Dinner at Mine by Chris Smyth

had bought in
person, at a reassuringly expensive fishmonger in Borough Market. Matt got out a new chopping board and began cutting the snapper into strips.
    From the hallway, he heard the faint ringing of his mobile phone. He washed his hands and went to answer it. The phone was still in the pocket of his suit jacket, its old-fashioned ring-tone
muffled by layers of expensive tufted wool. He didn’t recognize the number.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Matt, it’s Charlotte. How do I get into this place?’
    Matt wondered how she had his number. She must have asked Rosie. What did that mean? ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
    ‘Downstairs. Outside. I think this is your flat anyway.’
    ‘Are you by the blue gate?’
    ‘What blue gate?’
    Matt laughed silently to himself. ‘OK. Can you see the Brazilian corner shop?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Try turning round.’
    ‘Yes, all right. Got it.’
    ‘So opposite that is a bike rack . . . yes?’
    ‘Er . . . wait . . .’
    ‘And about fifty metres north of that is the blue gate.’
    ‘Which way’s north?’
    ‘Towards Costcutter.’
    ‘Hold on . . . Ah!’
    ‘OK, press the button for 17B when you get there, then press “Call”.’
    Matt waited too long for her to have not reached the door, and thought maybe she was somewhere else entirely, then he heard the buzz of the entryphone.
    ‘Hello? It’s the seventeenth floor. I’ll leave the door open.’
    Charlotte’s reply was inaudible, but she didn’t buzz again, so Matt assumed she was in. As he went to put the phone away, he noticed two text messages from Charlotte’s number.
The first had been sent an hour ago, the second half an hour after that. Both said she was running ten minutes late.
    ‘Sorry! I know I’m a little bit late,’ Charlotte said as she came in through the open front door. She was slightly out of breath, even though she must have taken the lift. Her
cheeks were flushed, but her expression was businesslike, a combination that Matt found unsettling. She wore a dark denim jacket cut to accentuate her wide hips.
    Matt gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and offered to take the jacket. She handed it to him and swung her oversized handbag to the floor.
    ‘Is anybody here yet?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Good. That would have been embarrassing. Where’s the kitchen?’
    Matt showed her through.
    ‘Mmm. That smells good. What is it?’
    ‘That’s the paella. It’s for the vegetarians.’
    ‘Oh,’ Charlotte said, with a disappointed look at the pot. ‘What are we having?’
    ‘Roast lamb. It’s in the oven.’
    ‘Great. And what’s that?’ She pointed at the chopping board.
    ‘Snapper. For the ceviche.’
    ‘Right, good. You seem to have everything under control. I’ll get on with the pud, then.’ Charlotte swung her Tesco carrier bag on to the worktop. It lay there, shallow, flat
and square.
    Charlotte didn’t look at Matt as she took the box out of the bag. On the waxy cardboard packaging, Matt read: American-style Chocolate and Hazelnut Tart.
    ‘What?’ Charlotte said, without looking round. There was an aggressive edge in her voice.
    ‘I didn’t say anything.’
    ‘I was in a hurry, all right? I was going to make it myself, but I just ran out of time.’
    ‘Right. I’ve got stuff for a fruit salad if . . .’
    ‘No. We’re having chocolate tart.’
    ‘O-kay,’ Matt said slowly. ‘You don’t think anyone will notice?’
    ‘I’ve thought of that.’
    ‘Have you?’
    ‘Why don’t you just get on with your fish, OK?’
    Matt shrugged. ‘All right.’ He turned back to his chopping board a split second before he started grinning. How would they react to such an obviously shop-bought dessert? It could be
quite funny. After he’d seen their faces, Matt could always bring out the fruit salad. And what if they fell for it? That would be . . . But they wouldn’t fall for it. Nothing home-made
was that smooth. He chopped the rest of the snapper in silence before throwing it into a shallow dish