I Fucking Hate Parties

Friday evening, straight from work, in two minds about the party. The tube train was approaching Richmond, south of the river, where I expected to find promenading gangs of boozy Henrys in blazers and straw boaters. Three-Men-in-a-Boat land. I hated the idea of the place.

‘I say, old chap, which regiment?” 

I thought it must be some kind of joke, but the stooping man. slightly older than me, was a genuine toff. He was accompanied by a beautiful woman with a ski-jump perm.  They were wearing matching Barbour jackets and faded designer jeans: Sloane Rangers.

The man was studying the distinctive blue and gold striped neck tie that I'd bought at a second-hand shop, an upgrade for my crap gray Marks & Spencer suit. 

“I think you know the answer to that question,” I said with a clubby smile.

 “Royal Hussars,” he roared like he was leading the charge of the fucking Light Brigade.

“Michael”, I lied, extending a hand in a casual, throw-away American way. My prole name – Kevin – is a second-class ticket. 

“James,” he said, shaking hands, “and this is Venetia”. He nodded at the blonde-haired woman with the up-turned nose.

“That’s a nice name,” I said. It was a stuck-up, a silver-spoon name.

She rolled her baby blues at James. How tiresome having to deal with the middle-class world of … thrift stores, and shabby gray suits, and Kevins. She looked about my age – twenty-three - but the petite Rolex watch made her seem older. 

The train disgorged us into a plume of ozone and onto the platform. James and Venetia towered over me, beautiful people, specimens. James explained how he’d retired from the army too – Royal Green Jackets (which made me think of flies, for some reason) – and was now selling gilts and bonds to his sheiks and emirs in the middle east… wining and dining, golf, that kind of thing. Tedious, apparently. He lived in a mews house in Chelsea, near pubs and restaurants (full of beautiful people). 

I wished my life was that tedious; I had about five quid in my pocket, and I was scarcely able to pay the rent on my small bedsit near Brent Cross, a giant fucking concrete shopping precinct, sparsely populated with fast-food outlets and pudding-faced losers.

“Are we getting a taxi to Olivier’s party?” said Venetia to James, as we emerged from the train station into the autumn dusk. 

Olivier! I’d lucked out.

“Are you friends of Ollie?” I said to James, with a thrill. 

“Ollie?”

“Olivier Cricklewood-Sturm?” I said, looking at them askance, pretending to be mildly surprised. Venetia didn’t look so haughty now, “Earl of Richmond”.

“Oh, yes, of course… Ollie!” said James, playing catch-up. Venetia looked at me, now with a faint interest. 

“Yes, Ollie and I were at university together,” I doubled down, rattled off some anecdotes about me and good old Ollie, “fun times were had by all”. It was a hint that I knew a thing or two about Lord Olivier.

“So, you were at college with Olivier!” Venetia smiled at me.

“Then you must have known Gannet? And Pinky too?”

I thought I was on pretty solid ground to this point, socially, but I knew nothing of Gannet and Pinky. James and Venetia seemed surprised. How could I not know Gannet and Pinky?

“His brother and little sister…William and Cyndia?” said James.

“Oh, William and Cynthia, of course!” I said. My turn to play catch-up.

“Cyndia” said Venetia, correcting me and frowning.

“I’ve met her a few times,” I lied, digging myself a deeper hole. 

“I went to prep school with Gannett,” said James, “and Venetia used to baby-sit Pinky”. I sensed that he was re-evaluating me, the shoes, the suit, the tie.

“We’re meeting Pinky here in a few minutes”

Fuck. This could get awkward. 

“Why don’t you guys go on ahead, I’ll meet you later at the party. I’ve got something I need to do here in the town, first”. What a tangled web we weave…

“Here she is now!” said Venetia, who ran along the pavement and wrapped her arms around an approaching waif.

Pinky was a gorgeous, gap toothed pixy who’d tied random bits of colored ribbon into her blond knotted hair. She was wearing an assemblage of old-lady stuff you find at jumble sales, and bright red tights that showed off her dancer’s legs.  She sparkled like a free spirit. She looked about seventeen.

“Hello Pinky”, said James, protective, bowing to kiss the girl on both cheeks, Euro-style, a bit icky given the age difference. “You probably know this gentleman”. James cautiously introduced me; he was still studying me, searching for the unlikely Hussar in me.

“Kevin,” I said, extending my hand toward her, casual, almost bored, “good to see you again”.

Pinky looked at my offered hand like it was contaminated with dog shit.

“Kevin?” said Venetia, “I thought your name was Michael”.

James stiffened; he didn’t trust Trevors and Kevins, dodgy characters, poor breeding.

“Have we met somewhere?” said Pinky. She was examining the drab gray suit and the incriminating striped tie, and she seemed mildly amused at what she saw, the entry-level clerk, the drone. “I don’t recognize you at all”, she said, tilting her head to one side.

It was a subtle thing, I may even have been wrong, but for the briefest of instants, I thought I saw empathy in a fleeting pinch of her impish face. When our eyes met, there was a twitch of understanding and something electric passed between us. 

