The Dinner Party

 

Number seven of Cherrytree Lane may have been the grandest house on the street, but it was certainly not the most tasteful. So thought Sonya Fitzsimmons, as she stood for the first time on the gravel driveway of the Montague’s, and sceptically eyed the stone gargoyles which guarded the polished black iron gates. Little did she know that later that night, having visited the Montague household for the first and almost certainly the last time, this thought would occur to her once again; yes, the house was certainly tasteless, and its inhabitants…

          Her fiancé, Chris, appeared to be having similar thoughts. As they wandered towards the house, she noticed his eyebrows rise at the sight of the dazzling floodlights, which cast beams across the pebbles all the way up the driveway. She watched his dark eyes flick dubiously between the perfectly sculptured hedges, the garish array of Red Hot Pokers, and the expensive exhibition of BMW, Jaguar and Porsche before turning to Sonya and saying,

‘I hate to say it, sweetie, but Anne Montague may not be overly grateful for your primrose basket!’ He chuckled to himself and ruffled his dark hair. ‘They must have very expensive taste.’

‘It’s not very appropriate, is it?’ Sonya sighed, ‘considering we live in a quiet country village…’ She looked down in dismay at her rustic willow basket of primroses. Now she saw them in what was to become their new environment, they looked pathetic. ‘And very out of place,’ she went on, gazing up at the house. ‘Such an elaborate house in such an ordinary lane… Money just shoved under your nose…’ She caught the look of warning on her fiancé’s face, and amended her bitter tone. ‘But maybe they’ll be lovely people.’

They reached the porch and rang the bell. A fancy tune reverberated throughout the house.

‘I guess it’s nice of them to invite us though,’ continued Sonya, her eyes lingering on anything but Chris. ‘Meet the neighbours, introduce ourselves… Though they might just want to show off their -’

‘Yes, it’ll be lovely, Sonya.’

He caught her eye and had time to give her a cheeky grin before the door was opened. A prim and polished looking woman of about forty stood before them. Her face was pleasant enough, yet her friendly expression and manner seemed somewhat strained, as if she were sitting on hot coals. Her hair didn’t help to soften her features, being somehow miraculously arranged into a taut but tidy bun so that her large green eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of her head. Yet her whole outfit looked as if it had been made for her; her elegant emerald dress hugged her figure like a glove, radiating glamour and luxury with every angle of light that struck. It was the first tasteful thing Sonya had seen all evening.

           ‘Well, hello,’ she said sweetly, pursing her lips together into an agreeable smile. ‘You must be Chris and Sonya from number eight. Do come in, how lovely to meet you!’

Sonya and Chris obliged with pleasant hellos as they entered the house, and hung their light summer jackets on the coat-stand.

           ‘Let me get you a drink, what would you like?’ Anne Montague stood before them, her hands clasped together in front of her dress, an attentive air about her. ‘How about a lovely glass of champagne? It is a special occasion after all…’

           And she began to hurry away. Sonya quickly called out;

           ‘Oh, Anne – can I call you Anne? I’ve – I’ve got you…’

           Sonya stepped towards Anne before handing her the basket of primroses, which Anne received with a pleasant smile.

           ‘Oh, dear, how – how lovely…’ Sonya watched Anne attentively. She was peering at the flowers with distaste. ‘Lovely,’ she said again, smiling half-heartedly as she examined them. ‘They really are -’

           ‘They’re primroses,’ said Sonya quickly. ‘I thought you could put them on one of your window ledges or something.’

           ‘Oh!… I certainly will!’ said Anne. She beamed for the first time since their arrival. ‘Well, do come through. I’ll show you around.’

           ‘Show us -’ began Sonya, but Anne was already hurrying them through the hall towards the living room. She noticed Anne casually discard the basket of flowers at the foot of the stairs as she passed.

           ‘Your house is immaculate,’ said Sonya as she followed Chris and Anne into the lounge. The first thing that struck her was the military exhibition which dominated the room; an impressive display of weaponry was mounted upon the wall above the mantelpiece, alongside numerous photographs of armed soldiers in camouflage gear. She suddenly felt strangely uncomfortable. She watched Anne as she began to hurry them around the house, pointing out all their expensive tastes and new ranges of furniture and numerous plasma televisions.

