Hunched over the hob, Marcus did not hear Sarah come in.
‘Wow, it’s very humid in here, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Did you forget to take something off the boil?’
‘No, I fucking didn’t,’ he replied.
‘Don’t snap at me, please. What is it, then? Is it still on? There can’t be any water left in that pan.’
‘It’s the octopus. It’s tenderizing.
‘Oh, you went ahead with that, did you?’
‘Why the fuck wouldn’t I?’
Sarah took the lid off the pan and peered in. ‘Please stop swearing at me, Marcus.’
‘Well, where the hell did you think I was going at six o’clock this morning? Sainsbury’s?’
‘I don’t know. You remember that I went out this morning as well?’ Sarah had turned her back on the hob and was leaning against the worktop, arms folded across her chest.
‘What?’ Marcus drained the spinach water into a bowl and put the pan back on the hob.
‘Have you forgotten?’ Sarah asked through tight lips.
‘What? Oh your school. How was it?’
‘Nice of you to ask. It was amazingly luxurious. They had everything you could think of.’
‘Sounds good.’ Marcus put in more oil and chopped up some chilli.
Sarah waited.
Marcus added the chilli to the oil and stirred it carefully.
‘Is that it?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Is that your only comment? “Sounds good”? You’re not going to ask anything else?’
‘I don’t know. Do you want to tell me anything else?’
‘Not any more. I can tell you’re not interested.’
‘I’m cooking, for God’s sake. If you want me to hold your hand, we’ll have to talk about it later.’
Sarah turned to stare at Marcus’s profile. He added bulgar wheat to the chilli oil and stirred it round the pan to coat the grains. From the corner of his eye, he could see her looking at
him, her mouth clenched into a thin line. She obviously wanted him to say something, probably to apologize for something. He made sure every grain was covered.
Eventually, Sarah said: ‘So, we can talk about cooking, can we?’
‘If you want,’ Marcus replied, still not looking at her.
‘What are you making there?’
‘It’s the stuffed marrow. For the vegetarians. Assuming we still have any.’
‘It smells nice.’
Was this an attempt at rapprochement? Maybe he should say thank you. And perhaps ask her about this bloody school she had been wringing her hands about for weeks. It was obvious that all she
needed was a bit of reassurance. He could do that while stuffing the marrow.
Before he could say anything, Sarah added: ‘Will there be enough for me?’
‘What? No.’ Marcus hadn’t expected this. ‘Not unless whatshername decides to get stuck in to the stew.’
‘I think I’d prefer to eat vegetarian tonight.’
‘Well, that’s a vote of confidence in my main course.’
‘It’s nothing to do with you. I just think I need to be a bit healthier, that’s all.’
‘Great. Have some more carrots.’
‘I think in general we eat too much meat.’
‘So take a smaller portion. Eat less.’
‘No, I mean in general we cook more of it than is good for us.’
‘Then have salad tomorrow. But don’t come in here when I’m cooking something for you and say we eat too much of it.’
Marcus added the spinach water to the pan to simmer the bulgar. He turned to Sarah and gestured at the drawer she was leaning against, forcing her to step backwards while he opened it and took
out a knife.
‘I don’t eat that much anyway, Marcus. I won’t take much of the vegetarian. I’m sure there will still be enough for the others if . . .’
‘Christ! No!’
Sarah looked as if he had slapped her. ‘Why the hell are you being so protective of a dish you don’t even want to eat yourself?’
‘Look, Sarah, shall I show you?’ Marcus’s voice was taut. He yanked open the oven door and took out the baking tray. ‘Here are two halves of a marrow. They are what I am
going to serve to two vegetarians. Do you see? Do you want me to chop them up into bits and say, “Sorry your dinner’s mangled, but Sarah wanted to share”?’
‘Marcus, please don’t be so hostile.’
‘Then don’t come to me while I’m cooking you a six-course fucking banquet and say, “Actually, no, I’d prefer something else.”’
She stared at him. ‘Don’t be rude to me, Marcus.’
‘Well, don’t be stupid to me, then.’
‘Jesus, Marcus, what the hell is wrong with you?’
‘What’s wrong? I’m trying to cook four things at the same time. I’ve been boiling the octopus for four hours and it’s still as tender as a fucking traffic warden,
and now you’ve come in asking me to rip it all up and start again.’
He picked up the knife and began hacking up the spinach.
‘OK, Marcus.’ Her voice was that slow, deliberately placating tone that he found so enraging. ‘I’m hardly telling you to start again, am I? Now, I can tell you’re
in a bad mood—’
‘Well spotted!’
