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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.
‘Go on,’ said Heather.
Simon shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
‘Spoilsport,’ complained Angus. ‘Go on.’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Simon.
‘Please,’ said Delphine.
‘OK,’ said Simon.
Delphine clapped her hands in delight.
‘Have you got a fag?’ Simon asked the table in general.
‘Here’s one.’ Stella flung a box of cigarettes at him.
Simon took a cigarette out of the packet and held it up in front of him. There was an expectant silence. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Watch closely.’ He turned towards Delphine and beamed at her.
Simon clenched his left hand into a fist and held it up level with his face. Then he slowly inserted Stella’s cigarette into his fist and pushed it in until it was completely concealed. He opened his hand to show the cigarette.
‘Now,’ said Simon, ‘watch again.’
He performed the same movement. This time, however, before opening his fist he waved it in the air a few times. Then he lowered his hand and opened his fingers one by one, palm upwards, over the table.
The cigarette had vanished.
‘Wow,’ said Delphine. ‘That’s amazing.’
Simon’s heart thumped.
‘All right,’ said Stella, ‘now bring it back.’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid,’ mumbled Simon. ‘It’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Stella. ‘What sort of a trick is that? Where is it?’
‘It’s vanished,’ explained Simon.
‘Of course it hasn’t vanished,’ replied Stella sarcastically. ‘Where is it? I want it back. Give me my fag back. Thief.’
Simon squirmed in his chair. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Honest. Sorry.’ (The cigarette now lay, out of reach, beneath Simon’s chair, where he had surreptitiously dropped it.)
‘Well if you were a proper magician you could make it come back again,’ said Stella sulkily.
‘Don’t worry, babe,’ said Angus. ‘You can have one of mine.’
‘Oh, sod off, Angus,’ replied Stella.
Simon took another long drink of margarita. He had stopped feeling the drink’s corrosive effect on his larynx some time earlier.
‘I suppose, being a magician, you’ve heard the story about the boy and the magic coin he found,’ said a man on the other side of the table, who up until then had hardly said a word.
There was a collective groan from around the table.
‘God, Joe, not again, please,’ said Heather.
‘I thought Simon might like to hear it if he hasn’t before,’ said Joe.
Simon shrugged. ‘If nobody else minds.’
‘No, I suppose we don’t mind,’ said Angus.
‘Right,’ said Joe. He addressed himself to Simon. ‘There was this young boy called Timmy. He’s walking down the street one day when he spots something gleaming in the gutter. So he goes over and discovers that it’s a foreign-looking coin, one he’s never seen before. So he picks it up and takes it home.’
‘OK,’ said Simon.
‘A couple of days later, Timmy’s sitting in his kitchen, and he puts his hand into his pocket and remembers this old coin that’s sitting there. He takes it out and wipes it on a bit of kitchen paper. And suddenly this voice comes booming out of nowhere. “Timmy, you may have as many wishes as your heart desires.” So obviously it’s a magic coin. Well, Timmy is delighted. He has a think, and then says, “OK, I’ll have three bowls of chocolate ice cream, then.” Just to check out whether this is for real. And sure enough, three bowls of chocolate ice cream appear on the kitchen table. As you can imagine, Timmy can’t believe his luck.’
‘Right,’ said Simon. He noticed that everyone was listening to the story, but that Joe was addressing it to him alone. It felt good to be at the centre of things.
‘Well,’ continued Joe, ‘Timmy is very excited about this, and wants to show off to all his friends. So next day at school he shows them his magic coin and grants them each one wish. Suddenly he’s the most popular boy in the school.
‘That evening he goes home from school, planning all the things that he’s going to ask for. He wants to play football for England, and have a fast car. But most of all –’ Joe held up a finger, ‘– most of all, he wants a shag. He’s desperate to lose his virginity. He wants to be the first in his class. So he decides that tonight will be the night.’
‘Get on with it,’ sighed Stella.