           ‘We have spent a lot of well earned money making it look this way,’ said Anne matter-of-factly as she marched through the rooms. ‘Donald, well, he gets a very generous salary being a successful military man, as you’re probably thinking, and we like to keep our house looking spotless. We’ve even been approached by companies asking to use our house as a show home, did you know? Well, of course we agreed instantly,’ she said, impatiently waving her guests after her, ‘and we got new windows installed for free! Look, aren’t they lovely…’

            Sonya and Chris exchanged uneasy glances before following Anne over to her, frankly, ordinary looking windows. Sonya tried hard not to grimace at the sight of the heavy ornate window dressing. They smiled pleasantly, nodding in agreement.

            ‘And here,’ Anne pointed towards the display of ostentatious furniture, ‘the best quality you’ll find, I assure you. I know all the best places and best people; I have contacts. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I’m so proud of it you see. And the swimming pool was of course my idea, under-water music!…’

            ‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ said Sonya as pleasantly as she could.

            ‘Yes, yes, but I do like to spend more time at the spa – you know, the one at the Roselyn Hotel – it’s five star you know, and the best quality…’

            Anne tottered around the house in her emerald D&G heels for a further fifteen minutes before there was a loud bellow from the dining room beyond.

            ‘Annabel! Where the bloody hell have you got to? Are you cooking us a dinner or not?’

            And in stormed Donald Montague. First impressions were of a big man with a face like a huge ripe cherry tomato, clutching a large glass of rioja so firmly that Sonya thought it was going to shatter in his grasp at any moment. At the sight of the newly arrived guests, however, he straightened up, puffed out his chest, and beamed, just as one would expect a proud rich man to do.

           ‘Well, good evening to you! And welcome to my home!’ boomed Donald, who raised his glass in a toast and began to rock backwards and forwards on his heels. ‘No doubt my wife has been showing you about, boasting about her immaculate house instead of getting the dinner ready…’

            ‘Oh, darling, I was just on my way!’ She beamed at her husband like a loyal servant. ‘Please,’ she turned to Sonya and Chris, ‘do take your seats in the dining room. Dinner will be served in just a moment!’ And she scurried out of the room.

             Donald ignored his wife, and advanced further into the lounge. Sonya noticed Chris edge forwards slightly, perhaps in an attempt to shake his hand, but Donald nevertheless ignored them both. Standing there in his dark well-pressed suit, his presence had the air of an overbearing and ominous black cloud. He hovered for a moment in the doorway before striding over to the drinks-cabinet, quickly draining his glass of wine and pouring himself another.

            ‘Best wine made in Spain,’ he said declaratively, ‘so I make sure she’s got it in!’ He laughed heartily. ‘But then, with my money, I can afford the best.’

            He turned to face his visitors and beamed with pride. Sonya tried to stifle a scowl.

            ‘So then, what sort of money do you earn – err, Charles, is it?’

            Sonya felt her throat tighten.

            ‘Christophe, actually, Christophe Calewaert,’ stuttered Chris in reply. ‘My family’s from Belgium,’ he added quickly.

            ‘Ahh! I see!’ said Donald. He smiled secretly. ‘So, how long did it take before you managed to sneak into our country then, eh?’ And he laughed.

             ‘Err, I’ve actually lived here all my -’

             ‘It’s a sham, don’t you agree?’ Donald interrupted as he began to pace the room, apparently without the faintest acknowledgement that Chris had begun to speak. ‘The government, letting all these immigrants in, giving them our jobs, living off benefits, whilst the rest of us spend our lives working our tits off to pay for their pathetic council houses.’ He exhaled loudly and took a swig of wine, before smacking his lips and continuing. ‘They ought to bring back the conservatives, they’d ship them all back to where they belong!’ He laughed loudly and began to walk towards the door. ‘But come along now, come and meet number nine!’

            And he marched out of the room. Sonya and Chris glanced sideways at each other.

            ‘Well, go on then!’ hissed Sonya, ushering Chris out the room.

