Alex George - Before Your Very Eyes

‘Hello. Simon from downstairs.’ Simon proffered the bottle of wine as a fleeing refugee might attempt to bribe border guards.

‘Oh. Right,’ said the man. ‘Come on in. We’re just getting going.’ He took the bottle without bothering to read the label, and turned to go back into the flat.

‘You been here before?’ asked Angus/Fergus over his shoulder. His voice was ripe with public school fruitiness, and ridiculously deep. He sounded like an aristocratic Darth Vader who had taken testosterone boosters.

‘No,’ squeaked Simon self-consciously. He cleared his throat and followed his host. The flat was in total disarray. The corridor was lined with piles of magazines, garlanded with dirty socks and crumpled underpants. There were no pictures on the walls. The carpet had been worn bare at several points. There was the unmistakable smell of unwashed laundry, uncleaned toilets, unemptied bins. It was the smell of two men living together.

‘Right,’ said Angus/Fergus, as they went into the sitting room. ‘Here we all are. Let me do some introductions.’ He pointed at an equally large man who was sitting at one end of the table which sat in the middle of the room. ‘Him you know, obviously.’ Simon nodded weakly. This was the other host, whichever of Angus or Fergus that Angus/Fergus was not. Simon swallowed. This wasn’t going to be easy. Angus/Fergus continued. ‘Next to him is Stella, then Joe. Over there is Delphine, and next to her is Suzy.’

Simon nodded, trying to take everything in. The other people around the table hadn’t stopped talking or even looked up.

‘Tell you what, why don’t you stick yourself there,’ said Angus/Fergus, pointing to the empty chair next to Delphine. He winked at Simon. ‘You’ll get on well with Delphine. Fantastic bit of totty. French. Très sophistiquée .’ He lowered his voice to a mild bellow. ‘Goes like a shit house door in a hurricane. Drink?’

‘Er, thanks,’ said Simon.

‘Margarita?’

‘OK. Fine.’

‘Right. Back in a tick.’

As Simon hesitantly sat down next to Delphine, she momentarily half-turned her head towards him and smiled, before turning back to the conversation.

Not much, really, but it was enough.

Delphine was extraordinarily beautiful. She had rich, dark hair which hung down past her shoulders. She wore a sleeveless dress which showed her exquisitely turned arms. From where he sat Simon had a good view of her long and elegant neck, but what he really wanted to see again was her face. In those few moments that she had acknowledged him, he had had the sensation of having the breath knocked out of him. Delphine had huge, beautiful, dark green almond-shaped eyes, which were embellished by the longest eyelashes Simon had ever seen. Her mouth was delectable, too, a perfect oasis of dark, kissable lips.

Simon’s brain began to haemorrhage all of the information he had been hoarding so carefully over the past few weeks. He could almost hear the facts whizz out of his ears, and realized that all of his careful preparation had been fruitless. Two minutes of sitting next to Delphine had been enough to empty his head of everything except the knowledge that she was without question the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. Oh great, he thought bitterly. I get to sit next to the perfect woman, and then have nothing to say to her. And she goes like a shit house door in a hurricane. Just my bloody luck.

Simon stared numbly at the table in front of him as the conversation continued without him. Come on, he told himself. Get a grip. He waited for a lull in the conversation, which, to his surprise, was not about Jacques Derrida, but instead was about a popular soap opera. Finally there was a pause, and Delphine turned back towards Simon to pick up her glass.

‘Hi,’ said Simon, who had now worked out what he was going to say.

Delphine turned her eyes on Simon as she took a sip of her drink. ‘Hi,’ she replied, smiling.

‘Er,’ said Simon, who had now forgotten what he was going to say. Delphine’s gaze was the equivalent of a cerebral enema. There was immediate and total evacuation of the brain.

Her eyebrows arched. ‘I’m Delphine,’ she said, her French accent adding to the already alluring cocktail of sensual stimuli she was presenting.

Simon gulped, and wished he had something to do with his hands. ‘I’m Simon,’ he said. ‘Very nice to meet you.’

‘Nice to meet you too, Simon,’ replied Delphine, and delivered a soul-destroying smile of impossible perfection. Simon felt himself spiritually crumple.

‘Who do you –’ began Simon, only to see Delphine turn back to the conversation at the other end of the table. He was left once again to contemplate the graceful, swan-like lines of her neck. Well, he thought, that went pretty well, considering that you’re behaving like a complete fucking moron.

A few moments later a large glass of off-white liquid was plonked down in front of him. A dusting of salt sat around the rim of the glass. ‘There you go,’ said Angus/Fergus jovially. ‘Get that down you and you’ll feel more in the mood.’ He released a loud guffaw.

‘Thanks,’ said Simon, eyeing the contents of the glass suspiciously. It had been a long time since he had drunk margaritas. He took a tentative sip, 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.