Leftovers (19 page)

Three couples and me. I probably should have roped in a mate. Rebecca’s out with the barman though, and I’m still pissed off with Dalia. All my single male friends are a bit useless nowadays: since his divorce Josh spends his weekends training for marathons. I think he’s trying to run away from himself. Toby’s just signed up to AA. He’s not even an alcoholic – not by my standards anyway – but apparently the meetings are very social and there are loads of hot women there. Maybe I should have invited Sam. It would be nice to have him round again one of these days. We used to hang out more when I first joined NMN, but then he and Jake didn’t really get on.

This morning started well: I spied Caspar at around 10 a.m., loading up the Range Rover with a large overnight bag and the girlfriend. The prospect of a mini-break – spending the entire weekend having fun somewhere lovely with someone I fancy – is such a remote one at this point. Nonetheless, maybe tomorrow might be the start of something with Seb. Or maybe next week I’ll get a date with Jeff. Regardless of any of that, I’ve had a very happy, solitary, peaceful day of cooking and pottering. I have been content.

I’ve made two lasagnes. If you’re going to put the work into one you might as well do two – you can always freeze it. I’ve gone all out and used three cheeses. I’m trying to save money for The Great Escape, and the price of cheese these days is ridiculous. But cheese matters, and I can’t bring myself to scrimp on food like this. I found a chunk of gruyere at the back of the fridge that was totally fine (yes, Dalia, totally fine). And I already had parmesan. So it just meant buying mozzarella. How could I possibly deprive my friends of the joys of stringy melted cheese?

These are five-layer lasagnes. Apparently there’s an incredible thousand-layer lasagne, though how anyone could have the patience to make that I don’t know. And who’d have a big enough mouth to eat it? No, five layers is plenty. Pasta, meat sauce, béchamel, cheese, and again, and again, and again, and again. Five layers is the point where the preparation stops being meditative and satisfying and starts being hard work. I don’t want to resent my supper.

But looking at my guests now, sitting round the table relaxing back into their seats, I think it was worth all the effort. We have polished off the first lasagne, and are trimming inches at a time from the back-up lasagne. Everyone has drunk a lot and everyone is merry.

‘We loved the fourth series of
The Wire
,’ says Andrew.

‘We loved that, but did you see
Romanza Criminale
?’ says Polly.

‘Amazing, we thought,’ says Dave.

‘We just don’t understand why everyone raves about
Borgen
,’ says Sean.

‘Really? We thought it was amazing. Well, season one is brilliant, two wasn’t quite as good,’ says Polly, and Dave nods in agreement. ‘Oooh, and have you seen
Wallander
?’

‘We love it! We’ve just started one of the books,’ says Franny.

How do two people read one book at the same time? I can picture Frandrew on a park bench, sharing headphones on one iPod – that’s sweet, romantic. But reading a book together?

‘Who writes those again?’ says Andrew.

‘Jo Nesbo does
Wallander
,’ says Sean.

‘It’s Henning Mankell,’ says Debbie, wearily.

‘We love that Scandi crime stuff,’ says Sean, ignoring her. ‘We just watched
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
on Netflix, the remake. Pretty violent stuff …’

‘We couldn’t get past the first fifty pages of the book,’ says Polly. ‘All those street names … and every five minutes he’s having coffee, having a sandwich …’

‘I know what you mean,’ I say. I am the only I. It’s my own fault for inviting three couples for a meal. But if I don’t invite my friends-in-couples round as couples, I don’t get to see half of them. And they rarely invite you back for couples get-togethers; it makes for odd gooseberry-flavoured dinners. Still, why can’t one of them, just once, express an opinion on a box-set or a book that is entirely their own?
We
do this and
we
think that and
we
go here and
we
like there … I’m sure they’re not doing it on purpose but I swear, if one of them wees in front of me again …

Polly must sense something as she changes the subject to something she thinks will cheer me up.

‘Hey Suze, we’re going to The Alford Arms in a couple of weeks!’ she says.

‘We went there a couple of months ago, didn’t we?’ says Andrew.

‘We had the lamb,’ says Franny.

