Before Your Very Eyes. Alex George
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his mouth puckering involuntarily on contact with the salt.
‘Golly,’ he said.
‘Puts hairs on your chest, doesn’t it?’ said Angus/Fergus, grinning.
‘I dare say,’ mused Simon, thinking that he must establish which of his hosts was which before much longer.
There was a crash from what Simon supposed was the kitchen, followed by a tense whinny that he recognized from past nocturnal /performances.
‘Fuck,’ said Angus/Fergus. ‘Clumsy cow. Hang on. Back in a sec.’
From the kitchen came the sound of an argument, the deep tones of Angus/Fergus interspersed with the high-pitched screeches of the unfortunate cook. After a few minutes the door re-opened and Angus/Fergus appeared with a stack of plates. He was followed by a tall, skinny girl with slightly buck teeth, who carried a large Pyrex dish. She put the dish down in the middle of the table.
‘Rice?’ asked Angus/Fergus irritably.
The girl spun on her heel and flounced back into the kitchen.
‘Right then, everyone,’ announced Angus/Fergus. ‘May I present the traditional gourmet extravaganza. Rice and chilli, from an old family recipe, passed down by word of mouth from generation to generation. We are preserving an important gastronomic tradition this evening. Had a bit of an accident with the casserole, hence this rather unattractive see-through thing, but we rescued most of it off the floor.’
The cook arrived back at the table with a steaming bowl of rice which she slammed down wordlessly before sitting down in the empty seat opposite Simon. Plates were passed around the table, and people began to help themselves.
Simon took another sip of his margarita.
‘Hello,’ said the buck-toothed girl opposite him. ‘I’m Heather.’
‘I’m Simon. Do I take it you’re the cook this evening?’
‘Yes, for all the thanks I get,’ said Heather. She whinnied.
Do you know, Simon wanted to ask, that’s exactly the noise you make when you have an orgasm? Instead he said, ‘Well, it looks delicious to me.’
‘Don’t be fooled,’ replied Heather. She nodded sideways at Angus/Fergus. ‘He’s very particular about what goes in and how it’s all done. He stands over my shoulder directing matters. I don’t know why he doesn’t just do it himself.’
Simon saw his chance. ‘You’re the girlfriend…?’ he nodded towards Angus/Fergus.
‘Of Fergus? Yes, for my sins.’
Fergus! Simon settled back into his chair, feeling pleased with himself, and waited for the chilli to be passed around. When the bowl arrived in front of him he dolloped two spoonfuls of the brown and red mixture on to his plate, followed by a large helping of rice.
Simon stuck his fork into the steaming pile of food. He absent-mindedly swallowed his first mouthful, wondering how to make Delphine realize within the next couple of hours that she really ought to get to know him better.
Such thoughts were abandoned seconds later, as the back of Simon’s throat erupted. He gasped as the chilli began its descent to his stomach, charring his tonsils and scalding his epiglottis on the way down. His eyes brimmed with tears. He grabbed his drink and swallowed half of it in one go. He then struggled to restrain the coughing fit that the potent margarita mix provoked.
After a few moments, Simon recovered his poise. Nobody seemed to have noticed his discomfort. On the other side of the table, Fergus and Heather were arguing. Heather looked as if she were about to cry too, although it was not clear whether this was due to the chilli or what Fergus had been saying to her.
‘Let me get you another drink,’ said Fergus to Simon, abruptly turning away from Heather as she was hissing in his ear. He returned moments later with a large jug and topped up Simon’s glass.
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Simon, wondering if it would be awfully rude to ask for some water. He looked at the hill of rice and chilli on his plate, and the full glass of margarita in front of him. His head had started to buzz gently. Tentatively, he picked up his fork and scooped up a small mound of chilli. He switched the fork to his left hand, and picked up his glass with his right. Almost in one movement, he deposited the chilli in his mouth, swallowed, and then slugged back a mouthful of margarita. The effect was interesting. His mouth went numb, and the chilli’s passage southwards was marked by no more than a slight tingling sensation. After a few moments he felt the chilli sitting malignantly in his stomach, sloshing about in a sea of margarita mix. Encouraged, Simon began to address the rest of his plate in the same way.
By the time he had finished his helping, Simon was yabberingly drunk. His mouth seemed only vaguely connected with the rest of his body. When he moved his jaw he felt nothing, as if he’d been given a mammoth local anaesthetic. Now that he had eaten the food, his primary job, he remembered, was to persuade Delphine to marry him.
Simon carefully put his fork down on his empty plate, and surveyed the rest of the table. He noticed that most people had hardly touched their food. Delphine’s back was still turned to him.
The discussion was about jobs. Angus, Simon was able to deduce with what was left of his alcohol-decimated cerebral cortex, was an estate agent. He was telling a story about a woman who, he claimed, had tried to seduce him when he went around to value her flat.
‘So what did you do?’ asked Stella, who was sitting next to Angus, smoking a cigarette.
‘Well, what could I do? I shagged her, of course,’ boomed Angus.
Stella stiffened. ‘I see,’ she said.
Angus carried on. ‘She wasn’t much good, to be honest. Bit saggy, really. Desperate, you know. Quite sweet, but desperate.’ He turned to Stella, who was now puffing so hard on her cigarette that she was momentarily obscured by a wall of billowing smoke. ‘Nowhere near as good as you, my pet,’ he said to her.
Stella ground her cigarette into the ashtray in front of her with a ferocity which suggested that she would rather be grinding it into Angus’s forehead. She got up and left the table.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ complained Angus. ‘What’s the matter with her?’
From the other end of the table, Fergus raised his eyebrows and drew a suggestive finger across his neck. Next to him Heather stared silently at her plate, saying nothing.
There was an awkward pause, before Fergus said to Simon, ‘So, er, what do you do? Get propositioned by desperate women in your line of work?’
Simon shook his head, more to clear it than to indicate a negative response. He tried his mouth. It seemed to work. He was aware that Delphine had now turned towards him again, but rather than risking another look at her face, he looked at Fergus instead, and said, ‘Not often, no. I work in a magic shop.’
This was met with a gratifying reaction of disbelief and laughter. Stella came and sat down again at the table. Angus ignored her.
‘So you’re a magician?’ said Delphine.
‘Sort of,’ said Simon. ‘I do tricks. But I sell them rather than perform them.’ His head had begun to spin alarmingly with the effort of producing entire sentences.
‘Gosh,’ said Delphine. ‘I’m impressed.’ She smiled at him. Simon was momentarily pole-axed, and grinned back at her stupidly.
‘Thanks,’ he dribbled.
‘Show us a trick, then,’ demanded Stella sourly. There was a murmur of assent from around the table.
The words echoed around Simon’s head until finally he managed to decipher them. ‘Oh no, couldn’t,’ he mumbled.
‘Why not?’ demanded Fergus.
‘Just…couldn’t,’ said Simon. ‘Too pissed,’ he whispered as an afterthought.