Parker Companion [finished]

I can’t believe I actually agreed to be here. I knew about this dinner party before I’d even gotten the invitation. And to think I was expected to joyously accept without hesitation simply because the hostess has known my mother for many more years than either of them can count! It’s too bad my love for my mother is so strong; if it wasn’t, maybe I wouldn’t be here. I wish she hadn’t asked me to do her that favour and I sincerely wish my sister hadn’t agreed so exuberantly to visit in London. Then I definitely would have been able to avoid this wreck of an evening. I never enjoy dinner parties, especially those that host people I’ve never even heard of in my entire lifetime. And these names are dropped into my ear with the anticipation of my gasping out in excitement: "Ah, not her! How long it’s been since she and I crossed paths! How delightful!" Though, I must admit I do feign the eagerness if only to please. But how often it is I am seated beside some bore whose only objective is to be absorbed in the most trivial of things.1

And how the woman next to me is such a person! How quietly unassuming she is, all wrapped up in neat and tidy clothing that looks to have cost a great deal. She seems so awkward, sitting there; one would never think she’d ever been to an event such as this before in her entire life. My bad luck has once again prevailed: still my hostess sees fit to seat me adjacent to those who really I abhor. No doubt this evening will prove one of the worst. Ah, she’s asked about the soup. Is it delicious, she wants to know? "Yes, isn’t it?" Oh, the girl looks so shrewd at my remark, as weight- and meaning-less as it is. She seems almost disappointed, and turns back to sipping at her meal primly. Girls like this have always confused me; what it matters whether I like the soup or not I do not know. Four words of hers, three of mine, and our little tête-à-tête has finished abruptly, awkwardly awaiting a proper and definite ending it will not receive.2

Throughout the entire course of soup the woman on my right and I have enjoyed a quietness between us. Or, at least, I have enjoyed it. But how I do dislike being here with nothing to do and no one to speak to. "Wasn’t that delicious soup?" The girl on my right asks me again. "Yes, wasn’t it?" I am too keen, too keen. Ah, how I hate my lack of control while chatting purposelessly. Too often, especially when talking to women of the blandest type, I let my voice rise in false interest. It’s a bad habit I can’t seem to quit and I can’t imagine why. Well, in any case they’ve introduced fish to the meal. This ought to be much more interesting than that soup. The best soup I’ve ever had was not even at a dinner party and certainly that last bowl of indistinguishable taste does not stack up to the serving my sister brought me while I was down in bed with pneumonia. Perhaps it was only that I had been so ill for so long, but her soup – I can’t even remember how it tasted now – was perfectly heavenly—3

Ah, so the girl beside me wants to strike up another undoubtedly unsatisfying dialogue. Do I like fish? Why, yes, I do like fish. And why not chew the fat a little longer? Give her what she wants: a nice, long ramble. I’d better make the most of my position here or else I’ll be left without any occupation at all. My favourite type of fish is Atlantic cod, you know; this meal of it is lost without kale (which is the best thing to have with fish, after all); when I last ate fish it was Christmas day at my mother’s house and she cooked it with lemons and broccoli and kale (of course) and afterwards we had apple pie. And doesn’t she like fish as well? "Oh," she responds, "Pretty well." Pretty well? What sort of answer is that? And look at her leave off again rudely. One either adores fish or one despises it; ‘pretty well’ means nothing in terms of fish. Obviously she does not eat as much of it as it might otherwise seem. She’s not paying attention to me, anyway, though, gone to look to her right at the man on her other side. Ah, it figures: my blathering has frightened her away and now she seeks a different and more engrossing conversation. Very well: let her have it her way. Let her chase him. He is at least someone I know and, let me tell you, and he’s as deep as a puddle on the street of London after a short day’s rain and just as clean. Why our hostess invited him, of all people, escapes me. I was nearly certain she herself was unsure as to his sincerity. But if the girl beside me would like to fawn after his attentions, let her do so. I’m perfectly all right sitting here and relishing my fish.4

But I haven’t even begun and the girl has turned back to me! The nerve! Oh, so your intended little chat didn’t turn out the way you wanted it? He’s too busy with another lady? You poor thing, indeed. Do I like cucumbers, she wants to know. Cucumbers: cucumbers of all things! How entirely stale. "Yes, I do like cucumbers." And she’s asked another before I am able to reflect the query to her: And potatoes? Do I like potatoes, too? Why, she’s a fountain of questions. No doubt she’d be the best detective on the squad if ever she started asking real questions instead of these dinner party time-fillers. Yes, I agree, I do like potatoes. Does she, I squeeze in straight afterwards, accentuating my outwards pleasure of the conversation with an untelling smile. "No, I don’t like potatoes," she states. Oh, and what impertinence! She’s broken the rules of the game, now, the thoughtless little thing. I wonder what has run through her mind to persuade her to ruin our little fun. I’m afraid my bewilderment has been displayed too mistakenly as disappointment, because she looks kindly on me and admits gently that she, in fact, likes cucumbers. And we’re back to the game. I’ll nod, paste back on my grin, and insist upon my like of cucumbers, as well. Ah, and look: all’s been patched up again. We’re on the best of terms once more. How lovely. Back to my meal of fish.5

