Lamb chops

As I stood there, before the butcher’s window, the sharp stained odour of blood and sawdust in my nose, I knew I was lying. It didn’t occur to me all at once, but the idea, once begun, possessed a kind of elemental force that captured my innocent attention, let loose by chance upon the evening. I was drawn by the red and white curls of perfectly formed lamb chops, 15 pounds a kilo, meek and waiting for the ultimate conclusion of the dinner table. I said how nice they looked, how I didn’t really eat lamb but maybe just this once.

The smell was strong in my nose, as I tried manfully to find something among this carnage that appealed to me. It all looks so good, said my friend, and I nodded, unable to voice even a small part of what I felt, knowing anyway that it was a waste of time. Chickens, round and white. Racks of lamb, with little white socks and frills. Roasts, also 15 pounds a kilo, waiting to be put in some expensive John Lewis pot, one given as a present at a wedding that could only seal artfully two destinies, and lead them to their rightful place upon the hill. A basement kitchen, reclaimed from the servants, briskly yellow and white, Wellington boots in all sizes lined up, straw mats, flowers in vases, Corian countertops, all trace of renovations eliminated.

There was a smaller yellow chicken as well that caught my eye. Corn fed, it appealed to my colonial sense of what a chicken should look like, unaware that chickens were any other colour than yellow before I began my exile, over 20 years ago. It was wrapped in plastic though, and it looked sterile and store-bought amongst the gaudy and extravagant display of flesh laid out for my approval. Within, there were sausages and chopped meat for the standard child’s meal of Spag Bol that I was expected to produce at regular intervals, cementing my membership to this clan of proper meals, and things properly done. However, I had already forgotten any purpose I might have had in stopping there, caught as I was in my lie, denying both the twitching of my nose and my vain summary of the shapes of red flesh in the display window. It does all look good, I repeated again. Should we get something? Again, another lie. 15 pounds a kilo on one meal was an extravagance, unnecessary of course, but almost tempting for the sheer theatre of it. I am a person that spends 15 pounds a kilo on lamb chops for dinner. I do go home, uncork a good bottle of Bordeaux, listen to Radio 4, and decline Latin verbs for the greater education of my child, while listening to his attempts to climb the first ladder of success, the music grading system.

It was such a good dream, that it held me there, caught in my lie, even to myself (it’s the money that had jinxed it, not even the overpoweringly warm metallic smell of blood had managed to keep me from my fantasy). I had noticed there was a problem, but I tried to ignore the sense of worry, convincing myself that it didn’t exist, and credit cards could surely pay for one dinner, and music lessons could be bought and I was here, wasn’t I?

Never mind the larger fables I had armed myself against. The loneliness of modern life, that trite cliché, disregarded at all times except perhaps another Saturday night. The fact of the divorce papers finally going through, nothing remarkable, certainly expected, and mostly desired. There was really no reason it should fall into the category of all things avoided. Except maybe that the girlfriend had been clearly heard in the background, assisting with the answering of questions in response to the court’s summons. Only a simple series of yes or no questions, similar in their demand of right or wrong in the way ‘have you ever been treated for depression’ is not what you tick when answering health questionnaires or online dating surveys. But there she was, in the background, really nothing more than the dot on the i to the whole process that had brought the ex and I together and apart. We had spoken on the phone briefly the summer before, and she had mentioned her desire to help out the ex, give him direction; her hope that he would finally find himself. I looked upon the litter of the last several years. The remains of the dinner party, the next morning, the fine glassware red stained at the bottom, the crisp napkins soiled and soft, thin porcelain smeared with fat. Uneaten morsels gently congealing in heaps. What was once a good idea turned to detritus, shrunken and dismal in its waiting to be rectified and restored.

I stared at the meats, willing one of them to seem like a good idea. But not even the lie was working. I saw a fortune squandered and anticipation discontinued, then only blackness before my eyes, as I closed them, as I turned away. The gaily lit window, promising home and warm dinners. The gay cadence of her voice in the background, obviously joyous that this rupture was about to be made final, so that she could begin her resurrection properly. The tiny lights upon the lampposts, Edwardian and festive in their memory of Christmas and their struggle against the darkness.

All was good. The paving stones still old and uneven, the fairy costumes in the window still waiting for doting fathers to twirl their occupants, the pub still pulling pints in its yellow smoky comfort, the white linen tablecloths and candles, too early to decorate Saturday night diners. All was fine. Money was saved, dinner would be had, tea would be brewed, bedtime would come. Nothing was out of place, or unexpected.

Only the memory of the lie, hung bitter behind the air, and followed me down the hill, colouring the evening air, like the quick cold fading of sunlight in a winter garden.