He obliges, fills it to the top. She notes, with pleasure, that his eyes gaze admiringly at her chest. So what if she’s put a few extra pounds on her bottom and tummy over the last five or so years? Her greatest assets are as magnificent as ever.
“Chateaubriand,” Janet’s waiter says, gently placing a plate in front of her. She hadn’t even noticed the starter plates being cleared away, and now the stealthy waiters are back, serving up their latest delectable offering.
“Thank you, my dear,” Janet replies, taking in the finest steak, which is beautifully sliced and showing its obscenely pink inside. Nestled next to the meat are delicately roasted potatoes,bright-green asparagus, and a small jug of yellow béarnaise sauce. She wonders how anyone could even consider vegetarianism. Why deny yourself life’s greatest pleasures?
Everyone else has been distracted by the food, but that pesky journalist, Vivienne, is digging her (low, sensible) heels in.
“Excuse me,” she barks at her waiter. “Do you think we could speak to your boss? We’re due some sort of explanation…”
“Let it go, Vivienne, love,” Melvin says. “They’ll get to it soon enough. Let’s just enjoy this marvelous food.”
Thankfully, Vivienne seems to accept Melvin’s advice, and the waiter scuttles off. Marvelousis certainly the right word for this steak, thinks Janet. She picks up her cutlery and feels her knife slip through the beef without resistance, it’s so tender. She balances a piece of potato on her fork with the steak and closes her eyes as the flavors explode in her mouth. Was there really anything better in life than a plate of exquisite food?Except an afternoon in bed with a young man,perhaps, she thinks, drinking in Matthew’s endless dark lashes, his long fingers tapping away at his phone. As she reaches for her glass, her eyes fall on her place setting. Under her name is an intricate drawing of a pig eating a roast dinner. Janet holds back a gasp, quickly glances over at Matthew, relieved that he hasn’t seen it, then pushes the card into her tote. Looking around the table, she notices that Melvin the copper is tucking his white linen napkin into his shirt collar, the IT boy is fiddling nervously with his cutlery, and skinny Stella is poking at her steak and frowning. A motley crew, if ever there was one. What on earth does Janet have in common with that miserable old journalist or the rugby-lovingpolice officer? And don’t even get her started on the sanctimonious TV doctor trying to spoil all her fun. Thank goodness their mysterious host had thought to invite Matthew. He is obviously interested. Taking another bite of her steak, Janet decides to stop concerning herself with why she’s here and just enjoy the evening.
“I think we’ve met before,” Vivienne abruptly says, her sharp voice cutting through Janet’s thoughts.
Janet looks up at the older woman and raises an eyebrow. She said she’s a journalist, but it’s unlikely she works at a fashion publication, going by her shapeless black dress and frumpy shoes. And Janet would be shocked if Vivienne was wearing underwear from her high-end brand. She looks more like an M&S white-cotton-granny-knickers sort.
“I don’t think so…”
“Yes, I interviewed you a few years ago; it was a profile piece for ourWomen in Businesspage.”
Janet narrows her eyes. Actually, that did ring a bell… It was about three months after she’d sold her company and had only recently started at Sophia’s Whisper. She’d been busy coming to grips with the new job, but this woman kept emailing and phoning her office until Janet finally agreed to spend a miserable hour with her at a coffee shop near work. Vivienne had started off quite pleasant, complimenting her on the highly lucrative sale of her clothing app and her new heels, but then she ambushed her, asking about the “loyal staff” she’d fired. God knows why the woman was so bothered about them: a couple of barely literate graduates whom she’d gotten to write the press releases, a faceless computerchap who’d dealt with the technical side of things, a few savvy girls whom she’d sent out to scour charity shops for designer clothes and jewelry she could sell as “vintage.” I mean, shehadtold a tiny lie when she encouraged them to invest in the company, but you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, and this had been one hell of an omelet (it had paid for their summer house in Greece, a new place down in Cornwall, and new cars for her and Bill). Besides, those freelancers would surely have benefited from just having the company’s name on their CVs.
When the article had come out, this journalist woman referenced the “ruthless” sale of the company, but the worst bit for Janet had been the rather cutting comments about their latest catwalk show. Her boss thought the article was great publicity, but Janet seethed at the journalist’s implications that she was letting the side down—“a female boss reinforcing the male gaze,” as she’d put it. Janet even rang the magazine editor to give him a piece of her mind.
“Oh yes, I remember now,” she mutters. “You said our models stomped all over the feminist dream or something.”
