The Last Supper

The divorce papers were spread across the table and Peter signed in an illegible scrawl that looked as if a spider with inky feet had scuttled across the page...

It was an amicable divorce. As Peter was fond of saying, they had married too young and grown apart. Alice’s idea of heaven was a quiet night in with a book, whereas Peter… well, since he met Sheena, he was no longer that dull middle-aged man who spent his weekends mowing the lawn and power washing the car. Sheena had opened his eyes to a new world. There were dinner parties and music festivals and even, he told Alice when he returned to fetch his record collection (or vinyl as he insisted on calling it), the ballet. Alice could no more imagine Peter watching a ballet than she could an elephant driving a car, but he described the experience as ‘magical’, a word he never used in the power-washing days.

Their daughter Lucy wasn’t speaking to him and their son never spoke to either of them if he could help it. Today, both children were out, Lucy was staying at a friend’s house for the weekend, and Adam was at a gaming convention in Coventry. Alice stirred the stroganoff. It was Peter’s favourite and even he admitted Sheena wasn’t much of a cook. As far as Alice could tell, the two of them subsisted on take-aways on the rare occasions when they were home. The meal was her suggestion, a last supper to celebrate signing the divorce papers. Peter was going to buy a motorbike and drive Route 66 with Sheena riding pillion and Alice would formally add the lawn cutting and power-washing to her list of chores.

Peter arrived wearing sunglasses and a pink shirt with a fancy logo embroidered above the right nipple. He held out a bottle of red as she opened the door. It was more expensive than the stuff he usually drank, and Alice wondered if Sheena had chosen it.

‘Thanks, but do you mind if we don’t? I’m trying to cut down and it makes it harder if someone else is drinking.’

‘Sure.’ Peter shrugged and placed the bottle next to the coat rack as he removed his shoes. Previously they had done dry January together, but since he left, Alice had kept going. Booze was expensive, and she found she didn’t miss it. As he followed her into the kitchen, Peter was still wearing his sunglasses like an ageing rock star who was desperately trying to remain cool.

‘Supper smells good.’

The divorce papers were spread across the table and he signed in an illegible scrawl that looked as if a spider with inky feet had scuttled across the page. She used to joke he should have been a doctor, although his bedside manner might have been a problem. The only ailments that interested her now ex husband were his own.

The stroganoff went down a treat. She’d bought the best rump steak, which was so tender it fell apart as you ate, and for pudding she’d made apple crumble, another favourite and easy once you’d mastered the custard.

‘Delicious,’ Peter said dabbing his mouth with his napkin (linen seeing it was a special occasion and the paper ones left over from Christmas were decorated with holly and robins). He had finally taken his sunglasses off and was lounging contentedly in his chair. ‘Sheena asked if she could have the recipe. She wants to learn how to cook, although I’ve told her she’ll never be as good as you.’ He grinned, pleased with the compliment. ‘I’m glad we can stay friends, a lot of women…’ he paused, weighing his words, ‘wouldn’t have been so understanding.’

As he was tying his shoes, Alice transcribed the recipe. She could have taken a picture and sent it to his phone, but she wanted Sheena to sense her presence. At the bottom, she drew a smiley face to show there were no hard feelings.

The call came the following day and, at first, Alice couldn’t make out what Sheena was saying. She told her to slow down and eventually gathered Peter had been rushed to hospital with palpitations and chest pain.

‘He could die,’ Sheena wailed as Alice pulled on her coat. ‘We were having a gin and tonic before lunch and he suddenly went all pale and sweaty.’

By the time she reached the hospital, Peter was indeed dead and Sheena was sobbing in the corridor as a harried nurse steered her towards the relative’s room. Even here, dying was taboo, something to be brushed discreetly under the lino where it wouldn’t upset anyone. Alice gave Sheena a perfunctory hug (because she had to really) and declined the nurse’s offer to view Peter’s body.

Once home, she ran the dishwasher for the third time and rinsed the composting bin, which the bin men had emptied while she was out. There was just time to mow the lawn before her son and daughter returned and she broke the news about their father’s demise - a prospect she could only countenance face to face.

Her neighbour, Karl, popped his head over the fence as she was dragging the lawnmower from the shed.

‘Tackling the jungle at last?’ He nodded approvingly at the mower. Karl, a Polish immigrant who had arrived in the country fifty years earlier, liked things neat. His own lawn resembled a bowling green and his flower beds were colour co-ordinated and weedless. Alice agreed she was. It was weeks since she’d got around to it, and dandelions and mushrooms protruded from the long grass. ‘You can eat those, you know,’ Karl said pointing at a clump of mushrooms growing near the fence. ‘Coprinopsis atramentaria. Although don’t mix them with alcohol. If you do, they can kill you and the poison lasts for days.’

‘Really?’ Alice pulled the starter cord, and the lawnmower rumbled into life. It was the second time Karl - an avid forager whose failing memory frequently led him to repeat himself - had imparted this information. ‘I had no idea.’

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