Graceful Abaddon

Tiananman Square (2)

7:50pm

Susan whiffs the homely smell of British roast.

Opening the oven door, she takes the tray of Yorkshire puddings to the worktop. Ivon slips sideward, taking another small sip of champagne. Susan removes her oven mitts. Grins contentedly over her creation.

"Smells lovely," says Ivon. Wistfully, playing with an earring, she looks out the window. In the brick-laid garden, Chris and Adam enjoy a beer. Mr Venky – all the stress and nightmare errands that define him – now lies tussled in the laundry basket. Chris - or rather Venkman in homage to his favourite film – has shed his prim persona of a London banker. Balding, pushing nine stone with his sex life near retirement, Venkman takes the greatest pleasure liberated from his wife with mates like Adam.

From the doorway, turned down for the neighbour's sake, Dido lulls both men into a mellow state of carelessness, of shit-shooting bravado. Chris had fought for Velvet Underground, but Susan wanted none of that. "I want people to enjoy themselves," she'd said. "Not to commit suicide!!"

Adam, on his second beer, glances at the kitchen window. Ivon and Susan quickly look away. Ah, he thinks, so I'm right. God damn you, Susan. I don't fucking believe you. Wishing he were home, he adjusts his tie to strangling point.

From inside, a new song begins. Adam faintly recognises this one. From Love Actually, he thinks, picturing the guy from the Walking Dead – shit, was that him? - bent against the cold, walking troubled towards Oxo Tower Wharf.

Ivon, glistening in the shower, shampoo foam obscuring her vagina.

The sudden image startles Adam. Troubled by guilt, he repels it, like a proffered hand from someone collecting for the homeless. He is sickened by the fact that it appeals to him despite himself.

Both men stand in silence with their beers, their thoughts, enjoying the constant pommel of rain. They are sheltered by the backyard awning - a sheet of layered fibreglass, its posts garlanded with ivy. Eventually Adam breaks the silence, saying "this Mathers. What's he do again?"

To this, Chris laughs. "Don't ask me, mate. Try Susan. Teaches at bloody Hogwarts for all I care".

"I thought Susan said on the phone he was psychic?"

"Yeah," Chris says, downing his Peroni. "Psychic. That's right. And Kim - his wife - she's some kind of New Age healer".

"You mean, like, energy healing?" Adam asks, feigning nothing more than polite interest. "The kind of stuff they have on YouTube?"

"Something like that". Chris shakes his head. "I'm not sure. Load of bollocks whatever it is".

They are silent again. Unlike the girls, they enjoy each other just as much when neither speaks. Chris, given his stressful job, is eager for the weekend. Humouring Susan, having her weird friend for dinner – not to mention her sister – is compensated for in knowing that tomorrow, he and Adam will go hunting with the fellas out on Farley Green. Adam, as a vegan, does not care for shooting animals. He has no qualms about burning certain plants though.

Consequently, the idea of shooting rabbits then smoking weed makes Chris's wasted Friday night with Susan's side a darn lot more endurable.

"What time are they coming anyway?" Adam has pulled back his sleeve, revealing his watch. "It's nearly eight".

Chris checks his own watch. "Love?" he calls across the garden.

Susan looks up through the kitchen window. Ivon shrinks back against the cabinets. Adam watches her, nourishing a hatred he knows is not entirely fair.

"They do know it's tonight yeah?" Chris shouts.

Susan: "Please don't shout across the garden".

Chris: "I'm just wondering when they're coming".

"Don't shout across the garden, Chris".

"Jesus fucking," grumbles Chris. He mopes toward the kitchen door. Susan stands there, haloed in the kitchen light. "I was wondering," he says pointedly, "when your friends were considering turning up?"