‘We had it too, gosh, that was years ago …’ I say, remembering that Jake and I had been there when we first started dating. That lamb was delicious – seven-hour slow-roast shoulder, with buttery mash. Franny looks at me strangely. Ah, but of course. She wasn’t around when I was with Jake; she only knows me as the perpetually love-thwarted Aniston of the group. She doesn’t know that once upon a time
I
was a
we
.

‘Didn’t we go there for your birthday a few years ago?’ says Sean to Debbie.

Debbie nods and takes a large gulp of wine. I remember her telling me that Sean had picked a fight with the waiter over the cheeseboard and then sulked for three days.

‘We thought the food was good but the service was fucking shocking,’ he says. Debbie says nothing. It seems we are not amused.

‘We thought we’d leave Maisie with Mum overnight, go for a nice long country walk, get really pissed,’ says Polly. ‘I’m so jealous of you, Suze, you can just do what you want, when you want. You never have to think about babysitters.’

‘Speaking of which,’ says Dave, ‘we’d better go, sweetheart – we said we’d be back by midnight.’

‘We had a great time,’ says Polly. ‘Amazing food, as always.’

‘We must have you over soon,’ says Debbie.

‘We had such a great night,’ says Andrew.

‘We did too,’ I say.

Memory’s a bitch; those little details that hijack you out of nowhere.

That day Jake and I went to The Alford Arms: on the train home I’d fallen asleep and when I woke Jake had been staring at me, smiling, like he was keeping a secret. Back in the days before he started keeping secrets.

A week later he went to buy furniture for his new flat. I remember him calling me from a bathroom shop in Islington, summoning me to meet him in the rolltop bath at the back of the store, the one with the cast iron feet. We’d kept our clothes on, but we’d had a good session in that bath before the poor manager, coughing loudly as he approached, asked if we needed any help.

Two weeks after, Jake had phoned me, drunkenly, at 2 a.m. on a Saturday night out with the lads to tell me that he thought about me all the time, and that I had to promise not to take the piss, but that he thought I was made of magic. And the following day turning up sheepishly with a hangover and a bunch of orange tulips from Columbia Road to say that he didn’t know where on earth ‘made of magic’ had come from, but he stood by it nonetheless.

And eight months later, a surprise mini-break to Ludlow for our anniversary, to the cosiest little hotel in the world. They had the best breakfasts ever – they made their own jams, breads, even their own butter. The best breakfasts and the best bed. I really hope he hasn’t taken her there.

My whole life spent, living in the past.

It has been years since I’ve been on a real date, as opposed to an in-my-head-only Jeff date. I have to call Rebecca up and disturb her while she’s on some idyllic walk along the Thames with Luke Barman.

‘Subecka speaking,’ she says, a giggle in her voice as she picks up the phone.

‘I need help! I’m meeting that guy from The Flask tonight. At Koko’s of all places. What do I wear?’ The last time I went to Koko’s was in 1988, when it was still called The Camden Palace, and I was dressed like all four of The Bangles.

‘I thought he was taking you for dinner?’ she says.

‘He was, but then he said he had tickets for a gig so we’re doing that and then food.’ A nightclub, on a Sunday night … I’m too old for this.

‘Heels, jeans, low-cut top,’ she says. ‘Just make sure there’s cleavage. My over-arching impression of him was that he was staring at your chest.’

‘Really? I don’t remember that at all,’ I say, thinking
What do I remember?
He was good looking. He liked roast beef sandwiches, crisps on the side. He was confident. He was a bit annoying, that comment about women wanting babies, a little bit boorish maybe … but I probably over-reacted, I’d had a few. Anyway, I don’t feel too nervous about this date. The fact is I have been focusing most of my mental energy on Jeff, with some lingering thoughts of Jake, so I have not invested
that
much hope in tonight. Probably for the best.

As I walk towards the venue I have a small smile on my face, rather than the expression which I should adopt – one of neutrality. This means that when I do catch sight of Seb it is Munch-screamingly obvious that I am disappointed, whereas had I worn a straight line instead of a smile I could have passed off my frown as confusion over which entrance we were meeting at. It’s that Justin Timberlake knitted beanie hat. Absolutely fine if you are Justin Timberlake or skiing fast. But Seb is neither. It’s not me being fussy about clothes. It’s that a handsome man like this, standing in a hat like this, screams male vanity. It is so precisely arranged to come down
just so
over his right cheekbone that it can only be the result of five minutes of positioning work in front of a mirror. A man who spends that long on his hat does not spend enough time thinking about other things – he will be arrogant, shallow and probably immature. I know Rebecca would tell me not to read so much into a hat – it is only a hat – but she’d be wrong.

