Mobile phones that play music,’ Matt said with great solemnity. ‘You can’t walk down the street any more without hearing some tinny R ’n’ B blaring from a
teenager’s mobile. It makes you want to throw the thing under a bus.’

‘You’d be justified in going through with that,’ Marcus said.

‘Who invented a phone that would be so deliberately annoying as to play music out loud? Don’t they deserve punishment?’

‘Absolutely.’ Marcus nodded. ‘Good one.’

‘Right, what about you, Justin?’ Charlotte said. ‘Your turn. Give us something that really irritates you.’

Justin thought for a moment and opened his mouth.

‘Don’t say poverty,’ Charlotte warned.

Justin closed his mouth. After a bit, he said: ‘What about injustice?’

‘You haven’t really got this, have you? What about something petty that’s still very aggravating.’

‘Aggravating because it’s so petty,’ Marcus clarified. ‘That would be best.’

Justin thought deeply.

‘Like when you get a parking ticket because they’ve suspended the bay your car’s in while you’re on holiday,’ Stephen suggested.

‘Or when people spill instant coffee over the teabags in the office kitchen, so your tea always tastes faintly of coffee,’ Charlotte said. ‘Or when you’ve been working
really hard all day, and the one time the boss comes over is when you’re booking a holiday on the internet.’

Justin continued to ponder.

‘There must be something,’ Rosie encouraged him. ‘Anything small.’

‘OK. How about . . .’ He hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘OK, you know when you’re on the tube or a train, and the announcer says, “Please take your newspapers with you and dispose of them”? Well, I’ve always thought
that’s a bit annoying because it seems so wasteful. Surely it’s better to read a copy that someone else has finished with than to take a new one? That’s the environmentally
friendly thing to do, isn’t it? Re-use them? So why do they tell us not to? Is it just to make their lives easier?’

‘That’s it, Justin, you tell ’em,’ Marcus said.

‘It’s really annoying, isn’t it?’ Justin repeated with more certainty.

‘That’s it, well done!’ Rosie said.

‘Although,’ Justin checked himself, ‘they probably do have a good reason, don’t they? After all, they can’t be paid much, the people who clean trains, so maybe
it’s wrong to give them more work to do.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Charlotte spluttered into her wine. ‘Public sector unions? Probably paid a fucking fortune.’

‘It could be a fire hazard too,’ Justin went on. ‘So maybe they do have good reasons for it.’

‘OK,’ Marcus said. ‘Full marks for effort anyway.’

‘Who hasn’t said anything yet?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Sarah, what about you?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Wait,’ Charlotte interrupted. ‘I’ve thought of another one.’

Her audience stiffened as the front-door key scraped into the lock. They heard the door open and slam shut, then caught a glimpse of Barbara flashing past the open doorway to the living
room.

Charlotte briefly lost her train of thought as the atmosphere in the room tautened. From the kitchen came the sound of Barbara scrabbling around in a cupboard.

‘Yes,’ Charlotte remembered what it was. ‘People who wear Lycra to cycle in to work.’

But the air had gone out of the conversation. Although Charlotte was sure that at least one of them had to ride a bike, no one even seemed to consider replying. They were listening to the
clatter of the cutlery drawer.

‘So, Justin,’ Rosie asked with a strained smile, ‘how are things at work?’

Justin took a long time to reply. ‘Ummm . . . Very good,’ he said faintly. ‘We’re working on a really excellent project in Malawi at the moment.’

‘Tell us about it,’ Rosie said with determined interest.

‘We don’t want to be one of those agencies that just puts a sticking plaster on a problem and walks away,’ Justin said, staring at the wall. ‘We want to really settle
into the life of a place, become a permanent part of their lives and keep our influence going in the long term.’

‘That sounds great!’ Rosie said.

‘Thank you.’

Christ, Charlotte thought. What a wet blanket. You obviously want to go and find out what Barbara is doing. So go and do it! It’s your fucking flat!

From the kitchen came the loud, insistent tick of the gas hob igniting. Then, slowly, something began to sizzle.

Justin couldn’t take his eyes off the wall now.

After a while, Rosie said: ‘What about you, Sarah? How are the kids?’

Sarah started guiltily in her chair. ‘What? They’re fine. Why?’

‘No, I just mean how’s it going at school generally?’

