The Things We Do to Our Friends(90)
This setup, the decorum, is something well practiced over the years, so now in our small, rather elite circle of friends I have no doubt what they say about me when I’m not there: “Clare, she’s a fantastic cook,” or “Always such a fun night at Clare’s house.”
If you asked them more about me, where I’m from, what I do for work, they’d tip their heads and say, “Oh, I’m not sure about that, she keeps herself to herself. Maybe something in finance.”
Even if they do ask me outright, I’ll often say, “It’s so boring, you must tell me about that project you’re working on. It sounds so interesting, but I do remember your boss was a total micromanager…” Because one of the things I learned from Tabitha is that most people love speaking about themselves. Those who don’t, who want to know more about me, usually don’t last too long as friends, and I’m able to shed them with relative ease.
Beside me is my husband, the advocate for the expensive speaker system, whose hand rests firmly on mine. In front of me, friends from his work. The wife sits with her back to the fire, her shoes kicked off as she luxuriates in the heat. I can hear her congratulating me on my tarte Tatin, and I thank her and offer her another slice, even though she hasn’t finished the first, extricating myself from my husband’s grip as I plan to go and fetch coffee and whiskies. In essence, he prefers to keep it traditional in terms of what’s served when, and I’m happy to cater to his preferences. Throwing a dinner party like this is like sleepwalking for me, and I’ll go through the motions as many times as I need to.
“Did you say you made it yourself?” She licks her lips and places her spoon on the side of the plate to show she’s finished. There is one tiny slither of the pastry left on her plate, a lank little slice where the apple has flopped away from the crust. She’s pushed it to one side, as though it offends her. A smear of crème anglaise is set in a thin film. For some reason, this niggles at me irrationally, and I want to pick up the plate and shove it under her mouth, pushing her face into it and forcing her to eat the last bit. I want to tell her there’s one mouthful left and who doesn’t eat the final morsel from their dessert to save the hostess from scraping it into the bin? But I don’t.
“I did, I’m so glad you liked it. It’s effortless to make, a real cheat’s recipe!” I say pleasantly.
“I love it, really well done, you, and thanks so much for having us around,” she responds.
“It’s the least I can do.” I catch my reflection in the window across the room. There is a fleeting smile that just lifts from the mouth and touches my cheeks to show the slightest hint of gracious humor.
My husband looks up at me appreciatively, the skin around his temples crinkling. When it comes to the couple across from us, I don’t know them well enough to be sarcastic or to put down my husband in front of them, not that it’s something I do so much—he seems to prefer a quiet deference anyway. Instead, I’m sincere and appreciative. We’ve only been married just over a year, so the glow hasn’t worn off yet for him.
Ava had suggested we might want to try one of our girls on him at some point to see if he bites, to see how loyal he really is, because over this past year we’ve both come to the silent agreement that it probably won’t last, and then it’s just a case of how it ends.
Of course, one of the problems there is how we trained those girls, how they ask questions, how they engage. It’s all us, so I find it hard to believe that he wouldn’t recognize my words and my inflections, as Ava and I have been a little more structured in how we run it.
We would never expect a girl to speak about Napoleon at length, because we know that’s not what’s required. Instead, it’s preferable to listen and purr in agreement. It’s all online now, which is so much easier. All chat rooms and smartphones and apps, and a level of technical ingenuity you wouldn’t believe. Oh, how Tabitha would despair at that, but you can’t halt progress.
Ava and I have worked well together so far. She knows that there might be changes afoot. One of the ways I’m able to stay so calm, so very perfectly calm, and one of the reasons I don’t take that woman’s head and smash it against the table, is that this is not the final act. I don’t know quite how it will end, but I have some plans in place.
I’ve bought a little house up north. Inside, the walls are blue like the morning sky. It’s high up, and the windows look out over the sea where the waves lap in and out, over a pebbled beach.
It’s not for me to live in; it’s not some kind of escape. I have learned that escaping is not the way to do it, and I have no intention of moving out to the coast at this stage. My husband thinks I chose the house because it’s close to a place he mentioned holidaying in as a child. He thinks there’s some sentimental reason, and I took him there and we lay naked outside under the sky at night. He is right in a way, I did choose it because of the location. It has a specific set of advantages: remote, few passersby, and the coastal weather changes in an instant.
When I went for the first time after we’d bought it, I did a proper survey of the surrounding shores. I left him in bed and I walked along the path that curves high across the cliffs through the wild grasses. Right at the edge there’s a small clearing, and if I sense that he’s getting too close to what Ava and I do, who we are, perhaps I’ll take him for a walk.