‘Well, exactly,’ Justin said. He sounded relieved that she agreed.
Barbara couldn’t think how to reply. Through the window she could see the two textile artists who rented space in the same studio as her, drinking wine and ignoring the pots. They were
laughing about something. Barbara thought it must be her, then told herself not to be so paranoid.
Linda, the German one, had brought a sample of her own work. Barbara could see the bag wedged protectively between her feet. She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered that Linda
actually thought the gallerists were coming.
Barbara hadn’t invited many people – it was pretty stupid to have a ‘launch’ when the pots had been in here for a month. She had only agreed to it because Marcello, who
liked to call himself Barbara’s agent, had said it was a good excuse to get Dieter Tunhelm there. She’d brought people to see the exhibition before, of course. Rosie had been in the
first week, and said it was marvellous. Barbara guessed that was pretty nice of her. But because of that, Barbara had felt obligated to say yes when Rosie had suggested this dinner thing. Barbara
had been a bit surprised when she’d asked. She didn’t even know Rosie very well – found her a little intense, actually. But she liked Sarah OK, and Justin had liked the idea of
showing off his cooking.
‘Honey?’ Justin said down the indistinct line.
‘Yeah?’
‘I’d better get on with finishing this . . .’
‘Sure.’ Barbara resisted asking how long it would take.
‘I’ll try to come as soon as I can . . . You know I’d come now, but with this dinner tonight I won’t get it done later, and there’s the conference on Monday, so
I’ve got to get it finished.’
‘Sure.’
‘I knew you’d understand. It will go on for a while yet, won’t it?’
Barbara looked back across the expanse of scuffed wooden floor inside the café. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
Barbara waited.
‘But look . . . um, if I don’t get it finished, shall I just see you at Matt’s?’
Barbara didn’t feel like protesting. ‘Sure,’ she said.
‘Thank you for understanding!’ Justin was suddenly enthusiastic. ‘I knew you would.’
Barbara didn’t feel angry. There was no point arguing anyway; you couldn’t win against starving children. And, actually, it would probably be easier if Justin didn’t show up.
Justin did have a lot of great points. He was nice, sweet, kind. She had been so attracted by all that when she had first arrived in London, the unthreatening stability of him. It would be
embarrassing, though, having his enthusiasm in that almost empty room. Barbara wasn’t sure if she would be more embarrassed by the café or by him.
‘We’ve got the whole weekend, haven’t we?’ Justin went on. ‘Sunday morning, you could give me a private tour.’
‘Sure.’
‘OK, great. Well, you know where Matt’s is, don’t you? I gave you the address. Just in case . . .’
‘See you, Justin.’
‘Bye, honey. I love you . . .’
Barbara ended the call and stared out at the street for a while. She had met Justin when she had gone with a friend from Goldsmiths to an Amnesty event that Justin had organized. She’d
been impressed by his zeal, his energetic earnestness, and she’d gone back the following week. Eventually she’d asked him out. He wasn’t like a lot of guys she knew in the States;
it wasn’t all just a way of getting her into bed, even if that meant pretending to be interested in her work. Yeah, say what you like about Justin, at least he didn’t fake an interest
in that.
A sharp rapping at the glass jerked Barbara out of her thoughts.
Linda, the German textile artist, was looking at her with a pained expression and gesturing for her to come inside. Barbara smiled weakly, looking past her, back into the café. She
noticed that someone had put a stack of flyers for a student play into one of her pots. Outrage flared and quickly subsided. It seemed somehow appropriate.
Barbara took a step back and appraised her pots from the street. They suddenly looked far more like lumps of clay than works of art. Inert, lifeless, ill-formed. They were an embarrassment.
Amateurish garbage. Was this really what she had spent five years doing?
Linda gave up on Barbara and went over to the bar for another plastic cup of Chilean red. Barbara decided this was a moment of clarity. She had lost her way as an artist. Something had to
change. She spun round and walked away from the café. Her jacket was still inside, but she didn’t look back.