‘Oh I see.’ Sarah relaxed slightly. ‘Well, it’s a bit stressful at the moment, actually. Everything’s about to get into gear for GCSE revision and a lot of the
students are starting to realize how poorly prepared they are, and often they blame the school for that. Then you have all the ones who aren’t trying, who just disrupt things for everyone
else, and you have to make a decision: do I give up on them and throw them out, or do I struggle on? It’s quite a stressful time for us all.’

‘Oh,’ Rosie said. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Yes,’ Sarah agreed.

Rosie didn’t ask her any more. There was a long silence, punctuated by the sound of hot oil spitting in the next room.

Rosie had another go. ‘And Matt? What about you?’

But no one cared about the answer, because Barbara had appeared at the doorway. She advanced into the room, carrying a plate held out in front of her.

The hot, viscous smell spread out luxuriantly across the room. On the plate sat six plump sausages.

Charlotte made no attempt to stifle a delighted grin. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but she liked the way it was heading.

Without saying anything, Barbara set the sausages down on the table. Warm grease seeped out of them. Barbara settled back into her place on the beanbag, propped against the bookshelf. She made
no attempt at explanation.

The look on Justin’s face was so astonishing that Charlotte almost got out her phone and took a picture. There was disgust there, shame, a bit of anger, maybe disappointment too. Most of
all, though, was incomprehension. He wasn’t looking at Barbara; he was looking at the sausages. Their blackened skin wrinkled slightly in the silence.

‘B-Barbara,’ he stammered. ‘Those . . . those don’t smell like Linda McCartney.’

‘No, they don’t,’ Barbara agreed.

‘There’s . . . there’s meat in them, isn’t there?’

‘Yes.’ She said it very simply.

Horror spread across his face. ‘Did you use my frying pan?’

Barbara exhaled impatiently. ‘No, I cooked them in the fucking kettle.’

Justin didn’t take his eyes off the plate. ‘I just don’t understand how you could do something like this.’

‘It’s just meat.’

‘No, it’s not.’ He was shaking now. ‘It’s betrayal.’

Charlotte had to put her hand over her mouth. Sarah, for different reasons, did the same.

‘I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about,’ Barbara said in a flat voice. ‘You don’t have to eat it. They’re for our guests.’

Rosie shifted uncomfortably on her folding chair.

‘Charlotte said she would like to have some sausages with her meal,’ Barbara continued. ‘So here they are.’

Everyone else turned to look at Charlotte. Her face flooded with victorious elation. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, Barbara,’ she said. ‘Very kind. Very
welcoming.’ Charlotte smiled warmly at Barbara, but she was still looking at Justin. Justin was still looking at the sausages.

‘I’ll dig in, then, shall I?’ Charlotte said, reaching forward. No one said anything. She stuck her fork into the plumpest sausage. It was inexpertly cooked, blackened and
charred on one side, but with a pink, raw sheen on the other. Charlotte hesitated for a moment, wondering whether they might be a bit risky. But sod it, they would be worth it.

She took an enormous bite.

‘Mmm, delicious!’

The meat was bland and gooey. Charlotte reckoned it must be one of those cheap, long-life sausages you get in packets at the corner shop when the hangover’s too bad to walk any further.
But, just then, it tasted perfect.

Blobs of fat dribbled down the length of the sausage, and Charlotte had to catch them with the back of her hand to stop them dripping on to her lap. It was awkward, especially with everyone
still staring at her, so she leaned forward and chopped the sausage into chunks, then dropped them, one by one, into her bowl of stew. Justin winced as each chunk went in.

Charlotte stirred the mixture and took a forkful. It worked really well: the sticky sweetness of the sauce enveloping the meat and steeping it in flavour.

‘Mmm, really good,’ she said through a mouthful. ‘I recommend this.’

‘Anyone else want one?’ Barbara asked.

There was a very tense silence.

‘Sarah?’

‘No! No, thank you.’

‘Rosie?’

‘Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly manage . . .’

‘Matt?’

‘Er . . . All right, then.’ Matt speared a sausage and bit into it. Charlotte felt a spasm of grateful lust. His powerful jaw chewed rhythmically. It hadn’t been so bad last
time, had it, really? Quite fun, in fact, definitely to begin with. So what if they’d ignored each other all week? They knew where they stood.

