Rosie nodded very seriously.
‘And then, because it’s a decorative art form that’s meant to be about beauty . . . what happens to that? Does it become beautiful for that reason? Was it always beautiful? I
don’t know . . . can it be beautiful and unsettling because it’s beautiful? Does that make sense?’
‘Yes, sort of,’ Rosie said. ‘It must be very meaningful anyway.’
Barbara snatched it back. ‘Let’s just—’
‘And what about this one here?’
Barbara stared at it. ‘That one is called “The Persistence of the Past in the Minds of the Elderly”.’
‘I see.’ Rosie looked doubtfully at the lumpy vase gaudily painted with overlapping red and yellow stripes. ‘It’s very bright, isn’t it?’
‘It’s meant to show how certain primary-coloured early memories are embedded in our minds so strongly that they can never fade. Even if everything else is gone and they start to blur
into each other in old age.’
‘Oh.’ Rosie peered closer. ‘Very clever. And this?’
‘Jesus, don’t make me go through them all . . .’
‘Darling,’ Rosie said as Stephen came back into the room. ‘Barbara is just showing me her pots. Come and have a look.’
‘No, please, I can’t . . .’
‘Great!’ Stephen said with forced jollity. ‘I’ve heard so much about them. It’s nice to finally see for myself. What’s that one? With the purple knobbly
bits.’
Barbara’s voice was flat and empty as she replied: ‘That one’s about my sister’s wedding.’
Marcus entered the living room pretty confident of what he was going to find, so he couldn’t help smiling to himself when he saw the big African mask propped in the
corner. Perfect. He ticked off the vibrant fabrics on the wall, the array of appropriately ethnic knick-knacks on the bookshelf.
And was that . . . Yes, it was! A beanbag! It sat bunched on the floor underneath a poster advertising the Dalai Lama’s autobiography. Marcus hadn’t seen a beanbag in years. It was
even better than he had hoped. On his way over, he was surprised to find he was actually looking forward to the evening, so certain was he of the opportunities for condescension.
‘What a very striking mask,’ he said to Justin in a warm and patronizing tone.
Justin said, ‘Thanks. I’d better get on with the salad,’ and hurried back to the kitchen.
Rosie and Stephen were crouched on the floor with Barbara and an array of her pots. Marcus lost some of his amused certainty as he looked at them. The pots unsettled him. Yes, they were crude
and childlike, but that was the point, surely?
Could they actually be good? Marcus didn’t want to risk mocking them if there was any chance they might be proper art. That could bring real humiliation.
‘Barbara, these are lovely!’ Sarah said. ‘Can I have a look?’
‘I’m just putting them away.’
‘Oh go on!’
Barbara finished stacking the box and stood up.
Rosie handed back the one she had been looking at. ‘Barbara was just telling us that this one was inspired by a bout of chickenpox she had as a child.’
Oh come on! That had to be ridiculous, didn’t it? Marcus was all ready to say something when Barbara turned and looked him in the eye. The comment withered on his tongue. He found Barbara
unsettling. It didn’t help that she was so attractive. Marcus always found beautiful women difficult, unless he could establish early on that they were willing to defer to his intelligence.
But it wasn’t just that. Barbara was unreadable, and Marcus couldn’t tell if she didn’t understand his jibes, or had somehow found a higher level from which to look down on
him.
Sarah protested some more as Barbara carried the box away, but then the doorbell went and Justin said they were ready to eat.
Charlotte and Matt arrived within minutes of each other, but obviously not together. Marcus watched as they conspicuously avoided looking at each other. That matchmaking attempt certainly
hadn’t worked. Served Rosie right. Charlotte sat down on a folding chair on the other side of the room to Matt, well out of his eyeline and with everyone else in between them. Clearly,
nothing happening there.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ Justin said, putting a bottle of wine and a stack of tumblers down on the coffee table. ‘I know it’s not elegant, but we haven’t got much
space, so I hope no one minds eating off their knees. Please, sit down where you can.’
Marcus scrambled for one of the remaining chairs. It was rigid and uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to end up on the beanbag. Neither did anyone else, it seemed. In the end, Barbara
curled herself up on it, leaning back against the bookcase.
‘Well, this is cosy, isn’t it?’ Marcus said as Rosie started handing round wine from the bottle Justin had brought out. ‘It’s just like being a student
again.’
He took a sip of wine. ‘Oooh! It really is like being a student again.’
‘Marcus!’ Sarah exclaimed.
