Last Supper

...Shocked and looking across the pinewood table at Paul she could barely register a word he was saying.
“I’m sorry to have to do it like this but I just feel like I owe you the truth.” His hands were laid open on the table, palms upward and facing the ceiling in an almost holy pose. His eyes looked teary and suffused with what she felt was blatant faux sincerity.”You know I pride myself on my honesty. I wouldn’t say this if it wasn’t true.”
Christine stared at the plate of food she had lovingly prepared earlier. Prawn cocktail, his favourite. The prawns had been stacked up in a tower that was shaped like a rook from a chess set. The tower was carefully placed on a mixed bed of dry crispy kelp and rocket and fashioned to look like a remote cliff top retreat. She had elaborated by fashioning little rocks for the base of the tower from croutons and had then coloured them dark with minute droplets of balsamic vinegar to give them an added sense of authenticity. Melon balls lay in pools of salted water crafted to look like buoys as if they had just drifted in from a windswept Nordic sea. The bread rolls had been carved to look like seagulls and were positioned so that they were bent over, dipping their crispy beaks into small nests of butter that sat on each side plate.
She was especially proud of the birds sculptures. She had specifically researched breeds of gull native to North Western Europe and had taken great care to ensure that every aspect of their physiology had been accurately recreated.
“God what a waste” she thought. The meal sat uneaten and mocking now, a bitter metaphor for her relationship.
“I think you know this will be better for us in the long term. Things haven’t been right between us for a long time now have they? I mean, you can’t say that this hasn’t been coming.” He leaned back in his chair cooly and placed his hands behind his head. “You work such long hours and you know that I have my needs as a man– at the end of the day I don’t feel that I’m being stimulated anymore...and that’s down to you.” He paused, clearly thinking, before continuing earnestly. “Try and look at it objectively. Now you can concentrate on your cooking more. You can really push for that star! I’m only holding you back. If you think about it what’s really happening is I’m helping you out by leaving. I’m doing this for your benefit. Long term I mean.”
She looked up at him then and was disgusted with herself for still finding him so handsome. Wordlessly she began to set about her prawn cocktail with relish. She brought the fork down on top of the tower and sliced it right down the middle in one clean stroke. She then slowly and deliberately broke off the seagulls head with her left hand. She speared two of the round melon buoys, mashed some of the prawns onto them and crammed the whole lot into her mouth, fork following fist grotesquely.
She chewed furiously...


Christine stood in her kitchen proudly with her hands on her hips. She looked at the huge fridge and the huge freezer, the blackened hobs and the steel sinks and smelled deeply the various fatty aromas and steams that arose all around. The kitchen porters were miserable, the waiters were distracted and the chefs were stressed, all was as it should be. This was her restaurant and tonight was her night.
Her chefs’ smock was almost a part of her now, it was the skin that she might shed at night but would never really take off. Her hat was customised and replete with a feather and numerous badges that demonstrated drama; elegance; humour; colour. Her trousers were striped rather than checked and she wore customised rubber non-slip shoes that cost her over £500 and that she insisted were worth every single penny. Everything about her screamed success, she just needed the reviews to prove it.


...She finished off the culinary trompe l’oeil with gusto and attempted to wipe the remnants of seafood sauce from her chin. With the napkin that she had concertinaed and fanned out to look like the tail of a peacock she wiped it, accidentally smearing her lipstick as she did so and giving the right corner of her mouth an inadvertent prostitutes finish. Paul was still talking.
“I mean after all I lent you the money didn’t I? I think that it’s only fair that I see my investment returned to me. We’ll be needing it you see – so we can find a new place. Of course you can keep the flat; I wouldn’t want to see you on the street...”
Christine reached out, took a fat swig of the by now thoroughly depleted bottle of white wine and reached for her cigarettes.
“I don’t want to hurt you Christine but it’s a necessary evil. I MUST go to her. I have to be happy, I owe it to myself – I deserve it.” His nostrils quivered and his eyes widened. “My god you’re not smoking mid-meal are you?”
She looked at him as she lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. Paul’s careful comb-over looked ready to flop down over his brow. She could swear steam was about to spurt up from the rim of his cashmere turtleneck sweater.
“This is my flat and I’ll smoke whenever I like Paul.” She signalled with her fork at his plate. “Are you gonna eat that?”
Without waiting for an answer she stood up and walked around the table and took his plate from him. Ash dropped onto his hand. She sat back down and begun to demolish his meal, pulling merrily on the cigarette in between mouthfuls and chugging wine down fervently...

