Dinner at Mine (3 page)

She cut up the onion quickly, and once she had scattered the slices into the salad and scraped the peel into the bin, covering up the plastic bag, the tension in her shoulders subsided.

With a teaspoon she tasted the salad. Good, but . . . well, it was mainly lentil, wasn’t it? Maybe a bit more maple syrup? She measured out two overflowing teaspoons and stirred them
in.

Oh dear, now it was a bit sweet. Was there any lemon left? She squeezed what was left of it over the salad, picking out the pips by hand. Hmm, that was now a bit sharp. More syrup?

Rosie looked at the time. They were late, but so was she. Thank God she’d already got changed. As long as her hair had survived the lemon . . .

The Gruyère loaf that stood cooling on the side looked dense and misshapen. Rosie cut it into thick, irregular slices to serve with drinks. The chunks fell apart as she laid them out,
even though she’d been so careful about the timing. Bloody thing. Why hadn’t she just got some nuts instead?

After hanging up her apron, Rosie set out the loaf alongside the crackers on the coffee table. The quiet tidiness of the living room immediately soothed her. Every time she looked at her Noguchi
coffee table and Accent Wall with its fresh wallpaper, she felt a sense of contented calm.

It had taken two months of disruptive painting and dec orating work, twice as long as they’d said it would, but Rosie felt that room was worth it. She had been looking forward to having
guests in here ever since it had been finished. Not that she wanted to show off, exactly, but she was certain that they’d be impressed.

She crossed the hall to the dining room. The table still wasn’t laid, but soon it would be beautifully arranged with plates designed by a younger member of the Conran family and cutlery
made by a German modernist. Perhaps the evening would be a success.

Rosie started sharply at the firm ring of the doorbell. The tone was too insistent, she thought; it always made her jump. Perhaps she should try to find something softer. But never mind that
now. She smoothed down the front of her dress and went to answer the door.

Marcus watched Sarah and Rosie embrace warmly before saying hello to Rosie himself and engaging in a much more awkward kiss.

‘Sorry if we’re a bit late,’ Sarah said.

‘No, not at all. You’re the first ones here, actually.’

‘Oh I’m sorry . . .’

‘No, no, I was just starting to wonder where everyone was.’

Marcus tried to identify the jumble of smells coming from the kitchen as Rosie led them down the hall, but couldn’t get much beyond a vague, sweet spiciness. He did not think the aroma was
intimidating.

‘Smells lovely,’ Sarah said.

‘Thank you. I hope you’ll like it. I’m just putting the last few things together. Let me get you something to drink.’

‘Oh, yes – we brought some wine,’ Sarah said, scrabbling around in her handbag. Marcus couldn’t understand how she carried it around with her like that, with all that
useless stuff in it. She could never find anything, even a bottle of wine, for God’s sake.

Rosie took it without looking at the label.

‘Well, here it is,’ she said as they paused in the doorway of the living room. ‘Our sitting room is finally finished. What do you think?’

‘Oh it’s lovely,’ Sarah said, before stepping in.

Marcus experienced a moment of uncertainty when he saw the sofa, a sleek understated design that he didn’t recognize or dislike. He had not previously suspected Rosie of having good taste,
and the adjustment was disconcerting.

But then he entered the room fully and saw the expanse of patterned paper on the opposite wall. She probably got the idea from a TV makeover show, he thought, and the idea relaxed him. The paper
was beautifully made and obviously expensive, but the coloured floral pattern, he felt, was too loud and fussy. It felt like a pub that was trying too hard to be trendy. He smiled to himself as he
sat down on the sofa.

‘How gorgeous!’ Sarah was saying. ‘It really brightens the place up.’

‘We’re very pleased with it,’ Rosie said. ‘I say “we” – I’m not sure Stephen’s even noticed.’

‘Where is Stephen?’

‘He’s probably just saying goodnight to Jonathan.’

‘How is Jonathan?’

‘Wonderful. We’re sure he’ll be talking any day now.’

‘What a shame we missed him!’ Sarah sat down next to Marcus. ‘What’s this?’

Marcus had already inspected the bready nibbles lying on the coffee table – Noguchi! Did people still buy those? – and was quietly confident that it would be bland and doughy.

‘It’s Rosemary and Gruyère Loaf. Dig in. I’ll get you some drinks.’

Sarah picked at a piece of loaf while Rosie went to the kitchen.

