The dinner with Martin, in a trendy rooftop restaurant with floor-to-ceiling glass, was not especially successful. Serena found him smug and a bit creepy; Martin, she felt, thought her trivial and shallow. She was expecting Jarvis to be the same and wondered if Ben surrounded himself with needy acolytes who were half in love with him. But, a few days later, when Ben invited her over to meet Jarvis, she saw she’d been wrong.
It was a Thursday night when she made her way over to Ben’s Kensington mews house where Martin also lived (rent-free, she realised later). No one heard her ring the bell so she let herself in through the unlocked front door. When she entered the kitchen, Jarvis and Ben were holding either end of a wooden ski with hollowed-out spaces for shot glasses.
‘Get it down, you Zulu warrior!’ Ben was singing. ‘Get it dooowwwwn you Zulu prince, prince prince!’
They upended the ski and downed the shots – a pale, muddy liquidthat looked like it was either schnapps or pastis. Neither of them registered her presence, which annoyed her. She had taken great care with her appearance: red lipstick, tousled hair, a strapless black mini-dress with a slouchy YSL jacket slung around her shoulders. In the distance, sitting on the sofa beyond the kitchen island, she was surprised to see Martin reading a book, the colour in his cheeks slightly raised.
‘Hello,’ Serena said finally.
Ben and Jarvis both looked startled, even though they were expecting her. Only Martin showed no surprise.
‘Sweetie,’ Ben said, putting his end of the ski down and rushing over to her. He smelled of alcohol and cigars. ‘Oh my God, you look amazing. Come, come, meet Jarvis …’
‘I’m sure my reputation has preceded me,’ Jarvis said.
‘Not really,’ Serena replied.
On the sofa, Martin smirked.
‘Told you, mate,’ Ben said, drawing her close to him. ‘She’s an ice queen.’ He wound his arm around her waist.
‘Then we shall have to warm her up,’ Jarvis said, challenge in his eyes. ‘What’re you drinking, Serena?’
‘A G&T, thanks. Slimline, if you have it.’
She found it distasteful how possessive Jarvis was of Ben’s house and his things. Jarvis knew where the alcohol was and knew which cupboard to look in for the glasses. He moved around as though he owned both the space and the atoms from which it was formed. But he lacked any of Ben’s charm. He stumbled and groaned and bumped into surfaces. He wore a creased checked shirt, untucked from trousers that seemed to be on the verge of slipping down. In the background, she noticed Martin had not turned the page of his book for quite some time.
Jarvis shouted over to him.
‘When are you fucking off out of here, Martin?’
‘Don’t be like that,’ Ben said in a low whisper.
‘We’ve only laid the table for three,’ Jarvis continued, loudly.
‘Mate, stop it.’
Martin stood, stretched and made a great show of checking his watch.
‘Got somewhere to be?’ Jarvis said.
Martin ignored him, disappearing into his room only to emerge a moment later in a silky grey trench coat.
Ben wolf-whistled.
‘That coat looks great on you,’ he said. Then, to Serena: ‘It’s an old one of my dad’s.’
‘Thanks, Ben,’ Martin said. He passed through the kitchen. ‘Always …’ Martin searched for the word, ‘memorable to see you, Jarvis. Hello, Serena,’ he continued, greeting Serena with a kiss on the cheek. He smelled of the same brand of aftershave Ben wore. ‘You look lovely. Enjoy dinner.’ Then – sotto voce – ‘If you can.’
The front door slammed shut behind him.
‘Good riddance,’ Jarvis said. ‘He’s such a fucking loser.’
‘Leave him alone,’ Ben said but it was true that the atmosphere had shifted.
At dinner, the three of them ate overboiled pasta and got drunk together. She kept catching Jarvis looking at her across the lit candles. Ben held her hand under the table. She enjoyed having double the male attention – Martin hadn’t even given her a second glance. She thought Jarvis boorish and unprepossessing – an impression that lasted for several years, until he started bailing Ben out financially. Then, she began to think he might be kind.
And now here Jarvis is, twenty years later, sitting across from her, telling her he has wanted to fuck her for all that time. Hearing him put it into words with such disregard for propriety is exactly what she needs. She says yes to going upstairs before she’s even drunk the second glass of champagne.