            They followed Donald into an elaborate dining room. The carpet was a deep royal red, which clashed horrifically with the gold embossed wallpaper. An ornate chandelier of shimmering glass crystals hung above the long mahogany dining table, and sickly scented candles flickered about the room, sending auburn shadows dancing from wall to wall.

            The table was set for six; Donald took his place at the head of the table in front of the window. He failed to offer Sonya and Chris their seats. On either side of him sat a middle-aged man and woman, who looked up curiously as Sonya and Chris entered the room.

            ‘These are the Chippington-Derricks from number nine,’ said Donald, guarding the head of the table whilst carelessly waving a hand about in an impolite attempt to introduce them. ‘And these are the new neighbours, the Calewaert’s, from number eight.’

            ‘Oh, we’re not married,’ Sonya cut in.

            ‘Excuse me?’ snapped Donald.

            Sonya stiffened. The woman sitting to Donald’s left turned in her seat and stared fiercely at them through her spectacles. ‘You’re not married?’ she said. Her voice was stern and domineering, her stare hard and cold. ‘And yet you’re living together?’

            Sonya stuttered for a moment, unsure of what to say. ‘Well, we are engaged,’ she said, ‘to be married,’ she added quickly. ‘But, for the time being, I’m Sonya Fitzsimmons.’ She laughed cheerily, to the silence of everyone else.

             ‘Well,’ continued Mrs Chippington-Derrick, raising her eyebrows and turning her nose slightly upwards, ‘that’s not a very concrete start for a young couple planning to start a family.’

            And she turned in her seat again, and took a sip of water.

            ‘Barbara, darling, they may not wish to start a family,’ injected the soft voice sitting opposite her. ‘And -’

            ‘And yes, Gerald, I wouldn’t blame them,’ Barbara snapped back at her husband, as if Sonya and Chris were not there. She dabbed her mouth, sat up straight and cleared her throat loudly. ‘Children are a waste of time, energy, money, good humour… I’d rather have a nice house, go on nice holidays -’

             ‘Children are the heirs to our fortunes!’ Donald cut in, his voice booming out across the table, making Sonya jump. ‘My son, Andrew, well, he has done very well -’

             ‘Yes, and so we have all heard, Donald, many times -’

             But Barbara was interrupted by Anne, who bustled into the room in her heels carrying plates of food.

             ‘Here are the starters!’ she squealed excitedly. ‘Do tuck in, there’s plenty to go around! Oh, my dears, do take your seats…’

             Anne showed Sonya her seat beside Gerald Chippington-Derrick, a man of wiry hair and apparently bad posture at the dinner table, but who smiled warmly as she sat down. Chris was placed beside Barbara, to his great dismay, before Anne then began to bustle about with the starters. She arranged the first plate before her husband.

             ‘What is it?’ barked Donald.

             ‘It’s Hub Carrokeel salmon and asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, darling,’ replied his wife, stroking his head affectionately.

             Donald wrinkled his nose as if he’d stepped in something unpleasant, and brushed her away. ‘Well, I hope the main course is more appealing,’ he barked. ‘Salmon gives me a bad stomach, Annabel, and that you very well know.’

             ‘Yes, dear. So, what are we discussing then?’ asked Anne, as she began to pour Sonya and Chris the glasses of wine which she had promised them half an hour before, and sat at the foot of the table to eat. ‘Did I hear mention of my darling Andrew?’

             ‘Yes, of course!’ barked Donald through a mouthful of asparagus. ‘As I was saying; my son, of course you all know him, he is at Manchester studying literature -’

             ‘Literature?’ interrupted Barbara, glowering at Donald over her spectacles. ‘I thought he was following in your military footsteps, Donald, or has some clever man talked him out of it?’

             There was a stiff silence in which Donald tried too quickly to swallow his asparagus, causing him to choke. Sonya watched with growing distaste how the skin on Barbara’s cheeks and chin wobbled when she spoke. Donald cleared his throat with a swig of wine before continuing,

             ‘No, thank you, Barbara,’ Donald snapped. ‘He made up his own mind to choose a different path – and good for him!’ he added quickly, ‘why, literature is a fine subject to study! And at Manchester -’

             ‘Mrs Brook of number four told me Andrew is at Manchester Metropolitan.’

