Ghosts in the Morning

Chapter 7



We all stood in the lounge, clutching champagne flutes, smiling politely and generally looking awkward. Piers, Graham’s boss, cleared his throat, about to speak, but he was beaten to it by David, one of the audit partners from London.

‘It’s a lovely house you have here, Graham, very nice indeed, I do like the way you’ve utilised the space. I recall reading once that the placement of mirrors is very important when you’re trying to give the illusion of a larger room.’ I saw Graham smile through gritted teeth, at the rude slight. ‘I’m sure I right in assuming your good wife is responsible for the interior decor? After all, women are usually much better at that sort of thing, aren’t they?’ boomed David. He had a very loud voice.

‘Yes, yes, they are, hah hah,’ Graham said, adding a forced chuckle. He glanced at me and wobbled his glass, his signal to me that we needed another bottle of champagne. That would be the third one. Good. It meant I there was plenty of room for error in my cooking, none of this lot would be able to taste a bloody thing.

I grabbed a sweating bottle, topped my own glass up and took a large swig before heading back into the lounge. Graham came towards me, glass outstretched. He seemed to be drinking faster than usual and I knew it was because he felt uncomfortable. I knew, too, that part of the reason for his discomfort was that he was embarrassed by me. Against the other women in the room, I stood out like a sore thumb. A sore very fat thumb. I looked like a giant marshmallow in a bed of pencils.

Piers’ wife - Lindy - was young, attractive and very slim, with large, high breasts. Glossy and blonde – on the surface at least - she was a schoolboy’s wet dream, but I couldn’t help thinking that against her sylph-like silhouette, her breasts seemed out of place. Too big and forthright, like freshly-launched torpedoes, I knew it had to be a boob job.

The London visitors had also brought their other halves. They appeared to be girlfriends rather than wives - there were no wedding rings. Like Lindy, they too were slim with over-large tits, creamy lumps of cleavage spilling from the scooped necklines of their dresses.

I topped David’s glass up, and he nodded at me with a brief smile, but said nothing. I turned to Matthew, the other London partner. ‘Was your flight over okay, Matthew, not too bumpy I hope? We’ve got a fairly short runway at Jersey airport, it can be a rough landing sometimes, ’ I said, easing more champagne into his glass.

‘I’d rather Matt, please, not Matthew,’ he said in a voice that was used to telling people what to do. The result of a posh public school perhaps, or maybe just plain arrogance.

‘Oh, okay, sorry,’ I said.

‘Shit,’ cried Matt suddenly.

I looked down. I had overfilled the glass and champagne was now dripping over Matt’s hand. The cuff of his suit also looked very wet.

‘Oh no, I’m so sorry, I’ll get a cloth or a towel, I’m so sorry,’ I said.

‘That’s okay, honestly, it’s okay, I’ll just go to the loo and sort it. Look, don’t worry about it, accidents happen, I suppose.’ He was trying to sound cheery, trying to underplay it like it didn’t matter, but I could sense the barely-controlled anger beneath the surface. His face had gone red, like the birdwatcher who fell from the rocks at Corbière.

I could feel Graham’s eyes boring into me. I glared back at him, saw the disgust in his eyes, and I willed him to say something. I knew he wouldn’t, he had seen something in my eyes, he could sense that I was up for a fight. He couldn’t afford a scene now.

An awkward silence fell over the room, then we heard the toilet door slam. Matt stepped back into the room, still looking a little angry. I took a deep breath. ‘Okay, if you’d all like to make your way into the dining room, please, I think the starters should be ready.’ I ushered the seven of them towards the dining table.

‘Er, who’s sitting where?’ Graham said, looking expectantly at me.

‘Um, put me on this end, so it’s easier for me to serve,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave you to sort out the rest.’ I headed for the kitchen, leaving Graham looking slightly flustered.

A large frying pan was gently sizzling on the range cooker, and I poked one of the scallops nestling within. It felt as if it had gone beyond the point of becoming springy. I cursed and turned the heat off. Scallops needed only the barest amount of time to cook, too long and they became chewy, and it looked like they would be slightly overdone.

‘Oh well, at the rate they’re drinking they’ll never notice,’ I mused aloud. ‘Besides, it’ll be fine once I’ve plated up.’ I took a sip of wine. ‘Plated up, oooh, get me. Right little Nigella I’m turning into,’ I mumbled, then started to giggle. Using that sort of slang, I reckoned I was starting to sound like a TV chef, maybe I needed to cut down on the number of cookery programmes I watched.