‘No, it’s disgusting, isn’t it?’ Barbara said with sudden force. ‘Justin buys it because it’s Fairtrade. He hasn’t noticed that it tastes like
shit.’
There was a shocked silence.
‘I don’t know,’ Rosie said carefully. ‘It’s not that bad. Just . . . unusual.’
‘It’ll do the job,’ Charlotte said. ‘Can I have a top-up?’
Justin came back with a plate in each hand. He signalled to Barbara to help bring in the rest, but she ignored him. Rosie jumped up and went to fetch them from the kitchen.
They settled down in uneasy silence.
‘Justin,’ Sarah said as they began eating, ‘what was the name of that Peruvian writer you were telling me about last time?’
‘Peruvian?’ He looked blank. ‘Oh, you mean Bernardo Hidalgo? He’s Bolivian.’
‘Oh! How embarrassing!’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘But you were really raving about that book. What was it called?’
‘
Ten Thousand Times Six.
It is brilliant.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s hard to say, exactly. Some of it’s set in pre-revolutionary Chile, but then part of it is about a research professor at a Canadian university, and then there’s a
bit in a favela in Rio de Janeiro.’
‘Right.’ Sarah sounded a little bit doubtful.
‘I’m not explaining it very well, but it’s fantastic. Has anyone else read it?’ Justin looked expectantly round the room.
‘Is that the one that’s six hundred pages?’ Rosie asked.
‘Yes, I suppose it is quite long, but it’s really worthwhile. Have you read it?’
‘Well, my book club was thinking about it. But there’s a rule against books with more than three hundred pages. So we didn’t, in the end.’
‘Well, it sounds great,’ Sarah said. ‘I’ll have to note down the name so I don’t forget again.’
‘You can borrow it if you like.’
‘Thanks, that would be great.’
Marcus was finding this difficult to take. He hadn’t read the book either, but he had instantly taken a dislike to it. So he asked: ‘Has anyone read the new one by Bilaj
Tunek?’
There was a gratifying silence.
‘It’s very good,’ Marcus said. He’d read only the back cover, but felt sure that a Turko-Bulgarian Nobel Prize winner beat a boring South American. ‘I’d
definitely recommend it. Lyrical, without ever losing sight of reality.’ That was what that quote from the
Guardian
had said, wasn’t it?
‘What about the new Anthony Hargrave?’ Rosie asked. ‘Has anyone read that?’
‘The one about child abuse?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes. It was very harrowing.’
‘God, there are so many books I need to get round to reading!’ Sarah said. ‘It won all those prizes, didn’t it?’
Marcus felt he should say something. ‘Hargrave’s a total charlatan,’ he declared.
‘No, it’s very good,’ Rosie said. ‘But it is a bit . . . well, it’s hard going.’
‘Is that the one they’re making a film of?’ Matt asked.
‘Yes, that’s right!’ Rosie agreed. ‘It’s going to have . . . oh, what’s his name? The one that was in
The Tudors
?’
‘Oh he’s hot!’ Charlotte exclaimed. ‘I’ll see it if he’s in it! Even if it is about child molesters.’
‘No, actually, maybe it’s not him.’ Rosie hesitated. ‘Maybe I mean the one from that film about Anne Boleyn . . .’
‘Not so hot.’
‘Who’s he?’ Sarah asked.
‘Was he the one in
The Green Lantern
?’ Matt said.
‘He doesn’t sound very hot.’
‘Hey, has anyone seen
Inception
?’ Rosie asked. ‘We got sent it on DVD this week, and it was totally incomprehensible.’
‘I haven’t seen it,’ Justin said.
‘It’s all about trying to break into someone’s dreams,’ Sarah said. ‘Except that you can get stuck in them and then they can hack into yours. No, wait . . . Is that
right?’
‘I thought it was that you die if someone wakes you up while you’re in someone else’s dream,’ Rosie said.
Marcus felt compelled to put them right. ‘It’s all about the uncertainty of identity,’ he said. ‘All of Christopher Nolan’s films are. If you can’t control
your subconscious, are you really you any more? What is “you” anyway?’
‘What a load of bollocks,’ Charlotte said.
‘Well, in the end we decided to give up and watch
The Apprentice
instead,’ Rosie said.
Marcus retired sullenly from the conversation. He couldn’t contribute to this. How had the conversation slipped so quickly from translated fiction to reality TV? But the pause allowed him
to appraise the food for the first time. He had eaten almost half of his aubergine cheesecake without really tasting it. Not a good sign.