‘OK. I’m going to leave you alone, then.’
‘Yes, that’s right. Off you go and leave everything to me.’ He waved the knife in the direction of the door.
‘I asked you yesterday if you wanted me to cook a starter or a dessert, and you said no.’ The calming tone was gone now.
‘I said I didn’t want you fiddling with my menu plan. I didn’t say, “Yes, please swan about all afternoon while I’m slaving in the kitchen.”’
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to ruin your precious menu. Not by, you know, cooking any of it. What the hell do you expect me to do?’
Marcus jabbed his knife at the spinach. ‘You could cut this up. Shred some herbs. There’re still some more vegetables to chop.’
‘So I’m your bloody sous-chef, am I?’
‘No, you’re running the kitchen at the Savoy. Now either chop some vegetables or piss off.’
‘Don’t tell me to piss off, Marcus. And stop waving that knife around.’
Marcus slammed the knife down on the chopping board.
‘OK, I’ll stop. I’ll drop everything I’m doing and devote the rest of the afternoon to arguing with you. Is that what you want?’
‘For God’s sake, Marcus. Do you want me to help or not?’
‘Fine. I tell you what, you can make the romesco sauce.’
‘What’s romesco sauce?’
‘There’s a recipe in the book. It’s not very complicated. It’s mostly chopping.’
Sarah sighed wearily. ‘All right. Fine. I’ll make romesco sauce.’ She opened the drawer to look for a vegetable knife. ‘What’s it for?’
‘The asparagus.’
‘The asparagus?’ Sarah looked at the instructions for seeding peppers, roasting almonds and crushing garlic with a pestle and mortar. ‘Don’t you think you’re
overcomplicating things a bit?’
Marcus wheeled round with the knife in his hand.
‘Right. That’s it,’ he said. ‘Off you go.’ He pointed the knife at the door.
Sarah put her knife back in the drawer. ‘I can’t stay in here any longer anyway. I’ll come back when you’ve calmed down.’
‘Good! Go and lay the fucking table or something.’
Sarah slammed the drawer and stalked out. Marcus heard her muttering, not quite under her breath: ‘Just because you’ve alphabetized your cookbooks by country doesn’t mean
you’re Gordon Fucking Ramsay.’
He kicked the kitchen door shut quite hard.
At first, Rosie had tried to resist the urge to be judgemental. Now, as she stood on the porch outside Marcus and Sarah’s house, mentally tut-tutting at the state of the
recycling bins, she decided to embrace it.
‘Hello,’ she said, with a too-wide smile, as Sarah opened the door.
Stephen handed over the bottle of wine they’d brought and Sarah led them into the living room.
‘Marcus is still cooking,’ she said. ‘He’ll be out to say hello in a moment, I’m sure.’
‘Oh dear,’ Rosie said. ‘I hope he’s not running late. That can happen when you try to get too ambitious.’
Sarah grimaced.
Rosie immediately felt bad about being rude to her friend. She would have expected Sarah to take it in good spirits, though, knowing it wasn’t really aimed at her. Perhaps something was
wrong. They sat down in silence and Sarah offered them drinks. She certainly seemed a little on edge. There was a noticeable tension in the room.
Excellent, Rosie couldn’t help thinking. It could only mean that Marcus was finding things hard going in the kitchen.
There was a clatter and an oily sizzle from the next room and soon afterwards Marcus came into the room to join them. Rosie noticed the large beads of sweat below his receding hairline.
‘Hello,’ he said with too much jollity. ‘Great to see you both.’
Rosie felt compelled to stand up and kiss him on both cheeks. Stephen and Marcus shook hands.
‘Has Sarah offered you a drink?’ he asked.
‘I’m getting them now,’ Sarah snapped, before Rosie could reply.
‘What would you like?’ Marcus asked.
‘Glass of red wine, please,’ Stephen said.
Rosie asked: ‘Have you got any sherry?’
‘Of course,’ Marcus replied smugly. ‘Fino, Oloroso or – though it’s probably a bit early for this – Pedro Ximénez?’
‘You don’t have Manzanilla?’
‘No.’
‘Oh,’ Rosie said, forcing her glee to sound like disappointment. ‘I’ll have a glass of white wine, then.’
‘Sarah, will you—’
‘I’m getting them!’
Sarah left the room. The three of them grinned uneasily at each other. Rosie decided to follow up with her next gambit.