“I’m so pleased you read it.” Vivienne smiles tightly.
“Of course I did. You know, we have plus-size models now,” she says.
“And by ‘plus-size,’ I’m guessing you mean size 10, maybe 12 at a push?” Vivienne parries.
Janet isn’t in the mood for this tonight. She’s spent hours in boardrooms having the same argument with her—mostly male—shareholders. Just this afternoon, she patiently explained to theCEO why every model doesn’t need to be “at least a C cup,” but she’s not about to tell Vivienne that. She’s come to Serendipity’s to have fun, not be grilled by a withered old harpy.
“Let’s be honest, Vivienne: Who wants to look at big girls in their bras?” Janet chuckles. “Am I right, Matthew?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always had a soft spot for curvy girls.” Matthew looks up from his phone and raises his eyebrows suggestively at Janet.
Silence falls across the table. Vivienne purses her lips, and Stella nearly chokes on her steak. Janet instinctively beams back at Matthew, but then a cold realization hits her: He’s talking about her. Janet knows she’s no ’90s supermodel, but she’s surely not a “curvy girl,” either, despite Bill’s hints.
Six pairs of eyes are on Janet, waiting for her reaction.
Melvin
Melvin nearly spits out his wine as Matthew’s “curvy girl” comment reverberates around the room. He can see from the pink blush climbing up Janet’s neck that she has never thought of herself in this way. The woman’s a stunner, no denying it. She’s one of those girls who carries her looks around like a queen wearing her mantle; she swept into the restaurant surveying her property and her subjects. Those yellow-green eyes had flashed around all the chaps, landing first on Matthew, then Gordon, and then Melvin, weighing up their worth. Young Tristan, with his smudged glasses and old T-shirt, didn’t get a look-in, poor kid. But her low-cutdress, her unladylike comments about sex, her flippant attitude toward her own marriage just aren’t to Melvin’s taste. He thinks of Mary. Despite everything she’s been through—all the needles, the pain, the hair loss—she’s retained her dignity. Mary is a lady, unlike Juicy Janet. Still, the last thing he wants is for her to get upset; she’d been having such a good night. He holds his breath as he waits to see how she’ll handle this unwitting insult. Should he say something?
“Well, the whole worldistalking about Kim Kardashian’s bottom,” she eventually splutters, the thumb of her left hand absentmindedly spinning her eternity ring around and around on her finger, sending flashes of light across the table.
Fair play, good save.Melvin shoots her an encouraging smile. But really, at her age, she should know better than chasing after a young man like that. It’s clear that she’s a good twenty years too old for this Matthew. As he watches Janet wave at a passing waiter, demanding more wine, Melvin wonders about her husband: Where is he tonight? Does he have any idea she’s spending the evening flirting so obviously with another man? Then he thinks of a 999 call he answered a month or so before. There had been a reported domestic disturbance on a nice road in Belgravia. He’d been sent to have a quiet word and had pictured a tipsy well-to-do couple falling out over which Farrow & Ball shade to paint the drawing room. But when he’d rung the bell, a man came straight to the door, tears of blood streaming down his face.
“I did it. I’m sorry,” he confessed as Melvin pushed past to get into the house. The poor woman was lying in a bloody heap on thekitchen floor, a spatula still clutched in her hand. Melvin touched her neck; she was already cold.
“I just couldn’t take it anymore,” the husband said to Melvin as he was guided to the patrol car. On the way to the station, he talked incessantly about day-to-day pettiness, passive-aggressive battles over trash day, and forgotten anniversaries. The man’s words were doused in sorrow but also in relief. Worse, Melvin understood. He understood how a marriage, even a good marriage, could become suffocating, and how close one side—or both—could come to snapping.
He’d usually tell Mary the details of his day, and surely she would have been horrified by that tale, but he couldn’t do it. He was filled with shame at the sympathy he felt for the man who had murdered his wife.
Melvin looks from Janet to Matthew. It strikes him just how different young men are these days. When Melvin himself was in his twenties, living in a small village just outside Cardiff, you were deemed “well groomed” if you had regular haircuts and wore clean shoes for a date. These days, young men havemanicures, wax their chests, spend hours honing their muscles at the gym. He’s even heard that some wear makeup! Mind you, Matthew looks pretty good on it. His dark-brown eyes and high cheekbones remind Melvin of Christian, his new colleague at the station, and then he’s wondering what Christian is up to right now…