Joe ignored her. ‘OK. So. That evening he goes home and has his tea. He’s a bit subdued. His mother asks if everything is all right, and he replies, well, no, not really, and says that perhaps he’ll have a bath and then go to bed early.
‘In fact, what Timmy wants to do is to have a bath so he smells good,’ explained Joe. ‘He’s decided that he’s going to wish for Posh Spice to be his first shag, and wants to be as fancy as possible for her. So he runs a bath. While the bath is running he splashes on some of his dad’s aftershave, and brushes his teeth.’
‘OK,’ said Simon, nodding. The rest of the people around the table seemed to lean in fractionally.
‘Finally,’ said Joe, ‘he gets into his bath. He puts his magic coin in front of him by the taps. And all he can think about is Posh Spice coming to visit him later in bed.’ Joe put his hands out. ‘Naturally, Timmy gets a hard-on. And the thought occurs to him that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if perhaps he has a quick tactical wank now, just to make sure he doesn’t come too quickly later on.’
‘Right.’ Simon took another swig of margarita.
‘OK. So there Timmy is, in the bath, happily whacking off. And before too long, he ejaculates. So – he’s sitting in the bath, feeling pretty pleased with himself. And you know what sperm looks like in bath water?’
Simon nodded, keen to hear the end of the story. ‘Yeah,’ he said.
At that point the entire table erupted. Fergus banged his hands on the table in appreciation. Everyone else collapsed into hysterics.
‘Hook, line, and sinker,’ gasped Stella between breaths.
‘Well done, old mate,’ said Angus, shaking hands with Joe, who shrugged modestly. ‘Extra special.’
It dawned on Simon that something profoundly awful had just happened. Amidst the laughter, his brain replayed the last few exchanges prior to the onset of hilarity. He swallowed. Everyone else around the table had been in on the joke. They had all been waiting to see if he would take the bait. A feeling of intense and abject self-pity washed over him. He chanced a glance at Delphine, hoping that she, at least, would have risen above such juvenile amusement. She was giggling unstoppably. Simon sighed. That was the end of his chances with her, then. He reached for his glass and downed its contents in one gulp.
‘That’s my boy,’ hooted Fergus. ‘Drown your sorrows. Mind you, nothing to be ashamed about, masturbating in the bath. Even at your age.’
‘At least he came clean,’ said Stella, at which the entire party dissolved into fits of laughter again, leaving Simon sitting there, wondering how soon it would be before he could excuse himself and retreat back to his flat. He stared morosely at his empty glass.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Heather, wiping her eyes. ‘Priceless.’
‘Any chance of some more?’ enquired Simon, holding up his empty glass. He decided that the only feasible method of survival was to get even more drunk than he already was.
‘Coming right up,’ replied Fergus, getting to his feet. ‘Christ,’ he said as he stood up. ‘I needed that.’
Simon’s embarrassment had raised everybody’s spirits, and the party became more animated. Someone turned on some music. Simon began to drink quickly and with determination.
A little while later, someone clapped their hands to get everyone’s attention. Simon looked up slowly through the fug of his booze-sodden brain. One of his hosts was standing up. Simon realized that he had again lost track of which was Fergus and which was Angus, but was by now far too drunk to care or to do anything about it.
‘Right, everyone,’ declared Fergus/Angus loudly. ‘It’s reached that time of the evening when we move on to the traditional party amusements.’
This announcement was met with a chorus of excited whoops and cheers. It occurred to Simon that he could probably now leave without too much fear of embarrassment. However, he decided to stay where he was for a little while longer. There were two reasons for this. Firstly, Simon realized that if he left now, he would probably never see Delphine again. Secondly, and perhaps more compellingly, he was unable to move his legs. He wondered what form these party games would take. He remembered having pondered this for hours from the sanctity of his own flat as he listened to similar parties go on into the small hours. He had always imagined that they would be terribly high-brow, intellectually rigorous games – having to identify arcane literary quotations, or composing sonnets on topics chosen by the opposing team.
Fergus/Angus went into the kitchen and came out moments later with a large box under his arm. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he pronounced. ‘I give you – Twister.’
