When Arthur retreats to the kitchen to get the bottle, I pluck up the courage to interrupt Bee and William. They are close on the couch, practically on top of each other, his hand resting on her knee.
‘So, William, how did you and Arthur meet?’
He smiles. ‘Way back at uni. I was DJing at the uni pub and he was a bartender. He makes the best mojitos!’ My mind flashes back to that one time at uni that I hooked up with a DJ and Bee told me that DJs were ‘gross’ and ‘dirty’.
‘Oh, so we’ll get you to choose the playlist for dinner then!’ Bee says.
I lean over towards Arthur and whisper, ‘And if they make us chaperone a third date, I’ll make sure we have plenty of mixers so you can get us smashed on cocktails.’
‘That’s surely the only way to survive this.’
No one has spoken to me in thirty-seven minutes, and it’s starting to remind me a little bit of a date I went on last year. We went for burgers (which is the reason why Bee didn’t give me too much shit when I refused to go on a second date with him: ‘Grown men do not take their dates for burgers, Gertrude’).And over the course of an hour and a half, this man (whose name I couldn’t remember even with a gun to my head) never said anythingdirectlybad during the monologue I didn’t ask for, but I somehow came away with the impression that he had some less-than-suitable opinions, like how he had four coffees in one morning after giving up caffeine for a while so he now understood what it was like to be autistic. Then he mentioned his favourite white-man-with-a-microphone podcast (which I looked up afterwards, and apparently all women secretly want to submit to their husbands). Like, he hadn’t directlysaidthe shit things but, being a bit of a detective, I could read between those gaping lines.
Not that anyone here is saying covert bigoted stuff, but the feeling of allowing a constant waterfall of chatter to run over me is familiar.
Bee would tell me that I’m reading too much into the fact that they’re ignoring me. But what if I have, I don’t know, an off-putting vibe, and they’re all just trying to dig the night out from under me? Maybe Arthur told William what I said, and now they both think I’m a judgmental bitch. Or maybe (as Bee would also tell me) it’s not all about me.
After all, Arthur helped me pour the wine. William is probably just hyper-focused on the woman he likes. That’s an endearing quality. I should probably pay attention, get to know the guy for whom Bee is willing to overdose on antihistamines.
That might be easier if I felt like less of an empty chair.
Arthur doesn’t have any of these concerns, the lucky bastard. Arthur and Bee chat animatedly about soccer. (GoMatildas? I have no clue and fewer fucks to give—I play on my phone when Bee makes me watch.)
‘You know,’ William says, and I’m listening now. I do want to know. ‘I played state hockey back in the day.’ I don’t really get how that relates to the Matildas, but that’s on me for only just tuning in, I guess.
‘Did you really, mate?’ Arthur says. ‘How did I not know that?’
William shrugs. ‘For about three years.’
‘Huh. Learn something new every day.’
‘Hockey players are hot,’ Bee says, and the conversation moves on.
When I hear my name, I have just bitten off a big mouthful of homemade naan.
‘Gertrude,’ Bee says, stern. ‘Chew with your mouth closed. She turns to William. ‘I’m so sorry, William.’ He’s giving me a squeamish look. I don’t dare look at Arthur but he is undoubtedly wearing a look of schadenfreudian joy.
‘Sorry,’ I mutter at my lap, and a blob of chewed naan drops onto the edge of my plate. No one speaks. I quietly wipe it away with my napkin, scrunch it up in a ball, and tuck it under the lip of my plate.
‘You know what this reminds me of?’ Bee asks. ‘That time we were coming back from…which festival was it?’ She points at me, wagging a finger. ‘Beyond the Valley, that’s it. So, we were leaving BTV and the line to get out of the carpark was just horrendous, and Gertrude was feeling a bit poorly.’ I had heatstroke. ‘So she opened the car door and just munted out the side!’ Her laughter tinkles from behind a demure hand.‘But she took her foot off the brakes when she did it, so we just rolled into the car in front!’
Ha ha ha, isn’t this an amusing anecdote about a fun moment from our past? ‘There wasn’t any damage, it just scratched their bumper,’ I say.
She turns to say: ‘So, Arthur, William says you work in operations?’
I don’t listen to Arthur correct her that he’s actually in sales. Instead, I get up to stack the plates, clashing them a little too loud to drown out the noise. I can feel William look at me while Arthur and Bee chat. He still doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me. This level of intense scrutiny would make me uncomfortable at the best of times. Right now it feels like he’s seeing something I don’t mean to show or don’t want him to see.
I walk out of the room with the plates.
WHILE I’M INthe kitchen taking a breather, I hear a door shut. I return to find Arthur sitting alone, staring at his phone.
‘Where did they go?’ I ask.
‘Bianca had to show William something in her room.’ His euphemism hangs in the air like a bad smell.
Seriously, who does this? Is this some kind of a hostel dorm room where you have to put up with two horny goats who can’t take it to the bathroom stall? Surely we’re too old for this. We have mature dinner parties!
I’m suddenly painfully aware of my hands, and I’m awkwardly shuffling from side to side on the balls of my feet. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So did you want to…’ Leave. Please leave. Go home so I can put in my headphones and watch a movie in peace and try not to think about the boning occurring in the next room.