Tonight was the unveiling of the new menu. Tonight Dan Nelson, esteemed critic from The Standard was coming. His opinion was important; with his badge of approval she would be right on track for the Michelin star. She clenched her fists – she was nervous and she didn’t mind admitting it. She decided to have a quick check out front to make sure everything was ok.
Bursting out of the double doors and into the dining area she surveyed the place. Rackwells, her beloved restaurant. She adored every inch of this place, the low ceilings, the curved alcoves cut into the rustic stone walls and the casual elegantly lit vinery that garbed the bar and the doorways and the trellises by the tables like a cool summer gown. She loved the tables too, the green wine bottles with red candles stuffed into the necks, the glistening cutlery and the cloud white plates decked out across the surfaces.
There was no music; there was just the quiet murmur of voices and the clink and the clank of service. The sound was all the music Christine needed, the bustle and noise of her own restaurant all she ever wanted to hear. It was a symphony to her.
She made her way over to the maitre d’, her non slip shoes squeaking on the wooden floor as she trod and looked him up and down for what felt like the millionth time. He’d been a hasty and recent appointment, replacing Paul at very short notice.
“Simon are we set?”
“Yeah we’re all good.” He had the air of a man who’d been asked the same question thousands of times before.
“Have Maggie go all around the free tables’ one more time, I don’t want any marks on those bloody glasses.”
“She’s already done it twice.”
“Look I just want everything to be perfect. Go and tell her will you.”
“Whatever you say Chrissie.”
“It’s Christine.”
“Christine.” She was sure she could detect a hint of sarcasm in his eyes.
He was an odious little man, squat and flat footed. He was completely bald yet he still somehow managed to maintain a thorough crop of pube like hair that at all times could be seen at the top of his neck, front and back. Christine was confident that the hair covered almost every inch of his torso like an enormous wiry fur rug. She had a sense for these things.
She checked her watch. 8.50pm. Nelson would at least be on his way by now.


...”Christine!” Paul exclaimed. “Can’t we be grown up about this?”
Christine finished off the food and burped. She took off her glasses and then laid them on the table next to a stray crouton that had slipped from the plate in the frenzy of fork and knife and malice that she had just exacted on his starter.
“Why? Are you hungry Paul?”
“I’m sorry ok! I know this isn’t what you had in mind when you invited me round here.”
“You got that right.”
“Look we just connected. These things happen. I was powerless-“
“Your dick was powerless. You knew what you were doing.”
“Her and I, we have everything in common. You and I, well all we have is Rackwells. Our restau-“
“My fucking restaurant Paul. Mine.”
“Bought with my money. All I’m asking is a little recompense now and the rest by the end of next month. That’s not too much to ask is it? I need it. WE need it.”
“What so you and your bit of fluff can settle down and have wee pompous kiddies, feeding them foie gras and soufflé instead of baby food whilst I’m out on my arse and bankrupt? No thanks.”
“When you get angry you get vulgar. It’s more than a little pathetic.”
“Well I guess that’s the Glasgow in me love.” She pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. She felt sick...

Christine watched Simon closely from behind the bar. He looked like he’d been squashed into his suit. How was she supposed to create a good impression tonight with that troglodyte greeting the guests? He didn’t have Paul’s casual grace or his winning smile.
She shook herself, violently shrugging off the memory of him. She had to remain on task. Tonight was too important. She poured herself the third nerve steadying drink of the night. It was a healthy one; four parts gin to one part ginger ale. She raised it to her lips and put it down again before adding a cube of ice to take the edge off.
She drank lustily and thought about the evening. She’d seat Nelson in the corner so he’d have the optimum view of the restaurant, letting him see her team of handpicked waiters zipping about the dining room like cross pollinating bees. Then it would be on to the meet and greet. She’d send Simon over there and she’d watch him closely, reading his lips and making sure he stuck closely to the script she’d given him, the “Hello sir”, the “May I take your jacket?”, the “How was your journey?” She’d watch the oily smiles and the casual small talk, the open and over friendly body language and the insipid yet necessary sycophancy. She’d drilled it into Simon and God help him if he failed to deliver.
She savoured the tang of the fiery liquid at the back of her throat and winced as she swallowed it down, feeling it carve a trail right down to her empty stomach. It was up to her tonight. She had to take the bull by the balls. This was her meal and that was where the buck stopped. She finished the last of the drink and poured herself another, bigger than the last.
As she poured she looked down at her hands. They looked gross and pulpy to her, sallow and fat. She stared through casually unfocused eyes at the veins as they seemed to become more tumescent, increasing their blue colour and practically glowing beneath her paper like skin. She could feel them throbbing and pulsating, her hands two balloons at the end of each of her arms inflating and deflating steadily like two autonomous bags of the darkest blood imaginable. She thought deeply about what she had done. She thought of Paul.