And will you look: the cold air’s bitten it; it’s not as piping hot as it ought to be. How inconsiderate of that girl to interrupt me just as I was about to dig into my delicious fish. Ah, but it’s not even cooked properly: it’s been overdone and parts of it are dry and flaky. Its only saving grace is the lemon perched atop of it. No kale, even. What a wreck of an evening it is. I could have cooked something better even on my own. I have a nice loaf of fresh bread back home and a little beef from the butcher. A little stock, a few vegetables, and I’d be set with a stew in only an hour or so. Undoubtedly there was a good radio program on tonight. And instead I’m landed here with these arrogant sophisticates. What was this dinner party for in the first place? There can’t be many reasons beyond the hostess’s simple love of all things social. I should not have been considered, even, for this seat. I should be at home with my stew and bread, listening to some music. Still, I ought to begin downing this ruin of fish before the next course, lest my loss of appetite grow suspicious. It is not at all tasty. What a shame to spoil perfectly good fish. At least, if I had to be here, maybe I could be over on that side and that end, conversing pleasantly with that brunette over there. I’m sure she’s much more engaging than this girl on my right side. The cheeky little thing.6

Oh, what’s she doing, now? Sipping at the wine; and making such a face! What, doesn’t it meet your standards? Now, it isn’t that bad! My experience in wine does not go far, but it doesn’t warrant my obvious disgust. Now, put away that face before somebody sees you. "This wine is off," she comments to me, "Don’t you agree?" Ah, another wonderful heart-to-heart. It’s a pity, my lady friend, that I don’t touch wine; else maybe I’d be able to mend that horridly hurt look you have there. And doesn’t she look saddened at my admission of not being familiar with the particulars of wine. Oh; have I thwarted you? Are you off to seek some new and hollow topic? Is all you ever talk about what you have directly in front of you? You old bore. No wonder they stuck you next to me; no one else would have the heart to listen to you prattle so about nothing at all. And go on; sip so distractedly at your off wine. Perhaps you’ll feel a little better for it because you look to be so upset. I wonder if you’re having as terrible time as I am.7

Now the meal is getting more appealing. This beef here, this entrecote, looks much more delicious than that terrible fish. And it is tasty! Some of the best I’ve had lately. No doubt my stew could not match this, though I would hesitate any day to admit it. It is much better meat then what I was passed at the butchery. And look at that girl on my side watching me with so blank a stare. Where she picked up such rudeness I cannot imagine. Though my pace in eating may be eager, I’m hardly wolfing anything down, your ladyship. Do not give me so derisory a gaze. You’ve hardly touched a thing and are mulling instead over your wine. So you like the red better? Is it not so off? Well, I am glad for you. Maybe now you’ll desist in being so downtrodden. It may even lift those perpetually damp and lackluster spirits of yours. Go ahead and stare if you wish; go ahead and sip lightly at that wine. It’s not so off, my dear, not so off.8

Looking again at that preoccupied man on her right. Don’t be a fool. He’s entertained enough with that other woman and she’s just as bad as he is. Both may be as classy-looking and as the next aristocrat but neither of them are worth one thought in their pretty little heads. This girl doesn’t know it, yet. She will if she persists in being so nosy. One would think even the most common of people would know the most beautiful people are so frequently the least profound. And how many beautiful people I’ve known over the course of my life. They’ve all been the same: snobs, caught up in their excuse for an existence, dabbling too much in money and parties and not enough in common sense.  This girl has not lived fully enough, one can see by only watching her for enough time. The poor thing. She’d fit rightly enough in with my mother’s group of friends. How vain.9

She seems perched again on the lip of another exchange of banter between us two. What is she going to say this time: "I do declare that this meat is quite scrumptious; wouldn’t you agree?" Indeed. Oh, come on, then: out with it. Don’t teeter with such an expression as to indicate you expect me to be hanging on your every word and every movement if you’re not inclined to speak with me, finally! Shall I begin it for you? "What appetizing salad; do you like salad?" We’ll play by our old rules, the ones you broke. I’ll mend them. You do like salad? How wonderful. The rules remain intact. Shall I tell you of the origin of salad? Would that suit your dinner table conversation? Would you like to be stylishly bored with me? You know how lovely salad can be for your digestive system. And there are so many styles of salad—10

Would you look at that? The brat’s turned away from me, now, in the middle of my sentence. What audacity! In my entire life I’ve had only select people turn from me in the middle of an utterance. And how dare she! Ah: to strike up a conversation with that man over there on her right. How positively uncouth. Well, I suppose it’s her own loss. And I’m much better off without her. She’s a terrible waste of my time. And let’s see what’s over here on my left. A brunette. Quite lovely. She’s unoccupied. Looks a nice enough woman: and not overly interested in some puddle of a man. And I’d better make the best of the rest of my wreck of an evening.11

"So, what do you think of the salad?"12