Etiquette for a Dinner Party by Sue Orr Read Free Book Online Page B

covered in crumbs.
    'Wine tasting — since when did you start drinking wine?' He had practised this sentence as he'd lifted his heavy body out of bed and pulled on jeans and a shirt. Practised it in his head, making it sound casual, mature. They came out okay, the actual words. Considering.
    'Since I met Roger. Roger Greerson. You know — the vineyard Greersons, out at Te Puna? I've got some news, Jim.'
    His mother's smile went all the way to her ears. Which he now noticed had diamond earrings in them.
    'Roger and I are an item, I suppose you'd say.'
    He picked up the jam jar, stabbed at its contents with his knife, and spread the thick blend of dark red fruit across his toast. It looked like road kill.
    'Mum. That's great. How long have you . . . you know, been . . .' Been what? Don't take your mind there . . .
    'Oh, not long, probably about six months now.'
    The beige slipper on Rose's right foot jiggled up and down like an oversexed rodent.
    'I was going to tell you over the phone a couple of times, but we always get sidetracked talking about the kids. He was here last night, but he shot off to the vineyard early this morning; he's got stuff to do.'
    Like avoiding being smacked over in bed, Jim thought.
    'Though he said he'd call in later, say hello. He's keen to see you again.'
    'Excellent,' said Jim. He finished jamming his toast. Blood and gore. One big accident.
    His mother poured more tea. Endless cups of tea were a part of his coming-home ritual and he believed, sincerely, that no one made a cup of tea like his mother. The first cup of tea he ever had was with her and his father, when he was twelve and on holiday in Auckland.
    This cup of tea tasted weak. As though not enough time had been put into it. He was sulking now, in a pathetic sort of a way. Although he recognised this, he didn't rise above it. He just didn't feel like it.
    Jim remembered the brochure. He looked around and saw it poking out from a pile of women's magazines on a chair in the corner of the room. He put it back on the table while Rose prattled on.
    'Yes. Now. Roger. Well, Mary, his wife, she passed away about six years ago . . . Do you remember her Jim?'
    'Um yes, vaguely . . .'
    'Well, Roger joined the Bridge Club, that's where we met. Properly, you know . . . I mean really got to know each other . . .'
    She went on about Roger, the vineyard, sauvignon blanc and how much Roger looked like Vince Martin, the guy off the tyre ads. And had Jim ever noticed that, Rose wanted to know.
    'Who?' Jim asked.
    'That Vince Martin. The one that's been on the Beaurepaires ad for such a long time. Or is it Tony's Tyre Service. No, it's definitely Beaurepaires. That's the other tyre ad, isn't it. The one where he says, Hi, I'm Vince Martin and this is a bald tyre.'
    'God . . . I mean . . . I, I don't really know Mum. I wouldn't have seen Roger Greerson for ten years, probably.'
    'Well you know who I mean, don't you. Roger does a fantastic impersonation of him. It's his party trick. That Vince Martin guy. Beaurepaires. He's never changed his looks, never really aged.'
    Vince Martin, or Roger Greerson? Who had bought his mother new diamond earrings, evidently. To replace the ones she'd always worn, the ones he'd bought her back from overseas.
    Jim needed to get out. Away from the little kitchen table, from the third breakfast plate covered in Roger Greerson's crumbs. This was how the three bears had felt after Goldilocks' home invasion.
    'Mum. Let's go out. Into town. Let's go shopping.'
    'Oh . . . that would be lovely Jim, but no . . . Roger's taking me out for lunch. You're coming too, of course.' Rose fiddled with her left earring. .

    It wasn't that Jim didn't want to see Roger, or have lunch with them. He just needed to go for a run. He went most weekends, on Saturday morning. So this had nothing to do with Roger, or Roger and his mother, or Vince Martin.
    He ran hard for half an hour, around the boundary of his old primary school with its sturdy brick