...By now she was drunk. She had finished off all the wine in a matter of minutes, recklessly throwing it back purely because it would irritate him.
“You’re being churlish Chrissie.”
She laughed cruelly. Turning her hurt feelings into something far darker.
“The thing is Paul, that I actually don’t care about what you say. I really don’t.” She placed both hands on the table and leaned forward violently as she uttered the final word, lurching forward a little in her drunken state. The flame on the candle nearest to her blew out in spiteful exhalation. “I never have.”
“Look maybe I should just leave. It’s obvious that I’m not going to get any adult conversation here. I had hoped that I could do this sensibly but obviously you’re not going to let that happen.”
“Obviously.”
He turned in his seat and made to rise, ready to leave and glad to do it but stalled at the look on Christine’s face. She was suddenly contrite and anxious for him to stay; she wanted to postpone the finality of his departure.
“Please wait.” Her voice cracked slightly – more than she intended. “At least eat this last meal with me.”
He sighed in that pompous way of his and sat once more, humouring his drunken companion. He maintained his disinterested air.
“Can I at least eat this course myself then?”...

9.30pm. it was time. Christine hurried into the kitchen yelling orders to the staff. She was a dictator, this was her country and these were her subjects working her land. As the staff set about their tasks she went to the doors and peered out the porthole, swaying slightly as she watched Simon who was glancing at his watch. It was 9.45. The front doors swung open.

...They ate the roast beef in silence. It had been quite badly overcooked as it had sat neglected and temporarily forgotten in the oven. It was now tough and chewy. Minutes passed.
“So are you going to tell me her name then?”
“Isabel.”
Christine drank yet more wine. The tone had become slightly more cordial now as she settled into the slow acceptance that the relationship was over. However she had still opted for the most expensive Bordeaux they had and had taken great pleasure in Pauls slow realisation, disapproval and attempts at concealing his irritation.
“And what does she do?”
“She’s a journalist.”
“Oh?”
He said nothing. He spooned another mouthful of steak into his mouth followed by some damp looking red cabbage. He visibly forced it down.
“And what does she write?”
“She’s a critic.”
“Film? Theatre? The NME?”
“Don’t be facetious. I think you can take a bloody good guess at what kind of critic she is.”
“Of course!” Yes of course. A food critic; she simply had to be. Christine found herself practically choking on the irony. “What paper?”
“The Standard.”
She emitted a small cry that was for the most part bitter laughter but was also part abject dismay. She then really started to laugh. Bitter little bursts of air squirted out of her nose as her shoulders shook, it was too much. She took another drink, composing herself. It really was an excellent wine.
“There’s a critic from the Standard coming to Rackwell’s next week you know.”
“I did know that actually.”
“I bet you did.”...

A woman walked into the restaurant. Her shoulder length brown hair shook like a shampoo advert as she glided over to Simon who was busy mopping his brow with a red handkerchief. Christine watched them exchanging words. Simon reached behind his head absent mindedly and began twiddling the hair at the back of his neck between his forefinger and his thumb. He pointed at the corner table – the table reserved for Dan Nelson. Christine rested her head against the glass wearily. Her breath steamed against the glass as Simon turned and approached.
He entered.
“Change of plan. Dan can’t make it tonight so they’ve sent someone else.”
“I saw.”
Simon shifted from one foot to the other, his furry hands stuffed into his pockets, waiting for Christine to say something and in no rush to hear it. She remained silent though he could swear he heard teeth grinding within her pursed lips. “So?...”
“So what?”
“I mean, what’s the plan?”
“Nothing’s changed Simon.” She lied.
“So there’s no change in script or anything?”
“Oh just use your judgement will you. That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“Ok.” He left. She didn’t need to watch him to know that his fixed automatic grin was etched across his fat shaven face.
Sighing she made her way to the kitchen. It was time for a menu adjustment.