Rosie’s mind once again went over the matter of the yuzu juice. She was thinking about getting hold of some and making the salad again, just to see what the difference
was. She was convinced now that the extra zing would have made all the difference, lifted the meal to another level. It definitely would have been worth extra points. Would it mean the difference
between winning and losing, though?
The problem was that there was no way of knowing how well the others had scored her. The question had been hovering there all week. She was worried now that when she saw them later on, she
wouldn’t be able to think of anything else. It was going to be torture.
‘Yes, yes!’ she said, to Stephen’s muffled shout.
Marcus would have been stingy with his score. She could tell that immediately. It perhaps wasn’t even so much to do with the food as a way of asserting his superiority,
or making it more likely that he would win. She knew he fancied himself as a foodie, but God, he had been annoying, hadn’t he? Did he think she hadn’t noticed the notebook? Well, that
would be repaid.
Was she being uncharitable? No. That was the point of the game, wasn’t it? To win. Was that why she had suggested it in the first place? The thought struck her. Was she just looking for a
socially acceptable way to prove she was a better cook than her friends? No, surely it was just a way to have some nice evenings, and make a bit of a change from a normal dinner party?
And even if it wasn’t, what was so wrong with that? Everyone had agreed to the rules.
Rosie ran her hand through her hair.
And Matt? Well, he probably wanted to win without trying, didn’t he? Gliding along like a swan while everyone else was paddling furiously underwater. That wasn’t
quite right, was it? But it would be just like Matt.
Take the menu for the night. Peruvian Ceviche. Well, that sounded great, didn’t it? Exotic, fresh, a hint of culinary danger with the raw fish. But, actually, you just needed to get some
very nice fish and squeeze some lemon on it. Easy, really. It would be tasty, though, that was the thing. Same with the main course. Navajo Roast Lamb. Navajo! How unexpected and intriguing. The
thing was, it was probably just roast lamb. With a few strange spices. All you had to do was buy the right things and set the timer on the oven. Was that cheating or was it just clever? That was
the thing with Matt – it was so hard to tell.
Still, Rosie was confident. The vegetarians would swing it for her. Marcus would be mean with everyone and Rosie herself was unlikely to give Matt a better score than he had given her. So it
would come down to Justin and Barbara. They had really enjoyed the last meal. And then there was Charlotte. Had she ever actually cooked anything? Rosie had never seen any evidence that her
culinary skills went any further than adjusting the settings on the microwave. If she was making something tonight, it would be the NY Espresso Chocolate Cake. Very hard to get chocolate cake
wrong, but maybe Charlotte could manage it.
‘Mmmmm!’ she said.
That was mean. There was no reason to think Charlotte was a bad cook, was there? True, Rosie had never eaten a meal prepared by her, but then most of their socializing had been
done after work. She could actually be quite good.
Why hadn’t she mentioned Matt to Charlotte before last week? In her head, it had seemed much less of a set-up. Just because two people were single, it didn’t mean they couldn’t
have dinner together, did it? With six other people there!
Yes, all right, it was the cooking together. That did look like a date. But there was nothing to be done about it. The rules were the rules. Both of them were adult enough to see that,
surely?
Still, she should have asked them properly. Charlotte, particularly. She always got very defensive about the suggestion of set-ups, as if they were an insult to her pride, a sign that people
thought she should be the object of pity. Rosie couldn’t see it. It was just a practical way of looking for a partner, wasn’t it?
Maybe she should have invited Mike and Tony. Things would have been much more relaxed. There wouldn’t have been the tension with Charlotte, and now Stephen was upset at suddenly
discovering what had happened with her and Matt all those years ago.
Of course she felt guilty about not telling him, but it hadn’t seemed a big thing at the time. Stephen had said she should have told him then, but she knew he’d have been much
angrier ten years ago. Yes, he was upset, but he’d get used to it, wouldn’t he? And then there would be nothing more to hide.
Rosie arched her back slightly as she stretched out her arms.
Best not think about that now, though. She wondered again where the tensions with Charlotte had come from. Things hadn’t been quite right between them at work for a
while, and then there had been that weird argument last week. When had it all started? Of course, Rosie had gone out less when she came back from maternity leave. What did Charlotte expect? She had
a child to look after. Then there had been all the jokes about going part-time. Charlotte made digs about how Rosie wasn’t trying any more. It did get to her, and maybe that was why she had
fought back the other night.
