Clarissa gave a loud and overly theatrical laugh, as a gravy soaked potato fell from Sebastian’s fork into his lap. She had brought the six of us together this evening, and we all admitted that her hostessing skills were excellent. It was the fact that Clarissa put on such a good dinner party which made us turn a blind eye to what a gossip she was. No doubt she used these evenings to accrue sumptuous anecdotes about her peers, but the quality of the food she cooked, and the wine she chose was enough to temporarily blind us. And besides, after years and years of such meetings, we were all really rather good friends.
“Marjorie, my sister Marjorie, went to dinner at the Everett’s last Thursday, and apparently they only had four bottles of wine put out. Four bottles! For Six people! It’s an unthinkable oversight.”
The room turned to Clarissa, grateful that she had drawn attention away from Sebastian’s antics.
“What can I say Clary, some people simply don’t earn enough for a fifth bottle. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there’s a lot of society beneath us.”
This pompous statement came from a most pompous man, namely Roderick. He had the fastidious habit of boasting about his social standing, how he had achieved a first at Cambridge, and how he would never have to work again. It seemed of little importance to him while he proliferated his excellence, that he had never worked a day in his life, and had simply received a healthy inheritance at the end of his university career, and then chosen to live on its interest.
“Why in Rome, everyone has enough wine! If there isn’t enough at a party, one simply asks a neighbour for a couple of bottles.”
This was Matilda. She had an irritating habit, of wittering constantly on about how life was superior in Rome or other Italian Metropoles. She had lived there for one year when she was younger, and returned on holidays, but for some reason which no one could fathom, given the tiresome extent of her “expertise”, was why she never moved there.
“Ma se ti piace così L’Italia, perchè non ci sei adesso!?”
This explosion of foreign fury came from Sebastian. He spoke much better Italian than Matilda, whose cheeks hard turned a faint shade of red. Sebastian was a published poet, who wrote for a newspaper to pay for his passions: Drinking and scribbling stanzas on small scraps of paper, eventually to be moulded into poems, which although widely read, earnt him very little.
At this point the room was silent, and even the butterfly of the table Clarissa, was struggling to think of a way to break the cold silence which followed the outburst. Suddenly, the figure opposite me, Charles, opened his mouth, inhaled deeply, before a strained squeal exited him as he exhaled. I clamped my eyes shut, dreading what was about to happen to this socially inept newcomer.
“Was that a fake yawn Charlie?” asked Matilda. Frederick sat in silence, his eyes darting around the room.
“Would you rather we talked of something more interesting? Rude dinner guests perhaps?” said Roderick, smiling broadly, with a devilish glint in his eyes.
“Do you think this party is tiresome Charlie?” asked Clarissa, feigning emotion as she spoke, ”I’m quite worried now.”
He spluttered, and tried to explain himself, but was cut short by Roderick.
“I’m just going to pretend to yawn while you think of your response.”
“Broken a silence most absurd,
A yawn faker than Louis Vuitton,
Punctures the gorgeously stale air,
With which I was Smitten.”
“You forgot to yawn between each line Sebastian,” offered Matilda, and rapturous laughter followed from the five of us.
All this time Charles sat staring at the table, and I watched on in judgement. The party continued, with the odd joke at his expense, and he left immediately after dessert, leaving us to discuss his presence at the gathering that evening, and decide whether to ask him to the next.
“I heard from a friend, that he’s always pretending to yawn.”
“It’s a most loathsome trait, and if he’d been educated like I had, he’d have learnt better manners”
“Ignorant people are great sources of inspiration.”
“No it won’t do. If we were in Rome he’d be thrown in the Tiber.”
“So we’re all agreed then,” I said, “His company is deemed too frightful to be invited back.”
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