From Under the Overcoat Read Online Free PDF Page A

him.
    Inside, there is a single sheet of crisp, heavy white paper with rough edges. The words are handwritten in black ink and centred on the page. The first line is the date. Then, there is:
     
    WHITEBAIT
    PAUA
    CRAB
    CRAYFISH
    DESSERT
     
    There are no prices on the menu, no indication which are entrées, which are mains. David turns to the next page; it is blank.
    The chatter of the others surges and recedes around him. He sits back in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees, and looks down. It’s dark, but he can just make out the shifting sea and the waves churning black on the rocks below.
    He wonders, for a joyous moment, whether the meals might be included in the price of the room. They could be; that could be why there are no prices. Yes, it makes sense, themore he thinks about it. It might be some sort of a package deal, all inclusive.
    Then he remembers what the woman at reception said. Meals and incidentals go on at the end . He feels giddy, nausea rising for the second time that day. Still he is unable to draw his eyes away from the swirl of foam and seaweed far below the dining room.
    ‘What’s everyone having?’ he asks. The inside of his head feels strangely hollow; the thinking, rationalising functions settling like sludge. He wonders whether each of them might pay for his own meal. Then he laughs, just quietly, a little shrug of his shoulders as he stares down through the floor. As if. As if these guys would sit down at the end and, like careful students, tally up who had eaten what.
    ‘It’s a set menu.’ Ciaran’s flicking through a second folder, much thicker than the one in front of David. ‘It’s what they do. A single menu, a new one each night. They decide on it during the day, depending on what the chef can get hold of. The best ingredients on the day.’
    ‘Wow,’ says David.
    ‘He knows his stuff.’ Ciaran closes the thick menu. ‘White wine, with seafood? Everyone okay with Chablis?’
    Mitchell and Neil nod, barely breaking their conversation. David nods too. What does it matter? he thinks. Cheap accommodation costing $700, gourmet food costing God knows what. What does the wine matter now?
    The food comes in waves. Plate after perfect plate. A tower of whitebait — each tiny fish cooked in subtle seasonings, then stacked precariously to form a lacework pyramid. Exquisite pasta parcels filled with crabmeat, tossed in herbedbutter; each mouthful singing of the sea. Crayfish slashed in half lengthways, delicate white flesh seared to perfection, drizzled with imported truffle oil.
    This is what David eats. What he tastes is thick, salty and sour; bile tainting every mouthful.
    The wine helps him through the meal — he fills his glass again and again, tasting none of the French grape but thankful for the numbing effect. The bottles keep coming; Ciaran making sure that no glass sits empty. The talk swirls around trading gossip and David is grateful, at least, that he can contribute without too much thought.
    Towards midnight there is dessert — something chocolate, David can’t define it any more specifically than that. Something rich and chocolate and no doubt sourced from the best ingredients available on the day.
    Sometime around one in the morning they push back their chairs and move to the couches around the coffee table.
    Four crystal bulbs of brandy are on the little table — David can’t remember anyone putting them there. He hates brandy; the harsh heat of it reminds him of sly teenaged drinking in an empty clubhouse in the early days after his mother’s death. He hates it but he reaches for the glass, throws the drink into the back of his mouth and gulps it down. The logic for why he might or might not drink something he hates, but must pay for, is too complex to contemplate.
    Mitchell takes a box of matches from his shirt pocket and David waits for fat, pungent cigars to follow. It would be enough, he thinks. Enough to push the nausea over the edge and send him