Fifty

We had another weekend interlude without the girls this weekend. The last one a few months ago was for my 40th: hotel with harbour views, dinner, gallery. This weekend it was Steve’s turn, on the significant occasion of him turning fifty tomorrow.

The restaurant provided us with a private dining room to ourselves, a striking space because the walls were unusually tiled in large squares of dappled brown and white imitation cow hide. And it was pretty close to Steve’s perfect meal, plates and plates of carefully selected, paired and cooked Italian food: terrine; home-made bread; garlic prawns; house-cured prosciutto; brawn; croquettes; beetroot salad; culminating in one of Steve’s favourites: suckling pig – not for the squeamish, served whole on a platter. Steve’s parents brought all the champagne and wine and it was good. Dessert isn’t Steve’s favourite part of a meal but as far as desserts go, crème brulee is one of his favourites, and that was on the three desert boards shared among the nine people there, along with small pots of tiramisu, chocolate mousse, two different triangles of fudge and raspberry sorbet. Washed down with a short black. No room left for even a wafer more of anything.

It wasn’t just the food that was perfect for him though, there’s nothing he likes better than a get together with his family. They’re a cheerful bunch and it was a merry night, with both sisters and their partners, one nephew and parents. The music next door was a bit loud so one of us slid the old wooden door closed. And couldn’t get it open again. We pushed and pulled, tried a knife like a wedge, joked about having our dinner passed through the airconditioning duct or the old wooden window. Eventually the waiting staff prised it open.

There was little reminiscing and no speeches – I certainly hadn’t been thoughtful or brave enough to give one. But to write down a few words to mark the occasion, I will say that everyone around that table respects Steve’s well-argued views, has experienced his kindness and patience, has laughed at his quick and quirky sense of humour and has been sneezed on in that unmissably explosive way. Many of them have been impressed by Steve’s speed with a whisk and a bowl of cream and some may even know about his skills unbuttoning shirts at almost super human speed – pop pop pop pop pop. Everyone has seen his enormous love for Lara and Rhea and has watched him with pleasure as he enjoys the things that give him pleasure – eating, skiing, golfing, being with family at the beach house, travelling and sleeping the sleep of the innocent for many hours more than most ordinary mortals (‘Why do Steve and you sleep so long?, asked one of his nephews last summer. ‘Because the girls still wake up during the night and that makes us tired,’ I replied – only partly true.)

Memory is a funny thing. Many people round the table might remember the ‘getting locked in the dining room’ incident when they reminisce about the evening in the future. For me it will encapsulate another pearl in a privileged life nevertheless with its fair share of challenges, as well as fun and quiet achievements. Happy birthday Steve, to that little blond boy with the dimple in his chin who it has been my great good fortune to know as an adult, and to be with for half of that adult life so far.