Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

Andrew is alone in the apartment, with too much time to think.

We never had any complaints – about the noise – when I was living at The Croft, but the house was detached, of course, and the walls were thick and well insulated. I hadn’t given it a second thought since I moved into the apartment, but ten minutes ago I was double-teamed by Simon (number 4a) and Antoinette who must inhabit 3b, since she can hear my every move, and my late night dancing plays havoc with her ceiling lights. How diplomatic of her to call it dancing, when those days are long gone and I would describe it as stumbling or shuffling at best. She didn’t mention the sobbing; perhaps she was not at home that night and in my defence I haven’t touched the Grey Goose since. Simon and I do not share the same taste in music, it would appear, since he did not respond well to my inquiry about his piano. It is not electric and cannot be turned down. I could have explained that I had been biting my tongue about the endless scales and I might have applauded him for learning a second tune, but I had no desire to act like a dick (he had that covered, in his silk shirt) in front of Antoinette. She looks like a fellow traveller to me. The hair, the clothes, and the wrist tattoo: we could have crossed paths in our twenties and given how things were for a while it’s possible we swapped saliva. But I mustn’t think like that; it’s the hangover and fatigue and these trains of thought will only serve to sabotage my plan.

Fred told me to write it down, but come on: I have a notebook for each client instruction in the office and have I declared the apartment a sacred space where work and notebooks must not intrude. Besides, Sally would find it the moment she stepped foot in here. She will one day, I’m sure of it. It’s in the plan and within my power to make it happen, according to Fred. Step foot in the apartment, that is, not find the notebook, which doesn’t exist. What I do think might be useful is the odd Post-it stuck to one of the kitchen cabinets, the wall behind the TV and the mirror above the hall stand. Stay focused; think about Sally; win back Sally; apologise; don’t be a dick (maybe I don’t need that one); that kind of thing. I’d have to be careful what I put in the hall, in the event that Antoinette needs a cup of sugar, or wants to remind me about the music or is seized by a sudden desire to join in with the shuffling. There I go again, and that’s the problem with this apartment: the hours of solitude; too much time for disturbing thoughts and for being disturbed by downstairs neighbours with wrist tattoos and dimpled chins and a look in their eyes which says, yes, it does take one to know one and what are you going to do about it?

Was Fred serious when he suggested I live with him? ‘You can move in here if you like, but it would be me doing you the favour, don’t forget that. And you’d have to pay rent.’ What a charming way to reach out, but I’m not sure I could afford it – which is novel – given I’m paying the mortgage on The Croft and rent on the apartment. Monthly expenses, that would be a useful notebook, but that was Sally’s purview. Still is. The rent on this apartment is too high, but it’s funny how she doesn’t question the money I spend indulging Fred’s unquenchable thirst for new culinary experiences. It’s kangaroo tonight. How am I supposed to cook that? She would know, but I’m standing on my own two feet. I can tell her about it tomorrow, assuming she doesn’t cancel. They wouldn’t let me book the table in the window at The Olive Tree because it’s first come first serve, and the fellow who answered the phone didn’t think a romantic gesture and potential reconciliation was sufficient reason to bend the rules. He didn’t appreciate my pun about an olive branch either. When I tried it on Sally a couple of weeks ago, she told me not to be such a smart arse, but she was chuckling.

There’s an alarm going off in the car park, but it’s not mine and nor is it Simon’s. I don’t know which one is his, since the car park is also first come first served. Whatever happened to making reservations and designated parking, and what if someone wishes to entertain an overnight guest who arrives in a motor vehicle? I should have asked Simon, but he didn’t want to talk other than to confirm, through his teeth, ‘It’s not me. I have checked’. I bet he keeps a notebook. I imagine my transgressions have been recorded in columns and rows and backed up to the cloud. Or is it The Cloud? He gave me a nod as if to say well done for keeping the noise down, which reminded me to turn it back up when I got back in. At which point a gentle knock on the floor from my intriguing neighbour below reminded me of my responsibilities. Who needs Post-its when you have neighbours like mine and friends like Fred and Nancy and Sid?

Last week Sally said ‘Here we go: your specialist subject’ when I mentioned something about Fred, and I wondered if she remembered saying the same about Nancy. She said it more than once, but she hadn’t said it for years and maybe it’s something she has always said, to lots of people, about all sorts of things. Like a family joke; the kind of phrase siblings use to wind each other up. Not that Sally has ever wound me up. It was always the other way round until she threw me out. It’s more that I set myself off into a spiral of introspection and regret when I think about her. Fred winds me up, of course. I think he was put on earth for that sole purpose, but Sally says that’s me being narcissistic again; and if he was put on earth for that, he’s making up for lost time.

*

Kangaroo steaks with red wine sauce, sweet potato chips and a medley of wild mushrooms. If I had known that Sally had been invited, I would have nixed the mushrooms in favour of roasted carrots which would have meant switching from sweet to regular spuds. No one complained about the wine. When Fred said he had invited a guest and told me to cater for three – told, not asked – I assumed Nancy or Sid would be putting in an appearance as per. It must have been one or the other who supplied him with her contact details and it would have been nice of them to let me know what to expect. So much for old loyalties. My second double-team of the day, but there was no charming my way out of this one. Can’t blame a person for trying though. Once Sally or Fred, I don’t remember who, suggested I sit down and stop fussing, it all went rather well and so far she hasn’t cancelled tomorrow. She let me drive her home, which more than made up for her and Fred hogging the wine, and now I have a clear head and I’m in my own bed instead of waking up with a sore head and parched throat in Fred’s spare room. I’ll message Sid to go in and check on him. My old mucker, my partner in crime, can make the old sod some breakfast. He takes a while to get going after half a bottle of red. Let’s see how Sid gets on with an early morning dose of Mr. Lapham.

We’re meeting at eleven, but I’m aiming for half ten to get the table they won’t reserve. Not that I’m trying to control the situation, but I want things to be right. I don’t know if I want Sally to be aware of how much effort I’m making. I mean I do, but who wants to appear desperate, regardless of whether they are or not? What would she prefer? What would Fred do? God, I can’t believe I’m asking that. Fred would not do anything other than arrive on time, stand up when the lady arrives and pull the chair out for her. He’d pay the bill, I assume, which would be novel, and he would not talk about himself. The last bit’s good, but I’ll have to do better than old fashioned gender dynamics. It wouldn’t be cool to make notes on my palm, like a schoolboy cheating in an exam, but a few prompts would be helpful: Stay focused; think about Sally; win back Sally; apologise; don’t be a dick. I haven’t thought about Antoinette since I opened the door to Sally last night. Fred Lapham is one wily old fox.