‘Try it, Marcus, it’s very good!’ she said through a mouthful of sticky crumbs.

Marcus studied a chunk. The consistency was better than he had expected. He had put it to his nose to sniff for rosemary when Rosie returned with two small glasses.

‘I thought we’d start with some sherry. I know it’s a bit old-fashioned, but I think it goes really well with the loaf.’

‘What a good idea,’ Marcus said, surprised to find he meant it. The bread wasn’t as heavy as he had anticipated and the fresh tang of the cheese was topped off with the warmth
of the rosemary. He sipped his drink and found the dryness of the sherry cut nicely through the cheesiness.

‘Very good,’ he conceded.

‘I’m so glad you like it! How’s the sherry? I’ve really got into it recently – I think it’s due for a comeback, don’t you?’

‘It’s good,’ Marcus accepted.

Rosie had not sat down. ‘Look, I know it’s rude, but do you mind if I leave you alone for a couple of minutes? I’ve just got to finish the starter and get Stephen down
here.’

‘We’ve got everything we need,’ Sarah replied, sherry in one hand and loaf in the other.

Once Rosie had left the room, Marcus opened his notebook.

Sarah looked at him in horror. ‘What are you doing?’

‘What?’

‘Bullet points? Don’t you think that’s going a bit overboard? What are you writing?’

‘I’m reminding myself to mark them highly for the loaf, actually; it’s nicely done.’

‘You’ve put more than that.’

‘I’m going to have to deduct points for leaving us like this. Less than perfect hosting.’

Sarah let out a disappointed sigh.

Marcus resented her for it. What right did she have to pity him in that martyred way? He retaliated by marking Rosie down on the redecoration. Sarah had always said he should be less judgemental
about other people’s taste – but she hadn’t always been so disapproving about it. When had that started? Her thin lips were pinched tight beneath a hard frown that accentuated the
creases at the corners of her mouth. She seemed to be losing her sense of fun. Even if she had always complained he was too snide, at least she used to enjoy it. What had gone wrong with her?

‘OK, I’ve finished. Happy now?’ Marcus stuffed the pad into his back pocket.

‘Just promise me you won’t get it out at the table.’

‘What, you want me to sneak off to the toilet to make notes in secret?’

‘Why do you have to do it at all?’

‘If it’s that important to you—’ Marcus began, ready for an argument. But he stopped when the metallic bark of the doorbell cut through the room.

They listened for a long time, but heard no one go to answer it.

‘Do you think we should go?’ Sarah asked.

‘I think that might come across as rude.’

They waited in silence for a few moments more, before the doorbell sounded again. This time footsteps in the hall followed and Marcus heard two male voices greet each other undemonstratively. He
stood up as the living-room door opened.

‘Hello, Stephen, we haven’t seen you yet tonight.’

‘Hello, Marcus,’ Stephen said without audible enthusiasm. ‘Do you know Matt?’

Marcus looked at the tall, broad-shouldered man he had brought in. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Marcus and Sarah, this is Matt.’

‘We ’ve met,’ Matt said to Sarah.

‘God, it’s been years, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, a long time,’ Matt said with a faint smile. Marcus smiled inwardly at his broad northern accent. Lancashire, was it?

After Stephen had got sherry for Matt and himself, he restarted the conversation abruptly. Marcus thought he sounded like he was doing a foreign language role play.

‘So, Matt, how are you?’ Stephen asked.

‘All right, thanks.’

‘How’s work?’

‘Pretty good. Quite busy.’

‘Did you get that big case you were trying for?’

‘I did, actually. Starts next month. Should pay the mortgage for a while. Especially if I win.’

Stephen laughed dutifully. ‘But you do usually win, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got a decent record,’ Matt said. ‘What about you, Stephen? Did you get that promotion you were applying for?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ Matt inclined his head. ‘Sorry to hear it.’

Matt took a square of loaf. They lapsed into silence.

Marcus took a long sip of his second glass of sherry. His left hand groped towards another slice of the Gruyère loaf. He had eaten half of it now. Probably rude to have any more. But he
was going to get pretty drunk if they didn’t start eating soon.

‘I didn’t see you at Rosie’s thirtieth, did I?’ Sarah asked.

‘No, I wasn’t there,’ Matt said.

‘It was a good party, wasn’t it, Stephen?’

‘Mmm.’ Stephen nodded.

‘Of course it must be a couple of years ago now.’