             Again, the table became muted. Barbara casually glanced up at Donald, a glimmer of satisfaction in her eye as she carefully began to cut her salmon, delicately placed it in her mouth and began to chew slowly but determinedly.

             ‘Be that as it may, Barbara,’ said Gerald, apparently hesitant to speak in fear of his wife, his eyes flicking nervously around the table, ‘the boy’s done well to get so far -’

             ‘To a polytechnic, Gerald?’ sniffed Barbara. She raised her eyebrows in distaste. ‘I would imagine it better to not bother at all. He should have studied at a grammar school like mine, that way he would have got a proper education -’

             ‘Actually, the polytechnic’s a very good university.’

             The table went quiet as heads turned towards Sonya. She tried quickly to swallow her salmon.

‘I mean,’ she stuttered, ‘my sister went there for a while, and she – she had a very good time -’

             ‘And where did you go to university?’ barked Barbara, her nostrils flaring. ‘I’m presuming you did go, you weren’t a drop out like your sister -’

              ‘Anne, pass me the wine would you?’ Donald’s voice interrupted, reverberating around the table.

Sonya felt Anne stiffen beside her. ‘It’s in the middle, dear.’

              ‘But I cannot reach it, pass it to me.’

              There was a brief but intense pause before Chris hastily reached out for the wine and passed it across Barbara to Donald.

               ‘Good man,’ said Donald as he began to pour himself another generous glass of rioja. He shot a fierce look at his wife before she collected the empty plates together and dutifully disappeared into the kitchen. ‘And what is it that you do for a living, Charles?’

               ‘I’m a junior investment banker,’ Chris replied quickly before anyone could correct Donald of his name. ‘I’ve just landed the job working in the city, we were so happy when we found out, weren’t we, Sonya?’

               ‘That is good business!’ boomed Donald. ‘I very much approve… My wife doesn’t work of course,’ he added under his breath just as Anne re-entered the room with the main course, ‘only one of us who doesn’t…’

               Anne cleared her throat loudly as she began to serve the meal. ‘Roast leg of English lamb with fresh rosemary and apricot stuffing,’ she said matter-of-factly, more to Sonya than anyone else; she seemed to be the only one listening. ‘It is one of my favourite recipes. And darling,’ she added loudly so the whole table could hear, ‘we have discussed this, you know why -’

              ‘What do you do all day, pumpkin?’ snapped Donald suddenly, glaring at his wife as she once again took her seat across the table.

              ‘Donald, weren’t you part of the Royal Logistics Corps?’ Barbara interrupted suddenly.

              There was a brief pause before Donald beamed and, sitting himself upright in his chair, said;

‘Yes, yes, that is correct! I am an ex military soldier and -’

               ‘Oh, I thought so,’ Barbara snarled. ‘I hear they are what many refer to as the “lazy ones”. You know,’ she was watching Donald over her spectacles again, ‘the ones who don’t do any real work…’ The corner of her mouth slowly curled up with satisfaction.

               ‘Tell me, Barbara, what do you know about the military?’ Donald barked, slamming his cutlery onto his plate.

               ‘Chris obviously worked very hard for his position now, didn’t you, dear?’

               Barbara was now bearing a sickly smile across her face as she gazed intensely at Chris. Sonya felt her stomach knot.

               ‘I – I was just lucky really, you know how it is -’

               ‘No, no, a real man makes his own luck, Charles,’ boomed Donald, who shot a foreboding look at Barbara as he slammed down his wine glass. ‘Isn’t that right, Gerald?’

               Sonya noticed Gerald jump at the mention of his name, before nodding obediently and quietly continuing with his meal.

                ‘I certainly did anyway,’ Donald quickly went on. ‘I shall tell you. I worked hard all my life, I mixed in all the correct circles -’

                ‘We inherited our money, Donald,’ said Anne unexpectedly. She had been quiet for quite some time, and her voice sounded notably light and airy amid all the other harsh voices. ‘The whole street knows that.’

