A DINNER PARTY WITH FRIENDS

The guests arrived at seven o’ clock, just as Charles was starting to get prepared.

I was more than flustered but tried to compose myself before opening the door. The past two hours had been an absolute haze of prepping – picking out the right evening gown, choosing the right necklace, pairing the right earrings, spraying the right perfume, curling my hair and setting it in place – and now, when everyone was arriving, I was the only one actually ready for their arrival. I tried to hold it all back – to sweep it under the rug, so to speak. I was the hostess after all – I needed to be composed. I eased the door open and graciously bid my guests to enter.

There were the Dalies and the Hartleys, the Sullivans from down the street and, bringing up the rear, the Richmonds. I greeted each in turn, customarily offering the men my hand and the women each a friendly embrace. When Warren Richmond took my hand, he looked me in the eye and said: “My dear, is something wrong? You look completely flush!”

I sighed, “Oh, no… it’s nothing. It’s just that Charles is just getting fixed up now and I was hoping he’d be ready by the time everyone got here. You know how it can be.”

He smiled, “Of course, dear. No fret! Let’s have a good conversation while we wait. There’s no rush.” When I had hugged his wife and we had exchanged the foremost of pleasantries, I led the group of guests through the house and into the dining room. I felt much more at ease, thanks to Mr. Richmond. It truly was great to have such friends.

The eight of us took our seats around the dining room table. It had been set with the finest silver, the cleanest china, and the warm scent of specially-chosen seasonal candles filled the air. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits. The Dalies were just finishing their glasses of wine and their tales of their trip they had taken to Bermuda over summer when I beckoned for the maid to return and top everyone off. As she passed around the far side of the table, Mister Hartley spoke up: “I’m getting quite hungry," he said. "I say, how much longer do you think it will be?”

“Oh, not much longer.” I forced a smile. In reality, I was in absolute shambles. I was wondering how I had managed to be cursed with the slowest kitchen staff in the entire world – why it was that only I could manage to be punctual and proper when entertaining some the most highly esteemed guests in our entire community – the entire county. As the maid passed, I stood and smoothed my dress. “Is Charles ready yet?” Her worried glance in response spoke volumes. I pursed my lips, “would you please go check on him for me?” She hurried off without a word.

Ten minutes passed and, while I tried to enjoy the conversation, I was far too preoccupied. It seemed as though nothing was going right. What’s more, my guests’ wine glasses were once again far too low. I called for the maid, trying to mask my anger, and, after a moment, she came rushing in, nearly spilling wine all over the tablecloth. I glared at her. She bit her lip, finished pouring the drinks, and hastily disappeared through the double-doors into the kitchen. I followed quickly on her heels.

Once inside, I lost all tact. I cursed the maid for her inability to watch the wine glasses herself. I shouted at the cooks, forcing them to tell me why they had so obviously chosen to conspire against me on the night of my dinner party. All of them were properly ashamed and vowed to quicken their paces and do their utmost. I threatened that, should they force my guests to wait even a quarter of an hour longer, I would dispose of them as I saw fit. With that, I exhaled, composed myself again, and re-entered the dining room.

Conversation resumed and, when hardly five minutes had passed, the tell-tale clack of the food trolleys’ wheels against the hardwood floor sounded. The doors to the kitchen spread open wide and three of my most talented chefs emerged smiling, each with a sizeable cart in front of them. Simultaneously, they flanked the dining room table, paused, gripped the knobs of the silver platter covers, and revealed our feast.

“Ah, here we are!” cried Mister Hartley happily, “and just as I was beginning to wonder if I’d be eating myself for dinner this evening.” Everyone laughed in response.

Being naturally proper, I allowed my guests to partake first. They dug in, remarking at how perfectly everything had turned out – how delicious the food was. Each platter was heaped high with a bed of succulent greens – the crisp reds of apples and violent, sunny hues of oranges breaking the monotonous feathering of lettuce and cabbage. The meat that rested atop it all appeared to have been perfectly brazen – its brownish-golden hue as pleasant to the eye as its succulence was to the tongue. The evening had started off a little rocky, but I was relieved that the plan had finally come together in such a splendid manner. This was the dinner party we all properly deserved.

A maid, her cart now empty, passed by and entered the kitchen. The second maid paused by me: “For you, ma’am?”

I gazed into my husband’s warm eyes for a moment and then shook my head in response: “No thank you, I think I’ll have a leg instead.”