Jarrod
Jarrod continued to rummage in the kitchen, muttering
indecipherable outbursts of annoyance whilst his hands roamed around the
cupboards, seeking out the large wine glasses he reserved for visitors. The
glasses, the sort that made measuring out a normal-sized-glass a frank
impossibility, would go some way to concealing his ignorance, as phrases such
as ‘giving it room to breathe’ and ‘letting the aroma fill the glass’ could be
dropped into conversation with fraudulent expertise.
He had gained little else from sitting through countless
episodes of Food and Drink but the
use of over-sized wine glasses was one consistency that he could not overlook.
It was also clear that you were supposed to plunge your nose in before you even
took a sip, sniffing the air with cat-like sensitivity, ready to deliver a
comprehensive verdict of the flavours scrambling around within the glass,
competing for dominance. Sometimes the wine would have a profound impact on the
‘guest sniffer’ or wine-taster.
It’s like being
pulled through a hedge backwards whilst wearing a shell-suit, one pundit commented,
assuming instant familiarity and shared understanding from those nodding along
in the studio, whilst those sitting at home remarked to each other how
shell-suits weren’t safe, not after that documentary on BBC2 that showed how
easily they catch on fire. Obviously, a shell-suit-wearer would have to stand
near to or in a fire in order to experience such combustion but one documentary
had created the opportunity for worried mothers everywhere to seize every
chance to shout ‘get away from that radiator. It’s not safe!’ and feel
reassured that they were now a better parent for taking health and safety more
seriously.
Jarrod wondered whether groups of teenagers who, like
him, had unwittingly sat through Food and
Drink’s latest revelation, did then get together in their hazardous
shell-suits and drag each other backwards through hedges. Every Friday, for
hours on end. It was better than drinking vodka down the park. This tasted like
wine. No, more than that. This felt
like wine. It was drug-taking for the law-abiding, a little bit of rebellion
for those still served lemonade while their parents indulged in a seven pound
bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. He even considered asking his parents for a
shell-suit for Christmas but the documentary had been repeated that evening and
he could tell from the look of horror in his mother’s eye, as a life-like
reconstruction of an alleged gas-fire incident suggested that all fourteen year
old boys in the country were only a few inches away from their legs being
burned beyond recognition, perhaps damaged beyond use, that there was little
point in pursuing his request.
‘Stop right there! Don’t move an inch,’ his mother had
called out as he entered the living room that evening. The gas-fire – complete
with safety-cover – stood a full four feet away and yet while the image was
still fresh in her mind there was little difference between four feet and four
millimetres. Being in the same room as a fire, even wearing jeans as Jarrod
was, was a potential hazard and it was her duty, according to Horizon, to protect her son from the
dangers that lurked inside every ordinary home in Britain. Gazing down at his
cold-to-touch jeans, Jarrod knew that, for now, wine would have to wait. He
would perhaps sneak a quick sip of the dregs that were headed for the drain
when asked to do the washing up, but sniffing, assessing and indulging would
have to wait.
He was pleased with the bottle he had managed to pick up
that evening. Reduced from an original price of £7.99, the Chilean Merlot was
an absolute bargain at £3.99. Jarrod experienced enormous satisfaction in
acquiring something far more expensive for a reduced cost. It was the same with
birthday and Christmas presents; impression was what mattered, not actual cost,
and so if you could spend less than intended then that was to be celebrated,
not agonised over. Why hunt around for another small gift to add to the first
one, just to bring the amount spent up to the ‘agreed limit’? It seemed wholly
illogical and his approach contributed to the quiet confidence he felt in his
ability to cope with any financial crisis the country might try to throw at
him. Recession would be a breeze.