‘I think I was abroad,’ Matt said.

‘On holiday?’

‘No. For work.’

‘Well, you missed a fun night.’

‘So I hear.’

Marcus could not have been more relieved to hear the doorbell ring. Stephen leaped to his feet with equal gratitude.

‘I’ll get it.’

Marcus heard a female voice he didn’t recognize, and Stephen returned with a tall blonde woman, with a florid complexion, whom Marcus judged just the wrong side of statuesque. Stephen
introduced her as Charlotte.

Marcus girded himself for more small talk when Rosie appeared at the door, looking flushed and carrying a small bowl of olives.

‘Hello, everybody. Sorry I’ve abandoned you. Don’t worry – everything’s going fine with the food. Nearly there now. Have you all met? Oh good. Stephen, are you
getting Charlotte a drink . . . well done. Now, could you be in charge of these?’ She handed him the bowl.

Stephen handed Charlotte a glass of sherry, offered round the olives and returned to sit quietly in his corner seat.

‘Cheers,’ said Charlotte, the glass reaching her lips before she had finished the word. ‘What’s this?’ she asked after a generous draught.

‘Sherry.’

Charlotte shrugged and drank some more. ‘So, Rosie, how does this whole thing work?’ she asked.

‘You’ve seen
Come Dine with Me
on TV?’

‘Sure.’

‘It’s just like that. We all take turns at cooking, give each other marks out of ten, and someone wins.’

‘What, is there a cash prize?’

‘No, apart from that. It’s just for the fun of it. And the glory of course.’ She laughed briefly.

‘Right, but I have to cook for everyone?’

‘Yes – didn’t you read the e-mails?’

‘Because on TV there’re just the four of them. What are there, six of us here?’

‘And Barbara and Justin.’

‘We’re not doing eight evenings, are we? We’ll be sick of the sight of each other by then.’

Rosie grinned nervously. ‘No, the plan was that we do it in couples. So just four dinners, like on TV.’

‘Doesn’t seem very fair if I’m on my own and there are two of everyone else.’

Rosie’s anxious smile got wider. ‘Well, the thing was, you see, that I thought you might cook with Matt. I thought I said in the e-mail . . .’

‘Who’s Matt?’

Marcus took a quick gulp of sherry to hide his grin. A slow red blush was creeping up towards Rosie’s ears.

‘Stephen, I thought you said you’d introduced everyone?’

‘Well, I did, but . . .’

‘I’m Matt,’ said Matt.

He and Charlotte stared at each other appraisingly.

‘It’s a bit of a surprise for me as well,’ he told her. ‘But pleased to meet you anyway.’

Christ. What the hell was going on? Charlotte turned to stare at Rosie, who snatched up the bowl of olives again.

‘Shall we go and sit at the table?’ Rosie said. ‘I’m sure the others will be here in a minute.’

She was leading them out of the door before Charlotte could say, ‘Fucking hell, no, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

Charlotte fumed silently. Wasn’t there something a bit more humiliating Rosie could have tried? What about sticking her in a shop window with a neon sign saying: ‘Sad and Lonely
– Reduced to Clear’? Or having some business cards printed up with ‘Charlotte Wells – Getting More Desperate Every Day’? And why the fuck did Rosie think she’d
want to be set up anyway? Particularly with one of her husband’s arse-crushingly dull friends. Jesus, what are they going to do at the end of the evening? Lock her and Matt in a room with
some Barry White playing and a box of Milk Tray? Or is this going to be a car keys in a bowl situation?

Fuck.

There’s no way I’m going to get through four nights of this, Charlotte thought. Absolutely no way. How awkward can you get? Maybe I just won’t talk to him all evening, just to
let him know how things stand. But then I’ll have to talk to the others. Christ, I bet Stephen’s already talking about house prices. No, it’s home improvement now, isn’t it?
And that little git in the black-rimmed glasses – Marcus, was it? – I just know he’s going to start asking everyone’s opinion on the new Rimsky-Korsakov exhibition or some
such bollocks, and then, when you say you don’t know, act all smug and bore everyone to death about it. Look at him, you can just tell.

Christ, why did I agree to do this? Was I drunk? Well, I soon will be.

Charlotte reached for the nearest bottle sitting on the side table of the dining room, relieved to find it already open. She abandoned her sherry glass for something bigger.

‘That’s quite a decent New Zealand Pinot noir,’ Stephen said as she filled her glass towards the brim.