I was a good cook, if I put my mind to it, if I wasn’t feeling lazy. I wasn’t when Graham and I got married, not in the early years. I had never had any experience of cooking when I was young; there had been no hours of fun spent watching my mother home baking. Or cook at all, for that matter, all of our meals came out of a tin or packet. Supermarket own brands. And at the home, all of our meals were prepared for us in the canteen – the ‘daily slop’ as Anita called it. But over the years a mixture of boredom and those ubiquitous cookery programmes had led to experimentation and then to a discovery that I did indeed have some latent creative culinary skills. I wished I’d had a daughter, we could have had some fun in the kitchen together; chopping vegetables, rolling pastry, mixing eggs and flour and sugar and laughing as the mixture spilled over the side, smiling as she dipped her little fingers cheekily into a bowl of melting chocolate - hell, maybe we could have baked cookies like they do on all those American movies...

My sons weren’t interested in cooking. Not even Simon, in fact especially not Simon. He didn’t want to do anything that could be construed in any way as ‘girly’. As if to prove that he was not what I knew he was. It didn’t help that Graham thought I was talking rubbish, that I was just being stupid. Not that I’d ever said anything to Simon, of course. The fact was that Simon was gay but he didn’t yet realise it. Well, he probably suspected, deep down, but I don’t think he wanted to believe it, he didn’t want to accept it. I knew it, though. It was difficult to define the reasons for my certainty. There had been clues from a young age - he was more relaxed with girls, and some of his mannerisms were innately effeminate – but it was more than that. I just knew, a mother always knows these things.

I put four scallops onto each of the rectangular plates, and wondered when it was decided that round plates were no longer trendy. Another sip of wine, and then I reached for the olive oil. A special Tuscan one - Graham ordered it online from a website with the tagline ‘designed for shoppers with a discerning taste.’ Or as I said to Graham when I saw the prices – ‘designed for mugs who are happy to be ripped off’. Graham hadn’t found my comment funny.

I drizzled the oil over the scallops in a zigzag pattern, then swirled a dribble of balsamic vinegar at the corner of each plate. Finally, I squeezed a few drops of lemon juice over the shellfish and then garnished each of the plates with a handful of rocket, half a lemon and a few succulent baby tomatoes. I took another sip of wine and looked at the price on the side of the packet of rocket and rolled my eyes. Rocket grew wild in Jersey in abundance – Graham said he saw loads of it on the golf course – yet it seemed all they had to do was pop it in a see-through bag and it turned into green gold. Just as well it didn’t say ‘organic’ on the packet, or that would have doubled the price.

‘Andrea, is the starter ready or what? Our guests have been waiting for bloody ages,’ Graham said, suddenly appearing at the kitchen doorway. He was angry, but his voice was low. He had gone a bit red, perhaps it was the champagne or maybe it was due to the challenge of trying to convey his burning anger with a whisper.

I glanced at the kitchen clock. I must have been lost in thought for a few minutes. I stared at Graham, sadistically enjoying his discomfort. He was clenching and unclenching his fists and I could see a vein pulsing in his neck. I waited another few cruel seconds and then said, ‘Yes, okay, sorry, yes, it’s coming.’ I motioned towards the worktop. ‘Here, you can take some plates in with you.’

‘Ooh, this looks lovely, Angela,’ trilled Debbie, David’s girlfriend.

‘It’s Andrea, not Angela,’ I said, but Debbie wasn’t listening. She had turned to Katherine, Matt’s girlfriend. ‘I never used to like fish at all, but last year David took me to this wonderful sushi restaurant – it’s got one of those Michelin stars and everything, and now I just can’t get enough of it. Very low in calories too, so it’s good for the waistline. Keep those naughty pounds at bay,’ Debbie said, tapping her washboard stomach. It sounded hollow, obviously not eating much at all helped keep those ‘naughty’ pounds at bay. A giggle bubbled in my mouth and I disguised it with a cough.

‘So, what do you reckon to this Eurozone crisis, Matt? Must be affecting a lot of your clients in the city, I suppose?’ Piers said. He had a bit of rocket stuck between his teeth, I could see him worrying at it with his tongue.

‘Yes, it’s not helping, that’s for sure. About time those supposed European leaders sorted things out, to be honest, started earning their inflated salaries. Too busy snuffling their noses in the trough, bloody foreigners, eh,’ he laughed and roughly nudged Katherine’s elbow. A piece of scallop fell from her fork, but she duly joined in with the laughter.

‘Well, thank goodness we kept the pound,’ I said.

Graham let out a patronising sigh. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Andrea. We may not be in the Eurozone in terms of the currency, but it still affects us. A lot.’

Debbie giggled. ‘Shame, really. I love Milan. And I quite liked the idea of being properly European. It sounds so much more glamorous than “English” or “British”.’ She mimed the quotation marks with her fingers, like an impression of bunny ears, it made me want to strangle her. ‘What about here in Jersey, what do they call you?’