If they went back to her flat this time, he might be up and gone before she’d even woken up. And if he wasn’t gone . . . well, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

After inspecting it closely, Marcus declined a sausage. Stephen took one and was given a sharp, disapproving look by Rosie.

‘This is really good, Justin,’ Charlotte said cheerfully. ‘The flavours go really well together. You’ll definitely have to give me the recipe.’

Justin muttered something inaudible.

‘You know where I had a properly excellent sausage recently?’ Charlotte went on. ‘Barcelona. I wish I could remember what it was called; it was like a chorizo but with
different spices. Very good. It was part of a sharing platter that was basically seven different types of pork. Fantastic.’

Charlotte ate the last lump of meat from her stew. The three remaining sausages sat cooling on the plate, their hardening skins gleaming under the lights.

‘If you guys don’t want them, I might have another one,’ she said.

No one objected.

Charlotte leaned forward and chopped up another sausage. Both Justin and Barbara watched her intently.

‘Are you all sure?’ she asked, dropping the chunks into the remains of her stew. ‘It’s very good. Rosie? Stephen?’

They shook their heads.

‘What about you, Barbara? You went to all the trouble of cooking them. Don’t you want to try one?’

Barbara looked up from the plate and met Charlotte’s eye. She looked at Justin, then back to the sausages. They glistened. She shifted on her beanbag.

‘Barbara . . .’ Justin’s tone was one of urgent anguish.

She leaned forward and reached towards the plate.

‘Barbara! No!’

Her fingers closed round the sausage, dimpling its fatty flesh.

A rivulet of hot pork juice hung for a moment on Barbara’s lower lip. Matt watched it slide down the curve of her chin until she reached up a hand to brush it away. The
fairy lights caught the remains of the sticky path it traced across her skin.

Matt felt a sharp jolt of desire. Barbara was wearing a loose, faded vest top, scooping open at the front to cast appealing shadows over the swell of her chest. She lay back against the
bookshelf, almost reclining, one leg cocked over the other, with an air of defiance. Matt stared.

Justin emitted another squeaky moaning sound, like a small animal caught in a trap.

‘Barbara, what’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘I just can’t understand why you did that.’

‘I know,’ she said.

‘Why, then?’ Justin moaned again. ‘Why would you just give up on something like that? Something you care about? A principle that was so important to you.’

She seemed to consider this herself. ‘I don’t know . . . I guess I just wanted to try something different.’

Justin shook his head.

‘To be fair,’ Charlotte interrupted. ‘It was a pretty tasty sausage.’

Matt smiled at this. No one else gave anything away. Charlotte caught his eye and grinned. She was in good spirits now, offering round another bottle of wine and filling up her own glass when
everyone except Stephen refused.

‘Does anyone want the last one?’ she asked. ‘Barbara? Are you sure you won’t have another?’

Almost imperceptibly, Barbara shook her head.

Charlotte shrugged. Then she ate the sausage.

The silence thickened.

Rosie said: ‘It’s getting quite late, isn’t it? I think we’d better be going.’

She looked expectantly at Justin. He didn’t reply.

‘Well, it’s been really good to see you all . . .’ She gestured at Stephen, who reluctantly put down his wine glass. They stood up.

The movement stirred Justin from whatever he was thinking.

‘What? Where are you going?’

‘Thank you so much for a lovely evening.’

‘You can’t go yet. We haven’t had dessert.’

‘Oh . . . that’s OK. You’ve fed us so well already . . .’

‘But I’ve made Lemon Tart!’ Justin stood up. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

They faced each other for a few seconds before Rosie conceded. She gestured at Stephen. They sat down again.

No one made any attempt at conversation. They sat quietly until the tart was served, accepting slices like prisoners receiving their rations, then offered Justin subdued praise and chewed in
glum silence.

It was pretty good, actually, Matt thought. Intense lemon curd flecked with bitter rind. Matt wasn’t really hungry, but like the others he carried on eating; it was either that or feel
obliged to say something.

Matt accepted another glass of wine and appraised the situation. As soon as they had got through a polite amount of tart, Rosie and Stephen would leave. That was obvious. Sarah and Marcus would
probably go with them. Charlotte did not seem desperate to depart. It was pretty clear what she was thinking. Matt couldn’t help feeling pleased by that. She caught his eye again. At the
beginning of the evening, she wouldn’t even look at him. But now the option was there. Last time had been OK. Good, even, in some respects. Enjoyable and uncomplicated.