‘Are those shelves new?’ she asked.
‘Those? We got them a couple of months ago, actually. From this little workshop on Brick Lane.’
‘The Turning Lathe?’
‘Do you know it?’
‘Yes, we thought about getting a table from there a few years ago but thought that it probably wouldn’t take long to go out of style.’
Marcus got halfway through a strangled laugh.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’d better go and check on the amuse-gueules.’
Rosie enjoyed the flush of triumph even more than she thought she would.
In a way, it was sinking to Marcus’s level. In another way, it was great. Usually, Rosie prided herself on being a considerate guest, alert to the feelings of her hosts, and helping the
evening flow wherever she could. Being a good guest was an important part of life. But ever since her own dinner, with Marcus’s gleeful, petty niggling over everything, the temptation had
been there. Normally, she would never give in to it. But, sometimes, it was a form of social service, wasn’t it? That’s what she had decided. Showing Marcus what it was like to have
your hard work judged and sniped at by others. In that sense, what she was doing wasn’t small-minded revenge, it was education.
Leaving your guests on their own in the living room? She was going to have to deduct points for that. Leaving them without drinks? Several points.
Soon, Marcus came back, carrying a broad dish, on which was stacked up a fat pyramid of golden, crumbling spheres. Rosie tried hard not to be impressed.
‘Salt Cod Scotch Eggs,’ Marcus said, putting them down on the coffee table with a flourish.
‘Wow, they look delicious,’ Stephen said.
‘Do you know what’s happened to our drinks?’ Rosie added.
‘Sarah!’ Marcus yelled.
‘I’m coming!’ she shouted back from the next room.
Rosie felt her resolve weaken a little. Poor Sarah.
‘I was hoping to wait until everyone was here,’ Marcus said. ‘But if I’d left them in any longer they would have been overcooked.’
‘What a shame,’ Rosie said.
‘Please – try them.’
Rosie picked up one of the delicate balls. Fresh oil seeped out from between the breadcrumbs as her fingertips closed around it. She bit through it, feeling the hot snap of the crust give way to
the fresh sharpness of the salted cod, then the soothing softness of the egg, the flavours recombining in unexpected ways as she chewed. It was delicious.
‘Salty,’ she said.
Marcus grimaced. He left to chase Sarah on the drinks.
Stephen swallowed his egg. ‘These are great,’ he said, reaching for a second.
‘They are, aren’t they?’ Rosie had to agree. She ate another.
‘Do you think it would be rude to have a third?’
‘No, no – eat as many as you can before the others get here. I don’t want them to be too impressed.’
Stephen looked at her in surprise. He was about to say something, but then just shrugged and ate another egg.
The doorbell rang as Sarah returned with the drinks. She dumped them quickly on the table to go out and answer it.
‘Hi, Justin!’ Rosie jumped to her feet as he came into the living room. ‘Great to see you!’ She kissed him on both cheeks, hoping the overenthusiasm wasn’t too
obvious. ‘You’re looking really well.’
‘Hello,’ Justin said.
He looked terrible, actually. Subdued and very tired. Rosie hoped it hadn’t been a mistake getting him to come.
Marcus brought in a drink for him.
‘Justin,’ he said. ‘Please try a Salt Cod Scotch Egg.’
‘Scotch egg? Have they got meat in?’
‘No. Not these. They’ve got salt cod instead of pork, and I’ve actually used quails’ eggs to make the flavours a bit more delicate.’ Marcus picked up the dish and
offered the truncated pyramid to Justin.
‘No, thanks,’ he said.
‘Go on.’ Marcus thrust the plate towards him.
‘I don’t eat cod.’
‘No?’
‘I mean, apart from anything else,’ Justin said, ‘I couldn’t eat anything that meant I was contributing to overfishing. They’re emptying the seas with these
industrial trawlers, and species like cod will become extinct if we carry on letting them get away with it.’
Marcus put the tray back down on the coffee table.
‘But, you know, it’s just a personal choice. Don’t let me put you off.’
‘Right,’ Marcus said. ‘You could have mentioned this when we asked about dietary requirements.’
‘You know I am a vegetarian. And I think I did say that I don’t eat unsustainably.’
There was a silence. Stephen ate a fourth Scotch egg.
Even though this awkward pause was technically Marcus’s fault, and would have given Rosie another excuse to deduct points, she hated strained silences enough to feel she had to step
in.
‘So how are you doing, Justin?’ she asked, putting a sympathetic hand on his arm to guide him towards the sofa.