‘Rich bastards, that’s what they call you!’ boomed Matt, bellowing out a laugh. Debbie and Katherine joined in with a fluffy giggle. ‘Well, isn’t that true, Piers, it’s an island of millionaires, right?’

‘Er, not quite, Matt, not quite. As you well know, we have a very large finance industry and our economy is reasonably solid, but it’s not all champagne and gin palaces. It’s certainly not as Bergerac portrayed it.’

‘Bergerac’s in France, isn’t it?’ Debbie said, furrowing her plucked eyebrows. ‘What’s Bergerac got to do with anything?’

David frowned. ‘Bergerac was the name of a detective in a programme. A series, set in Jersey.’

‘Oh, okay, I’ve never heard of it.’

Lindy took a breath and lifted her chin. I could see a spot of olive oil sitting underneath her bottom lip. Floating on her thick makeup, there was no way that would soak through to her skin. ‘Going back to what you were saying, Matt...to be honest, I don’t really understand all of that Euro stuff but I do know it hasn’t affected my business, though, I’m still really busy.’ Lindy was a self-employed personal trainer – she had a small gym set up in one of the rooms in their large house. I had the feeling she was quite successful, too. But then, she did spend a lot on advertising, bankrolled by Piers, of course. There was a constant stream of adverts for her services in the local paper and on local radio. Photos of her looking smug as she gurned for the camera in the latest clingy gym wear.

Lindy paused to glance at her flawless nails, then looked up again. ‘The thing is, I think personal training is fairly recession-proof – I mean, everybody wants to look after themselves these days, don’t they? Everyone wants to look good, take care of their body.’ Lindy glanced at me, and then looked away again quickly. I tried not to redden.

‘Well, this Eurozone crisis has been brewing for a while. I guess it was doomed from the start, I mean, if we look back at the origins of -’ Graham said and took a deep breath. I could see he was eager to impress with his summary of the history of the Eurozone. I knew he had heard some explanation at a conference that he liked to pass off as his inherent knowledge.

But it was obviously man-dick on the table time, for Piers interrupted. ‘Yes, since the fifties, actually – ’

Matt opened his mouth to speak but David spoke first. ‘The origins of the idea first surfaced after the second world war, at a time when the United States was experiencing significant economic growth and economic migration.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Matt close his mouth, proving that David was the top-dog at this table.

‘Various important people in Europe were taking notice of this, and were concerned that Europe could get left behind,’ David continued. He took a sip of red wine, and puffed his chest out, warming to his theme. ‘So they figured that they should think along the lines of America. I mean, in America, it was increasingly becoming the norm for certain cities to be known as the places to go for specific items or specialities. So, for instance, if you needed car manufacturing, you went to Detroit. Likewise, in California...well, Silicon Valley became famous for computer chips – ’

‘As well as boob implants,’ I said.

‘Er, that’s silicone, not silicon,’ Debbie said. Her lip was curled, her tone full of sarcasm.

‘It was a joke,’ I said, but nobody around the table was smiling. I felt myself redden and shrink.

‘Er, yes, as I was saying – ’ David sighed turning his glance back to the table, away from me, away from this dumb, fat woman at the end. ‘These prominent Europeans were worried that Europe would be left behind, that it would be beneficial to try and emulate America, to have a sort of “United States of Europe”.’ He paused and took another sip of wine, leaving a red ring around his lips.

‘Hmmm, some chance,’ Matt said. ‘How can all those bloody foreigners integrate, with all those different languages, all those different cultures? I don’t mean to be racist in any way, of course, but some of those buggers are barely civilised.’

‘Precisely, Matt, precisely,’ said David, jabbing his fork forward. ‘Though I don’t necessarily share your views on, er, the civilisation or otherwise of some European countries, you’re correct in saying that the integration of these different cultures would be difficult. The idea was to follow the American model so that Europe could also have, er, well, centres of excellence, I suppose-’

‘Would that include Amsterdam as a centre of sex-cellence?’ Matt sniggered.

David ignored him and carried on, ‘So, just as an example, Rome could be the European hub for car manufacturing, Sheffield for steel, that sort of idea. But it’s clear that that would never really work in reality. I mean, your average Northerner interested in working in the car industry is hardly going to up sticks and go and live in a country where the people speak a different language, with a completely different culture. So economic migration was never going to be the same in Europe as it was in America.’

‘Yes, and then this ridiculous idea was further compounded by the introduction of the Euro back in the year 2000,’ Piers said.

‘Er, it was 1999 actually. Although the actual physical notes and coins didn’t come into circulation until 2002.’ Graham sat there, a ghost of self-satisfaction on his face.

