The Last Weekend by Blake Morrison Page B

Ollie.’
‘The starter’s easy,’ Ollie said. ‘They have their own oyster beds. You must try some, Ian.’
‘Shellfish don’t agree with me.’‘Oysters are different. You eat them raw.’
‘Yuk.’
‘Where’s your sense of adventure, man? You’ll let him try, won’t you, Em?’
‘I’m not his boss.’
‘Em knows what’s good for her,’ he winked. ‘They’re an aphrodisiac.’
‘Should I risk it?’ I asked Em, ignoring him.
‘It’s your funeral,’ she said.
‘Let’s order,’ Ollie said. ‘The service can be horribly slow.’
It seemed unlikely that the service today bore any resemblance to the service thirty-odd years ago. But the frizz-haired waitress in the short black skirt looked as if she could have been around then. And to help the time pass Ollie ordered a second bottle — a Château La Perle Blanche 1976.
‘When people talk bollocks about the greenhouse effect, I remember that summer,’ he said. ‘The heatwave lasted six weeks.’
Em and I exchanged looks. Ollie had doubtless intuited our global warming worries and was winding us up. Or the intimations of his own death made him indifferent to the death of the planet. Either way, I wouldn’t be drawn.
‘Steady with the drink,’ Daisy said, as Ollie topped us up. ‘You’re driving.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Ollie said, laughing her off. ‘They haven’t introduced the breathalyser round here.’
Something else they’d not introduced was the ban on smoking. All around us people were lighting up. Perhaps the restaurant had a special licence, or had reached some tacit arrangement with the local police. And perhaps that’s what made it so popular, despite the limited decor and fish-only menu. One woman even had a cigarette holder, as though she were starring in a forties movie.
The waitress arrived with our starters. The tomato soup could have come straight from a can, so when Ollie put an oyster on my side plate I didn’t object.
‘The Tabasco sauce is optional,’ he said.
I lifted the ugly wrinkled shell. The gob of phlegm lodging inside it smelled like a urinal.
‘Just tip the shell and swallow it whole,’ Ollie said.
‘I like to taste my food,’ I said, playing for time.
‘You will. It’s pure ambrosia.’
If oysters are ambrosia, then spare me heaven. The slimeboat slithered down, spilling its cargo. It tasted of snot, marinaded in brine.
‘You’ve still some juice in the shell,’ Ollie said. I licked it cautiously, like a cat lapping at a rock pool.
‘Wonderful, eh?’ He pushed a second oyster at me, sprinkling red sauce on it as he did. ‘With Tabasco this time.’
Resisting the impulse to hold my nose, I poured the red-laced phlegmball down my gullet. Instead of an estuary, I tasted fire.
‘You’ll never make a gourmet,’ Ollie said. ‘Last one. This time try chewing.’
I offered the shell to Daisy and Em, who shook their heads. I guessed that Daisy had eaten oysters before, and even enjoyed them, but she was indulging us — as if only men had the courage for such cuisine.
I chewed before I swallowed, tasting stringy innards and sand grains, and waiting for some revelation, as though it was mescalin or LSD. Nothing happened. I didn’t feel sick, nor did I feel horny. My chief sensation was self-disgust. Oysters, maître d’s, fat wankers stuffing their faces — what was I doing here? But this was a holiday. A break from real life. And I owed it to Ollie and Daisy to behave.
‘OK, Ian?’ Ollie said.
‘Grand,’ I said.
Outside the world had gone dark. In our low-raftered room the air was hot and smoky. Ollie buried himself in the wine list.
‘I think a red now,’ he said. ‘Even if we are having fish. How would a Château Margaux 1966 be?’
‘Astronomically expensive, I expect.’
‘The year you were born, Ian.’
‘Don’t choose it on my account.’
‘The 1964, then.’
‘A house red would do fine.’
‘It’s not that pricey. Relax.’
Back home, when we eat out, it’s usually a curry