The idea was a good one, he had to admit. But he was relieved to discover that the dish didn’t live up to its name. The roast aubergine was fine, sure, if a bit monotonous. Yes, the
dusting of herbs was all well and good, but the cheesy filling was just bland. Justin wasn’t putting on much of an advert for a vegetarian diet.
When Justin asked if anyone wanted seconds, there was a long pause. Marcus savoured it.
‘Rosie?’ Justin asked. ‘Would you like any more?’
‘It was gorgeous, really lovely,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think I could.’
Marcus could tell this was insincere; she was clearly being overeffusive because she hadn’t thought of anything good to say about it before.
Justin went round the room, but everyone declined a second helping.
‘I really couldn’t,’ Marcus said happily. ‘It was so . . . filling.’
‘Are you all sure? There’s only a little bit left?’
‘It was too heavy, Justin,’ Barbara said. ‘No one wants any.’
‘Right, well, I can have it for lunch tomorrow.’ The forced lightness of Justin’s tone could not disguise the look of surprise on his face. ‘Now, does everyone mind
giving me their plates? I need to wash them up for the main course.’
‘We can keep the same plates,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s no trouble.’
‘The only thing is,’ Marcus said, forcing down a smirk, ‘I’ve still got quite a lot of the cheesecake left on mine.’
‘Yeah, I couldn’t finish it either,’ Barbara said, putting her plate down slightly out of Justin’s reach. ‘It wasn’t very good.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Marcus said carefully. He didn’t quite know where this was going. ‘It was certainly an interesting idea, so maybe it was the execution that
was wrong.’
‘Marcus . . .’ Sarah warned.
‘Perhaps it was just over-reliant on seasoning for flavour.’
‘You mean it didn’t taste of very much,’ Barbara said.
‘I didn’t say that.’ Marcus was pleased by the very slight emphasis he put on the word ‘say’.
‘No, it was bland, Justin,’ Barbara said. ‘Would it have killed you to put some better herbs in?’
‘Well, I’ll know for next time, won’t I?’ Justin’s voice was strained. He was staring straight at Barbara, but she wasn’t looking at him now, gazing down
instead at a worn patch on the carpet.
‘Yeah. Next time,’ she said faintly.
Marcus felt uneasy. He couldn’t work out what was going on, and it was unnerving him. Normally, he would have written it off as classic host’s self-criticism, designed to elicit more
praise. But, well, it wasn’t herself Barbara was criticizing, was it?
‘Do you want any help clearing up?’ Rosie asked.
‘It’s OK,’ Justin said.
‘No, go on, I’ll stack the dirty plates.’
Justin let Rosie pile up half the dishes and follow him into the kitchen.
Sarah got to her feet as well. ‘Can I help with the washing up?’
The room fell quiet without them. The sounds of running water and clattering crockery were very distinct.
Marcus was still unsure what was going on. Maybe Sarah was trying to find out. Usually, people conspired to keep his criticism veiled: they would pretend he wasn’t being rude, and he would
pretend they weren’t taking offence. But he had a game plan, and he thought he might as well stick to it. When Justin came back in with a bowl of salad, he asked: ‘So, Justin, what are
we having for the main course?’
‘Chickpea, Swiss Chard and Tamarind Stew,’ Justin replied, as Marcus hoped he would.
‘Tamarind?’ he said in feigned surprise. ‘You had that at Rosie’s, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, we did,’ Justin said.
‘I thought so. You must be a big fan, to serve it again.’
‘I like it, yes.’
‘He puts it in fucking everything!’ The violence of Barbara’s reply knocked the room into silence again. Marcus didn’t feel like breaking it.
Then Charlotte said: ‘If only he’d do that with meat.’
Justin went back to the kitchen without reacting. After staring intently out of the window for a while, Barbara stood up and picked her way between the glasses on the floor. She went out into
the hall and disappeared.
A few seconds later the front door slammed. It was pulled shut with such force Marcus could feel the vibrations through his hard plastic chair. Well, he thought with a certain shocked
satisfaction, I don’t think we’ve got much to fear from tonight’s entertainment.
What was that all about, Charlotte wondered without really being interested in the answer. Barbara had always struck her as a bit of a moody cow. Probably she thought of it as
being enigmatic and soulful, but Charlotte knew the type from school: willowy, manipulative girls who used their pretty thinness as an excuse to behave as self-indulgently as they wanted.
She’d probably decided she was allergic to cumin or something. Well, screw her. Charlotte wasn’t going to pretend to care. She was pretty sure that if everyone ignored her, Barbara
would slink back later on.