It Was Meant To Be a Treat

 by Cath Barton

a large glass of good Burgundy

I put down my fork, folded my arms and raised the thumb and index finger of my left hand to my mouth. It’s something I do when I’m bemused. I don’t know how long I stayed like that, maybe twenty seconds. My sister Elaine was looking at me, waiting for me to respond to what she’d just told me. Eventually I lowered my hand, bit my lower lip and shook my head slowly. Then I picked up my glass, took a sip of wine and wiped my mouth with my napkin. The wine was good, much better than I’d usually drink, but this was supposed to be a treat for Elaine’s birthday.

‘Say something, for goodness sake.’ She was folding and refolding her napkin, smoothing the folds over and over.

I poured us both more wine, picked up my fork and continued to eat my salad. The prawns were very large and very garlicky; I chewed each one slowly.

‘Have one,’ I said, holding out my bowl.

‘No, no, I can’t, Simon doesn’t like – ’ My sister’s voice tailed off.

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Doesn’t like what?’ I said. ‘Kissing a woman with garlicky breath?’I kept my voice down, as Elaine had done. Neither or us wanted to attract attention from the other diners.

‘You’re angry,’ she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her right ear and then rubbing her hand on her jaw.

‘Why would I be angry?’ I said. ‘Drink your wine.’ I pointed to the bottle. ‘No point in wasting it.’

Elaine was toying with a piece of dry bread, crumbling it on the tablecloth.

I took a deep breath; she opened her eyes wide.

‘So,’ I put my hands down flat on the tablecloth. ‘Are you going to carry on?’

‘What do you mean, carry on?’ she said. ‘Yes. No. Yes. I don’t know what you mean.’ Her voice tailed off and she looked down at her lap.

‘With this affair,’ I said.

‘Why do you have to put it like that?’

‘How else would you like me to put it? Dalliance? Liaison? Fling? If you’re not going to drink your wine I’ll have it,’ I said, reaching across for Elaine’s glass, but she took hold of the stem and pulled it towards her, spilling a little of the red wine on the white tablecloth. The stain spread quickly.

‘You sound so –, so cold,’ she said’ ‘I thought you would understand. Oh hell, now look what I’ve done.’ She was dabbing ineffectually at the mark.

I hadn’t seen this coming. I had thought Elaine happily married. And Gary wasn’t just my brother-in-law; he was my friend.

‘Understand?’ I laughed now.

‘What’s funny?’ she said.

‘Nothing’s funny, nothing at all. It’s ludicrous. To throw your life up in the air for Simon.’ I said his name with a hiss.

‘I love him.’

I shook my head and bit my lip.

‘Pudding?’ I said. Elaine shook her head.

‘Silly me asking, Simon wouldn’t like that either, would he?’ I laughed again. ‘Did you tell Gary you were having lunch with me, by the way?’

‘You wouldn’t– You won’t– oh my God, please don’t tell Gary – ’

I laughed again. It had not actually occurred to me to do such a thing, and I never would, but Elaine could wriggle for a bit. I picked up her glass and downed the rest of the wine in one.

‘I have a meeting at 2 o’clock,’ I said as I stood up. And left before she could say any more, glad that I’d ordered that ridiculously expensive wine; she could pay for it. 

About the author 

Visit Cath's web site at  https://cathbarton.com/  

Burgundy

By Lynn Clement

 Burgundy

The thing I most liked about Sherrington Woods was the colour in the fading sun of late autumn. Copper and dun woven together to lay a patterned carpet along our path. The early mornings, when Jack had waved his spiky fingers, crisping the edges of each rustic leaf. Where white webs that were woven overnight, wrapped themselves round our faces, sticky and clinging and complex. It makes me shiver now. But it was the surprise of the hoary headed mushrooms, unexpectedly emerging through the earth in the damp shade of the leaden oak, which reminds me of you. And what was.

‘Hello Jessy, how are you?’ A voice interrupts my thoughts.

‘I’m good David,’ I reply.

‘I’m loving your painting Jessy, it’s really taking shape now.’

‘Yes,’ I say.

David means well, but he doesn’t understand. No one will ever understand.

‘Do you have all the colours that you need?’ He asks.

‘Sure,’ I give.

Red is red, is red; I think - except when it’s scarlet.

I need David to leave me alone now. He usually does, wafting off to go and help some other deserving soul. I have to get this bit right. His eyes dart around the room, he does this all the time. Today there are only four of us, so he shouldn’t be so uptight. Lauren is sick. And that’s the truth. Unfortunately that means he’ll have more time for me.

Yellow and red makes orange, like fire. The story of our relationship really. You mellow yellow and me blood red. Then you turned grey. Fungus like. Sucking the colour out of me.

I bought a cherry red hair dye, just like in that photo you secreted in your bedside drawer. The one with the scarlet lipstick kiss on it.

But you didn’t like it. ‘It’s not you,’ you said. It’s not her, you meant. So I went back to black, and made vermillion lines on my arms instead.

‘Does the pallet knife help with the texture, Jessy?’ David again from across the room.

‘Yes, thank you,’

The broad blade spreads the thick claret colour across the sienna, just like it did that day. Oozing and mingling and pooling on the orange and brown, rusty splashed carpet.

I can see David approaching from the corner of my eye and I know what he’s going to say.

‘Oh, you’ve spoiled your painting, Jessy,’ – just as I’d anticipated, so I lift the knife.

He hits the red button, and they come for me.

I’ll start the painting again, next time I’m allowed out.

Sherrington Woods was so lovely.