We’ve been in the club for twenty minutes; it’s dark and it smells sickly – of Red Bull, stale fags and staler sweat. But so far Seb and I have been getting on fine. I’m not convinced I fancy him, though he is definitely good looking and quite funny. He’s been telling me about his crazy week at work, and how he narrowly escaped being fired after he accidentally emailed his client a copy of a rude email
about
the client. He’s been a little too touchy-feely, but that might just be me being over-sensitive. I mean, I guess this
is
a date: he’s flirting, that’s what you do on dates.

He’s gone to the bar for a second round and I’m standing waiting on the balcony overlooking the stage, my feet sticking slightly to the manky floor. I am so the oldest one here. No one has lines on their forehead, no crow’s feet, no bags. Everyone is young and everyone looks great and everyone looks sort of the same. I feel like the odd one out in a Nokia ad.

A skinny kid over to my left is staring at me – he can’t be much older than twenty. He’s wearing a green t-shirt with a picture of a horse on, which says ‘Ketamine – just say neigh!’ He grins at me – I smile awkwardly back – and this encourages him to sway over.

‘Dyoowah-sah dirtykittee?’ he says, beaming at me with slightly glazed eyes.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Sah dirty kitty?’

Erm. No? Maybe? ‘Did you say dirty kitty?’

In his hand he holds a small plastic tube that looks like a party popper. He unscrews the lid and removes a spatula with some grainy yellow-white powder piled on it.

‘Dirty kitty!’ he says, his face stretching shiny and tight like a balloon.

‘Ah! Do you mean Meow Meow?’ I say, suddenly very excited and pleased with myself. I’ve just deciphered a cryptic crossword clue – something I have never done in real life. Kitty = code for Meow. I read
Metro
, I am informed about kids today and their drugs of choice.

The boy nods and gurns, offering me the mini spatula. If I’m going to end up looking anything like him I’m going to have to decline his kind offer. I look over and see Seb still waiting at the bar, tapping his head along to Dizzee Rascal.

‘Gwon …’ the boy mumbles, shoving his spatula towards my nostril.

‘No, honestly, thanks, I don’t … my nose is a bit bunged up anyway,’ I say.

‘Dyo wansuh MD? Gotta 3.5 bomb?’ He pats himself down, trying to find his pockets.

Hmm. MD … 3.5 bomb … Ministry of Defence? How many letters? Give us a clue.

‘MD …?’

‘MD. MDMA,’ he says. Oooh, it feels like charades at Christmas, but with class As instead of
The Sound of Music
.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say, ‘but I’m with someone.’ I point at Seb. ‘And I’m just, I’m not in the market. Thank you very much though, that’s very generous.’

The boy shrugs and stumbles off. I don’t mind being exposed to all this youth culture, but there’s only so much I can take. Why couldn’t we have just gone to a gastropub like Seb originally suggested? Besides, I’m properly hungry now. I could do with a seat, a shepherd’s pie and a nice glass of red.

Seb returns with the drinks and I suggest we move to the seated area upstairs.

‘Like your thinking, cosy up there,’ he says.

We sit in a red plastic booth and he puts his feet on the drinks table in front of us, so that his right knee rests against mine. It would seem churlish to move my leg – he’s just being flirty; I should relax and see where this goes.

‘Do you date much?’ he says, resting his hand on my thigh, but again so casually that to flick it off would seem an over-reaction.

If I say no it will sound like nobody wants to go out with me, so I shrug. ‘How about you?’

‘I’ve had like three serious relationships in the last ten years, and then bits and pieces.’

‘When were you last seeing someone?’ I say.

‘I was living with someone last year but we broke up and I’ve just been having fun since. But I always seem to be the one who ends up having to finish the relationship.’

‘You’ve never been dumped?’ I say.

‘Never.’

‘That’s not normal, is it? Surely when you were fourteen someone dumped you?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘And nowadays it’s hard. Girls all seem to want to settle down with me for some reason, and I’m not looking for that at this point in my life,’ he says looking pained. The hat! I knew it! Full of himself, arrogant idiot.