But that didn’t mean Charlotte was wrong. Rosie came home worrying about work much less these days. Which was a good thing in many ways, but it wasn’t because she had suddenly
mastered her job. More that problems didn’t seem so important, or she knew that if she wasn’t there the next day, they’d usually find a way to sort it out.
It wasn’t that she was worrying about Jonathan instead. He was a delight at the moment, sailing through teething and on the cusp of his first words. Perhaps it was tranquillity, then.
Was that it? Was she slowly going to drift away from work and become a full-time mum, watching professional life recede slowly into the distance, never to be seen from close-up again?
Instinctively, she found the idea was horrible. How boring would it be? How boring would she become, with nothing to talk about but her children? But then, the battles of office life didn’t
seem worth winning any more. Rosie had lost the stomach for them.
Maybe that’s what infuriated Charlotte. They used to spend quite a lot of time bitching about the various bosses and, after a few glasses of wine, some of their colleagues as well. They
still did it, sometimes, the first one anyway, but Rosie’s heart wasn’t in it. Did that make her a nicer person? Or just a more boring one?
Rosie ran her hands absent-mindedly up Stephen’s back.
What would Stephen say if she gave up work entirely? Probably something about money. But would he like the idea that she was going to devote herself to the family? Or would he
panic that she was going to become a dull housewife? Rosie realized she had no idea. Should she ask him?
Stephen pulled his weight off her and rolled on to his side, panting slightly.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, pulling away the duvet to cool himself down.
‘Yes, of course.’ Rosie reached forward to stroke his hair. She noticed that it was thinning slightly at the back of his head.
‘You didn’t seem very into it.’
‘Of course I was!’
‘Really?’
‘I’m sorry, darling.’ Rosie smoothed down a stray lick of hair against his forehead. It stuck to the film of sweat on his skin. ‘I suppose I might have been a bit
distracted.’
Who the hell were these people? Charlotte barged between two laden trolleys being rolled pensively down the cheese aisle. Why were there so many of them? Who does their
shopping on a Friday night? Don’t they have anything better to do? Jesus, get out of the way!
Charlotte pushed round a fat man in a blue tracksuit who was staring thoughtfully up at the wall of butter. Can’t you see some people are in a hurry, she thought. How can anyone take that
long to decide? It’s just butter! Is this your idea of a night out? Charlotte snatched up a block without looking at the label and threw it into her trolley.
Fuck, was that the time? How could it be ten past seven already? Christ, this was going to be tight. Charlotte looked at the printout she had made minutes before leaving the office. Flour next.
Where the hell was that? Why couldn’t they put all the cake ingredients next to each other?
Charlotte moved quickly down the end aisle of the supermarket, barging roughly past a woman comforting a screaming toddler, and swerving to avoid knocking over an old lady.
It wasn’t supposed to be this rushed. Charlotte had worked out that if she arrived at Matt’s by six thirty there would be plenty of time to prepare the cake, and she could put it in
the oven as soon as the main course came out. Shopping wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes so, really, there was nothing wrong with sneaking in a quick drink after work.
The second had been the problem – it quickly led to a third. So here she was, standing in Tesco fifteen minutes before she was meant to be serving dinner, staring at fifteen different
types of flour. She looked at her list. She had written ‘flour’. Plain, self-raising, sourdough, brown or spelt flour? What the hell was the difference? Why was there always so much
fucking choice about tiny little things like this? Why didn’t they just write on the packet which one you used for what?
Charlotte grabbed the cheapest packet and threw it into the trolley. Sod it. What was next? She looked at the list. Sugar. That was probably around here somewhere. Charlotte wheeled her trolley
to the end of the aisle, looking up at the boards hanging from the ceiling. There was no mention of sugar. An attendant in a blue tunic directed her to Aisle 6, and Charlotte trudged back half the
length of the supermarket swearing, mostly under her breath, at the shoppers in her way.