                Donald’s face turned white. His nostrils flared as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin. ‘I care nothing for what the street believes, Annabel,’ he hissed.

                Sonya and Chris tensed at the scraping sound of the cutlery against the china plates. Then,

‘Mrs Jennings of number eleven told me you inherited millions, Donald,’ inserted Barbara after a few moments. ‘You simply climbed your way up the social ladder, how very clever of you… Yet still your sister lives in a council house -’

                ‘And what good have you ever done for the poor sods who live on the Ansell Estate?’ barked Donald, straightening up in offence. ‘Sitting at the Captain’s Table on world cruises won’t help the poor, will it?’

                Barbara shot a look of loathing at Donald. Gerald shuffled uneasily in his seat and tried to carefully cut his lamb, in an apparent attempt to remain inconspicuous.

                ‘I shall remind you, Donald,’ snapped Barbara, ‘that on several occasions I have provided fortunate children with an outstanding education at one of the most renowned grammar schools in the country. A grammar school of celebrated discipline, teaching, results -’

                ‘For a woman who hates children, that is saying something.’

                Silence stifled the table once again. Donald’s face was lit with something that looked a bit like triumph. Sonya decided to break the ice.

                ‘Isn’t it terrible, the new laws on touching children in schools now?’

                Silence. They all gazed at her. Only then did she realise what she had said.

                ‘I mean! – their human rights!’ she quickly corrected herself. ‘I – I teach at a primary school too and -’

                ‘I teach at a grammar school.’

                ‘Yes, yes Barbara… But, surely you must have heard about the new laws; that teachers can no longer even touch a child, even if the poor things have wet themselves, or are upset and need comforting… You have to ring the parents!’

                ‘Damn lot of good you’d be, Barbara,’ laughed Donald, viciously grinding his last piece of lamb with his teeth whilst staring intensely at her. ‘ “Sorry! Can’t come now! I’m in the Bahamas at the Captain’s Table…” ’ Donald laughed mockingly.

                 ‘Yes, dear, I quite agree,’ Anne cut in quickly, smiling sweetly at Sonya before glaring at her husband in warning. ‘These new policies on human rights laws, well, it really is ludicrous -’

                ‘Human rights! Human rights!’ barked Donald, waving his wine glass around in a drunken fashion. ‘What about my human rights! You are far too liberal, Annabel! Haven’t I taught you anything!’

                ‘Would anyone like a spot more wine?’ Gerald tried calmly, to no effect.

                ‘What about the teacher’s human rights!’ bellowed Barbara, her rage rising. ‘Bring back the cane, I say! Give us some satisfaction!’

                ‘Oh! Anyone for some lovely dessert!’ said Anne, getting elegantly to her feet as she tried to make herself heard over the brawl. ‘Chocolate gateaux, or perhaps some almond sherry trifle, it’s very nice!’

                Sonya and Chris caught each other’s eye, and understood immediately.

                ‘We really must be going I’m afraid, Anne,’ smiled Sonya, getting up and folding her napkin as quickly as she could. ‘We both have early starts tomorrow – it’s been really nice though -’

                 ‘Oh, dear! You really must be off? I have some delicious apfel strudel – with warm black berries, yes? Or just some lemon meringue tart if you are not too hungry? It really is lovel-’

                 ‘No, no,’ Sonya asserted. She caught a glimpse of Gerald smiling apologetically from across the room, and felt a pang of guilt. ‘Thank you,’ she added quickly, ‘we really must be off.’

                 She beckoned Chris with a sharp look of her eye. As they were leaving the room, Donald caught them for one last time.

                  ‘And Charles,’ he barked, ‘remember that a real man, like myself, to be successful in the city, must never do something for nothing; but if one must, only ever do it for yourself.’

                  And he raised his glass with pride and laughed.

                 Two minutes later, Sonya and Chris once again stood on the floodlit gravel driveway of number seven, and gazed back at the house in bewilderment.

                 ‘Well, that was fun,’ said Sonya.

                 Chris glanced sideways at her, a smirk across his face, and they both laughed. They turned to leave, and just as they did, Sonya glanced upwards to see the stone gargoyles peering proudly down at them.