In the shop he had, of course, scanned the label before
adding the bottle to his basket, discovering that the Merlot was apparently the
perfect companion for steak and venison. For some reason, he could never find a
wine that was the perfect partner for sweet chilli crisps. Perhaps the cruel
reality of crisp crumbs being transferred from fingers to glass had something
to do with it, and Jarrod did briefly flirt with the idea of adding a
finger-bowl to the coffee table. He was encouraged by the possibility of
fingers touching under-water, heightening the chances of unexpected intimacy,
but the apparent need for kitchen roll to dry the fingers in-between each dip
would make the table too cluttered, he decided at last, and so he would risk
the crumbs. Besides, he had already laid out the coasters close together to
pave the way for contact while picking up wine glasses. If she slid her coaster
a few centimetres away from his as the evening progressed, it would be clear
that a new approach was needed.
The choice of DVD for the film-club-for-two that was due
to meet at 8 was the choice that caused Jarrod the greatest stress, as the pros
and cons of each option raced through his head. He had settled on a shortlist
of three and it was the realisation that the film had to be deemed appropriate
for discussion and reflection – he assumed this was the purpose of a film club
– that led him to settle on The Dead
Poets’ Society, as a quick Google search had revealed more than enough
‘questions for group discussion’ had been made available for anyone out there
who needed to fake a film club at a moment’s notice. Copying and pasting five
of the best questions into a new document, Jarrod added a couple of his own,
lessening the lie when he would later seek to take credit for all seven.
He had also invented four absent guests - two men and two
women to ensure a perfect balance - and four believable excuses to explain
their failure to show up. ‘Terry’ had to look after his sick mother, while
‘Roxanne’ had come down with a nasty case of the flu herself that afternoon.
And as for ‘Donald’ and ‘Wendy’, well they had been involved in a minor car
crash on their way home from work and so it was unreasonable to expect them to
join the rest of the group, what with their whiplash causing them such awful
nausea and headaches. Unfortunately, therefore, the group of six had become a
group of two for the evening and it was obviously too late notice to cancel, so
it seemed crazy not to go ahead as planned.
The only slight flaw to the plan, Jarrod realised, was
the potential need to find a real Terry, Roxanne, Donald and Wendy, should
Janine insist she come to the club every week. Absences were easy to explain
for a single week, but less straightforward as the weeks passed by. He could,
of course, declare that he had been forced to ‘kick them out’ of the group,
explaining that their lack of commitment – plus a rude email from Donald and
Wendy – had left him with no choice but to disband the current crop and start
the search for new members, like Janine. However, despite not actually
existing, he felt sorry for the members of his non-existent film club and it
seemed like one lie too far to claim to have gone to such extreme measures to
exorcise the group of its demons. He also worried that it might make him sound
unreasonable to Janine and, as the only real member of the group, her feelings
surely had to come first.
For the evening to be a success, a true success, she
would need to enjoy his company but not enjoy the group. Not only did he need
to make Terry, Roxanne, Donald and Wendy sound like undesirable company – he
was proud of the start he had made through his careful name-choice – but he
would need to create the impression that they had been leading the group in a
direction that clearly wouldn’t interest her. Perhaps a rebranding of ‘film
club’ to become ‘Sci-Fi club’ could have been proposed by Donald, and overwhelmingly
supported by the rest, whilst he could join Janine in her concerns that this
would render the group too genre-specific to be worthwhile continuing
attendance? It would serve to support his choice of film that evening,
reinforcing just how different the Star-Trek marathon planned for next Friday
would be, and could provide the opening for the continuation of the
newly-formed film-club-for-two, Jarrod and Janine’s own personal group, with
not an absent guest in sight.
He was becoming increasingly encouraged as the clock
ticked towards 8. He had scripted and staged the evening with a mastery that
defied his limited experience and had paved the way for Janine to fulfil her
role with ease.
At 7.59, Dawn rose to her feet, a neglected piece of
pasta sliding off the slightly-tilted plate towards the recently-hoovered
carpet beneath. Jarrod recoiled as she strode past, her hand briefly resting on
his arm.
‘It’s all yours,’ she smiled, placing her plate by the
sink and shuffling out of the kitchen.
His eyes landed on the pasta, relief swelling within as
the dryness of the dish reduced the offence of the moment, and he marched
forwards, robotically reaching down to pluck it off the green sea beneath his
feet before swivelling on an axis to deposit it in the bin before him.
The
clock chimed 8.
---------
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