...“How long?”
“A few weeks. A month and a half maybe.” He’d pushed the remainder of the beef away after painfully forcing three quarters of it down. “Did you make any dessert?”
“Raspberry cheesecake.”
“Oh, well you know I love cheesecake Chrissie. But I’ve got to admit, I’m a little full.”
“How about I bring it out and you can maybe just try a little...For me?”
“Well I suppose I could. I’ll give it a proper professional appraisal.” He winked at her.
Christine sashayed into the kitchen. She felt as if a keen buzzing noise was ghosting around inside her head. Like the alien ringing of tinnitus she felt it, the cool and deliberate fury of betrayal washing and lapping against the inside of her mind. On the breakfast bar the cheesecake lay. Next to it was the knife. She picked up the cake with a pointed glance back to the knife and carefully carried it back into the lounge where Paul sat at the table tapping away at his phone...

Starter

Slow cooked Hens Egg with Pearl Barley Parmesan Cream and Rosemary.

Main course:
Roast Loin of Salt Marsh Lamb with Rosemary Potatoes and Summery Salad moistened with Olive Oil.

Dessert
Mint and Chocolate Parfait with Fresh Mint Sorbet

She made her way to the walk in fridge. To her left as she walked in was a large blue ice box that had been sealed up with gaffa tape around the edges. She opened it up, using a knife to slice the tape apart. Inside the box were several sealed polythene bags containing various hunks of meat differing in size and girth. She chose the choicest cut she could. It was dark and wine red. Seams of blood ran down in rivulets and collected at the bottom corners of the bag as she held it up to the light, her breath steaming out and clouding the bag with condensation. This was all very fitting.
Soon she was cooking. She forgot all about the alcohol in her system and simply allowed its loosening effects to aid her. It was almost as if she was floating above herself watching her body work. Her nervousness ebbed away, as did all of her other emotions. All that was left was Paul, the way his hair fell, the olive hue of his skin and the way he airily waved his hands as he articulated himself. She thought of him inside her and between her legs at night and felt the burn and the pain of the thought of him doing the same with Isabel. She remembered the parties they’d been to and the friends she thought they had had. She remembered the thrill of opening the restaurant together and the first time he had walked her into this very kitchen standing behind her and edging her inside the doorway with a smile on his face and his hands over her eyes so as not to spoil that first wondrous surprise. She remembered vaguely the first time she had met him.
As she poured and kneaded and kept a watchful eye on cooking times she thought about how it was all over now and she thought about how her hand had been forced. She remembered the look of panic in his eyes and the flopping and flailing of his arms and his muffled cries of shock and horror in those final few violent moments.
And with all that came a liberation. She poured all her feelings into the food, right into the ingredients and the careful preparation, the sauces and the dressings and the delicate flourishes of presentation. Christine’s dark hair fell over her face as she worked, oblivious to everything around her as she stood, lost in her head and enjoying every glorious minute of the work.
The starter and the altered main course came and went in no time at all and as the final flourish of the dessert was completed she rang for service. When the ringer chimed out to her as loudly as any cathedral bell had ever done she started violently. Her hands started to shake and she could feel her pulse quicken in the aftermath of the catharsis she had just gone through.
Simon appeared through the doors ready to collect, his round flustered face all of a sudden a joy to look upon.
“You done?”
“Yes I think I am.”
“You think you are?”
“No. I know I am.”
“Ok.” He held out his hands.
“Actually I think I’ll take it to her myself.”

