As I look around vaguely for something to do, I notice a whiteboard covered in writing. I head over to see what it is—then stare, nonplussed. It has BASTARD CHART scrawled in capitals at the top. Underneath is a list: Topher, Nihal, Matt, and each of them has a tally. Nihal is on 12, Matt is on 14, and Topher is on 31.
Nihal sees me staring and politely lowers his headphones.
“What’s a bastard chart?” I ask, puzzled.
“If someone’s, like, a total bastard or really annoying, they get a strike on the chart. The loser buys drinks every month. It’s always Topher,” he adds. “But if we didn’t have the chart, he’d be way worse.”
“Wait, Nihal,” I say quickly, before he replaces his headphones. “I can’t imagine you ever being a bastard.”
“Oh, I am,” he says earnestly.
“Like what?” I demand. “Give me an example.”
“I told Topher his new sweater looked like shit.” Nihal’s eyes gleam through his glasses. “He was really upset. It cost him a lot of money. He gave me six strikes. But it does look like shit.”
He replaces his headphones and starts typing again. I’ve pretty much explored the whole room by now, so I head to a nearby black leather barstool and check my phone. Sarika is out shopping for dresses and has sent over about sixteen photos from shop changing rooms for opinions, so I start scrolling through them and chiming in with my thoughts.
Short black is gorgeous!!! Blue beaded OK but weird sleeves? Which shoes?
All this time, I keep glancing at Matt. He’s been standing stock still, scrolling through something on his phone and scowling. When at last he moves, I’m expecting him to go to his desk. But he heads to another concealed cupboard, opens it, and takes out…
What? My stomach clenches. Surely that’s not—
“Hey, Matt!” I say casually. “What’s that?”
“Putter.” Matt lifts it up, so I can see. “Golf club. Helps me think.”
Golf?
As I watch, aghast, he gets out a couple of golf balls and places them on a strip of green carpet I hadn’t noticed before, because it was masked by the leather sofas. He hits one of the balls toward an artificial golf hole, then waits as some sort of machinery rolls it back to him, his forehead creased in thought. Then he hits it again. And again.
“I thought you were into martial arts, Matt!” I say, trying to sound lighthearted. “Not golf.”
“Both,” says Matt, glancing round.
“Both!” I clench my glass tighter. “That’s…great! So great. I mean, all hobbies are great.”
“Matt’s whole family is into golf,” says Nihal, who has come noiselessly over to one of the leather sofas and is loading up another computer game. “It’s like your family obsession, isn’t it, Matt?”
“Not obsession,” says Matt, giving a short laugh. “But I guess we take it pretty seriously. My grandmother was Austrian ladies’ champion back in the day, and my brother turned pro. So.”
I splutter on my wine, then cough frantically, trying to hide it. Now I learn this?
“You never mentioned that,” I say with a forced smile. “Isn’t that funny? All that time we spent together, and you never mentioned golf! Not once!”
“Oh,” says Matt with an unconcerned shrug. “Huh. Guess it didn’t come up.”
“Do you play?” Nihal asks me politely.
“Um…” I swallow. “That would be a no—”
“Madame.” Topher’s deep voice interrupts from behind me. “Feast your eyes on this.”
I swivel around and scream before I can stop myself. He’s holding a white platter on which are four raw, red, quivering steaks. I can smell their odious fleshy smell. I can see blood oozing from them.
“Steak night,” Topher elaborates. “Choose your cut. You’d like it rare, I assume?”
“Could you…could you possibly move that away from me?” I manage, almost wanting to hurl.
“Oh, Ava’s vegetarian,” says Matt, lining up his shot. “I should have mentioned.”
“Vegetarian!” says Topher, halted. “OK.” He looks at the steaks again. “So…medium-well?”
Is that supposed to be a joke? Because I still have revolting meat fumes in my nose, and those steaks were once an animal.
“It’s fine, I’ll just eat some vegetables,” I say faintly.
“Vegetables.” Topher looks taken aback. “Right. OK. Vegetables.” He thinks. “Do we have those?”
“We have some peas,” says Nihal vaguely, staring at the screen. “Although they’re ancient.”
“If you say so.” Topher moves toward Nihal. “OK, Nihal, which is it to be?” He lowers the platter so Nihal can see the steaks—and there’s a blur of brown and white, accompanied by the scrabbling sound of paws.