‘1999, 2000, whatever,’ Piers said, ‘But the point is – ’

‘The point is –’ David interrupted, obviously unwilling to relinquish the spotlight, ‘– the introduction of the euro removed the fundamental methods that the adopting countries had for controlling their economies. They no longer had the ability to play around with their exchange rates, and even worse, their interest rates. In fact, at around the time of the euro’s introduction, some leading political figures even went so far as to suggest that the inequalities that could arise between neighbouring countries could potentially lead to war in Europe.’

‘Do you think we could be on the brink of war, then?’ Katherine said. She sounded nervous.

‘No, no, of course not, it was just a hypotheses put forward at the time.’

Lindy let out a dramatic sigh. ‘Well, I hope not, I mean it’s bad enough watching all those bodies going through the streets, you know, where they used to carry them through that town. What was it called, now, um, Worcester Bassett, wasn’t it?’

‘No, you’re getting mixed up with the sauce,’ I mumbled under my breath, but it must have come out too loud, because Graham shot me a stern glare.

‘It’s Wootton Bassett,’ Graham smiled at Lindy, then switched off the smile to glare at me again.

I gathered up the plates and headed to the kitchen to sort out the main course. I had revisited my original idea of sea bass and instead had prepared salmon fillets, coating them in a chilli and ginger crust. A good dollop of dauphinoise potatoes accompanied the fish, together with some fresh sweet corn. It was going to be asparagus, but I didn’t like the way it made my pee smell.

The remainder of the evening passed in a bit of a blur. I noticed Debbie and Katherine surreptitiously trying to make it look as if they had actually eaten some of the potato – they were shuffling it around their plates with their forks, and Debbie attempted to subtly bury some of it under her sweet corn. I could feel Graham’s eyes lasering into me each time I put my wine glass to my lips, so I stayed silent for the rest of the meal, nodding occasionally at the fatuous talk between the bimbos - fake tanning, clothes and palates seemed to be the main topics – as the men droned on about audits and banking regulations and derivatives, and which team was going to win the Premier League, or maybe it was the Champions League, but I didn’t care either way, and I could feel my eyelids grow heavy. It was a relief as I cleared the dessert plates; I had chosen to make my special homemade tiramisu that I was immensely proud of - I knew it was good as one of Graham’s Italian clients had once come round for dinner and pronounced it ‘bellissima’ - but I noticed that the girls didn’t touch it. They didn’t even lift their spoons to their sour little mouths. ‘Moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips,’ Debbie had squealed, and I thought I should push mine away too, but then I thought sod them, and I had cleaned my plate, every last little bit.

And it was a relief too, when I cleared the coffee cups and I knew that the guests would be leaving soon. I didn’t want to look at them anymore, didn’t want to have to make any more small talk, I was a little bit giddy, yes, for sure, a little bit drunk. I felt so inadequate in the face of these oh-so-clever men with their oh-so-pretty, oh-so-skinny wives and I felt so small inside, yet so large on the outside. I was an upside-down iceberg.

And just as they were leaving, just as I was checking in the dining room to see if dopey Debbie had left her purse in there - before she realised that it was in her coat pocket - I heard Matt’s arrogant voice.

‘So, Graham, do you still have that secretary, er, what’s her name now...?’

‘Er, do you mean – ’

‘You mean Nikki...Nikki with the big tits?’ Piers interrupted.

‘Nikki, yes, that’s the one, great pair of bazookas. Lovely arse, too, as I recall. Bit of a shame, I didn’t see her at the office today.’ Matt said.

They were trying to speak in low voices, but they were using the whispers of drunk people, thinking that they couldn’t be heard, but I could hear them clearly. Every bloody word. Lindy, Katherine and Debbie appeared to be completely oblivious to the conversation, they were flapping about and giggling as they searched for Debbie’s purse, wobbling around on their silly high heels.

‘Yes, she’s not too bad a secretary either,’ Piers said. ‘I mean, I understand she’s very good at dick-taking, isn’t that right, Graham...er, sorry, Freudian slip there, I mean dictation of course.’

Matt and Piers cackled simultaneously and then Graham’s voice. ‘Yes, very funny guys, very funny, but shut up, for God’s sake, that’s how bloody rumours start. You know what the bloody office grapevine can be like.’

‘Calm down, Graham, son, calm down. Well, in the words of the late, great Marvin Gaye, I heard it through the grapevine,’ Matt sung the phrase, and continued to hum the tune.

‘Found it!’ Debbie screeched. ‘Oh, what a silly wally I am! it was in my coat pocket all along.’ She giggled again and then she started to join in with the tune, but she was singing the words to the song rather than humming, and then Katherine and Lindy joined in, and soon they were all singing the song at the tops of their drunken slurry voices, Graham too.

The guests left still singing as they walked down the drive towards their taxi, and the door slammed on its knackered hinges, and I went straight to bed.