...“Paul.”
He looked up.
“Is there really nothing I can say to change your mind?”
His face softened.
“Chrissie baby. I’m sorry but I’m in love. And it’s not with you. We’re over.”
“Ok.” She breathed deeply. “But what about the restaurant?”
“I’d never take that away from you. But I want my money back, and I want it as soon as is possible. I don’t want things to have to get messy. Legally I mean.” He returned his attention to his phone. “It’s nothing personal you understand.”
“But you know I can’t afford!...” She stopped and collected herself.
“I’m sorry. But there’s nothing to be done about it.”
She made a monumental effort to force some cheer into her voice but it only came out as bitter and taut.
“Hey well at least we had this meal together eh? What did you think of it? Here.” Standing next to him at the end of the table she placed the cheesecake in front of him.
The buzzing in her head had begun again.
“Tell me what you think. How does it look? Do you like it? You always used to love my cheesecake Paul. That was the one thing you always said I did better than anybody else. You remember, I know you do. Chrissie you’d say, that cheesecake. That’s your speciality. Well here’s your favourite and just one last time I want you to try a bit and give me your honest opinion. It’s me you’re talking to here, it’s the same old me and it’s the same old cake! You won’t get any better anywhere else, believe me I know. Nothing’s changed! Nothing at all!”
“Well alright.”
He tentatively took a forkful, cutting downward so as to get an even slice of each layer. He put it into his mouth and chewed carefully. Christine watched unblinkingly, she couldn’t hear a thing. Her hands tightly gripped the back of the chair that she stood behind.
“WELL?”
“Honestly?”
“Yes!”
The pitching buzz in her head threatened to overwhelm her completely.
He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled derisively.
“Well to be perfectly candid with you it’s a little... ”
She didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence.
Wordlessly she grabbed the back of his head holding a huge chunk of his hair and scalp as hard as she could in her fist. With her other hand she picked up a handful of the cake and stuffed it into his face as hard as she could, cramming as much into his mouth as was humanly possible.
She then pushed him back off his chair, his foot flicking upward and hitting the underneath of the table which in turn knocked the cake onto the floor. Now Paul was on his back – still reeling from what had been a powerful ramming blow to the face – his nose bled freely.
Christine pushed the cake across the floor towards him. Her mind was a blank emotionless canvas. She straddled him and held his nose and then began stuffing his mouth with cheesecake in quick forceful shoves. Each time she grabbed a handful she pushed it in deep inside his squirming mouth as far as it would go, forcing her hand in up to the knuckle and sometimes even beyond. She ignored the noise and suppressed his struggles beneath her weight for a time but both were long since finished by the time she forced the last bit of cake into him.
When he was dead she rolled off and lay on her back breathing heavily as she stared at the ceiling. She’d never killed anybody before. She couldn’t deny it; she was as exhilarated as she was ashamed. Her heart rate soared inside of her and she closed her eyes.
After a time the buzzing in her ears gradually subsided and she climbed up and on to her feet.
She then set about tidying the table, carrying the plates into the kitchen where they would need a good scrub. She simply could not abide mess...

“Good evening.”
“Oh hello there.”
“We were expecting Mr Nelson tonight. I do hope everything’s ok with him?”
“Oh yes sorry about that, he was called away very suddenly. He never mentioned why. They asked me to fill in.”
“Yes I can see that. You must be Miss Ross?”
“Why yes how did you know?”
“I’m a great fan of your work.”
“Well that’s very nice of you to say. I guess now I can honestly say that the feelings mutual.”
Neither of them laughed.
“Oh so you enjoyed your meal then?”
“Oh yes. The dessert in particular.”
“I am pleased. They’re my speciality you know.”
“Yes I’ve heard all about them.”
“I can imagine you have.”
Miss Ross looked up at her sweetly. Christine smiled back. Her hands were behind her back, one gripped the wrist of the other arm tightly.
“I see you have a new Maitre’D.”
“Yes. Pauls moved on.”
“Oh? That’s a shame.”
“Yes it is rather. I think we’ll manage though. After all, it’s all about the food isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s all about the food here.”
“And the food was really good wasn’t it?”
“Well I enjoyed it.”
“Wonderful. At least you’re happy. That’s the main thing.”
“Yes. That’s the main thing.”


...Once the plates had been cleared away and washed and the table had been wiped down she looked upon his body splayed out christ like on the floor with legs together and arms out wide. She couldn’t leave him there. He couldn’t stay here anymore.
She went to the kitchen and fetched newspapers, a knife, some polythene bags and a large blue ice box to put him in...

Christine nodded at Isabel. She tried to force a smile but it came across as more of a constipated grimace. Isabel smiled back, her pretty eyes glittering sweetly. Christine turned on her heels and stalked back to her kitchen then. She didn’t plan on reading the newspapers in the morning but she fully expected that the reviews would be favourable.