A Girl’s concerns

For me it was not an unusual afternoon. I needed to sneak under the duvet and dissect my inclinations and desires. With luck, a rope and mirrors would save my sanity and I would lie naked and helpless on a seashore, waiting for the incoming tide. The phone rang. Well-bred friend Boudi shrieked down the phone; her style I love and envy. She demanded that I help at a meal to be hosted by her parents that very evening. It was quite beyond her. There would be French delicacies, Chateau Musar and unusual characters. My preference was to remain in despair on the seashore, seeking my salvation, but I owed her many favours. Besides, she promised breeding and intrigue. I clung to her vibe, dressed in my best and headed for the Tube to Sloane Square.

On the Tube I sat in a random carriage in a random seat, and adopted a random stance. I put on Concerto Beethoven's Silence. I stared at the window and wondered if I could recognize the reflection. Such an inky emptiness. Then a squeal of brakes and a mighty crash. My body was mashed and braided among the cold metals. How tragic, I thought, was the bloody and gory rubble.

Anyway, at the next stop, I would get off. I looked around the carriage for friendly eye contact, a coup d'oeil of common understanding. None was forthcoming. Bloody people. All of them.

As I now expected, Boudi welcomed me effusively. My role for the evening was small but required dignity and presence and humour. I was to pour wine for the guests as they mingled; fine wines which guests had brought as competing gifts should be allocated accordingly. We sniggered about the questionable table decorations. A decaying family friend apparitioned. A veritable Mrs Van Hopper had come for her usual tea, with her obnoxious nosy eyes judging all who crossed her stare. Bizarre comments were mumbled between slurps of over-sugared tea and bites of pompous strawberry cheesecake. Known widely as Mrs Five Italian Boyfriends, she declaimed with great lamentation that her entire life was terrible, a load of old crap and entirely senza merito. Her eyes were lethargic and dead, floating on copious tears. When offered tarte au citron, she re-lived and smelled her memories. Boudi wrapped the tarte carefully in a napkin and ushered her out.

At long last everyone sat down. There were a number of tables. The guests were generally a stew of real class, la-di-da imposters and their hangers-on. Wolseley habitues all. While circulating the wines I had been drawn to two quite special women with a de rigueur puppy. Now they were seated, and more wine poured, we engaged in gossippy chat. My shyness grew as our eyes met.

Their glasses empty, and ready for more, I again approached the table. The puppy wanted to play. I caught the gaze of the elegante on my right, she apologized with a special look. That special look spelled magic. I was stripped bare, on the edge of a deepness. She was gently devouring me. We held the gaze because she knew she was winning, while I could not accept defeat. My naivete, however, thought otherwise. The sharpest of sighs diverted and diluted my look. She knew she had won and able to claim a prize.

Of course, within a mutual gaze she could not be aware of how I defined attraction and defeat any more than I could define her motives and nascent intentions. But we were right to communicate our understandings. Nonchalantly she plucked a chocolate truffle from a pocket and passed it to me like a well done reward. Rather sweet of her really, the puppy dog wagged his tail. He needed a friend, he would be abandoned as soon as he failed to fit into the handbag. I threw a lavish smile to diffuse my sigh and, affected and uncertain, moved on.