James, meanwhile, stiffened; all geniality gone. I was no Hussar. I wasn’t even a Michael. I’d never met Pinky. I probably didn’t even know Olivier. I was a grifter, an opportunist in a cheap gray suit. A Kevin. He’d seen enough.

“Taxi! Taxi!” he bellowed. A black cab drew up and James opened the door, “get in, ladies”. He ushered Pinky and Venetia into the back of the vehicle and jumped in after them. Dead-eyed stares from James and Venetia as the cab moved away from the curb. I was a nobody. 

I should have legged it back to Brent Cross, I didn’t belong here. 

I was putting on weight, my hair was thinning, my life was monotonous and lonely, I worked in a dead-end paper-pushing back-office job in a shabby building in East London. The unexpected invitation to Ollie’s post-nuptial party had been a nice surprise, a reminder of happier times at university, and I was reluctant to pass up the opportunity for a bit of nostalgia, and a chance to hob-nob. Maybe one of the success-monkeys would give me a good lead for a job? Maybe I’d meet a posh girl, like Pinky?

I was essentially broke and couldn't afford a cab, so I walked all the way to Richmond House, arriving in darkness. I snuck through a line of parked cars, slunk across the lawn, edged up close to the house so that I could spy through the big bay window. I spotted a half dozen people I knew, including Lord Olivier, in the center of things. I couldn’t see James-the-green-jacket or stick-up-the-ass Venetia, but I saw Pinky talking to a university man that I recognized, a colossal rugby player called Colin, drinking beer, affably. He offered Pinky a sip of beer, but she took several gigantic gulps, Pinky gave him a hug, whispered in his ear, and Colin laughed. 

Casual dress, polo shirts, khakis, I’d stick out like a sore thumb, the drone in the cheap gray suit. 

“Kevin!”  It was Magnus Jenkins, the biggest success monkey of them all, smoking a cigarette on the front steps of the big house, he must have spotted me lurking around in the shadows, like a peeping tom.

“Hey Magnus” I had no choice but to join him, “I was just trying to find my way in.” I walked up the steps, shook hands, “how are you doing?” I wish I hadn’t asked.

Magnus was doing very well. Mergers and acquisitions, he proceeded to explain – hush hush stuff – you understand (of course I did), just got back from Atlanta, Georgia… grueling schedule, you understand (of course I did). Buying an apartment in St. John’s Wood, terrible hassle (I understood). Then Magnus stopped bragging and stared at the tie.

“Don’t tell me you signed up and are at Sandhurst for officer training!” said Magnus, genuinely shocked. Apparently, I didn’t look like officer material.   

“No Magnus… this tie was a gift… I’m not in the Army or anything like that”. I took the tie off and put it in my pocket.

“No, I guess not. It would be hard for you to get a commission.”

Magnus snuffed out his cigarette and moved on to someone else. Fuck him. I’d probably never see him again.

I went inside Richmond House. I’d politely thank Ollie for the invitation, pretend I’d been there a while, having a good time, and leave. I pushed through the polo shirts and party dresses.

“Kevin, I’m surprised you could make it! They said you’d gone to ground,” said Ollie. He was surrounded by people; it felt good to get a shout out from the host.

“Thanks so much for having me!” I said, “it’s really good to see you, and congratulations on getting hitched” I said over the din of voices.

“Olivier, Olivier!” A handsome guy with a professional-looking camera was making a fuss, “we need you for a shot on the balcony”.

Ollie was swept away in the crowd.

Such a waste of time, but I was actually a little bit relieved What could we have talked about? Renaissance paintings? Auction house prices? Paths cross and diverge.

“You, again,” said someone close to my shoulder. It was little Pinky. She was twirling around, dancing to what sounded like a Duran Duran song. She looked flushed, like she’d been drinking, and she was acting a bit wild.

“Yeah, me again” I said. She was fascinating, but I wanted to get away from her, from everyone, before I got humiliated again.

“Why don’t you dance with me… Kev?” It was a mock cockney accent, taking the piss, she definitely had drunk one too many.

“Two left feet, Cynthia, Pinky, or whatever your name is” I said, a little cruelly. She wouldn’t remember me, and she wouldn’t remember this conversation.  It was time to leave.

“Come with me,”, she grabbed my arm, and pulled me through the crowd. A couple of familiar faces grinned at me lewdly, one fellow winked, “you’re in there mate”, said another. Pinky pulled me into the ballroom, which was set up like some kind of disco, the Duran Duran thumped loudly. Next thing, I was dancing with Pinky – two left feet - in the middle of a crowd. 

I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

“Why did you take that stripey tie off?”

“Are you teasing me?”

“No, you looked very retro”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

She wheeled around and danced.

“You ever been on a boat, Kev?” I didn’t mind the mock cockney nor the abbreviated name, I was bewitched by her, couldn’t believe that she was dancing with me.

“Of course,” I laughed “When I was in the boy scouts, I went sailing in dinghies out on the local reservoir.” Boy scouts! Sailing! I was such a nerd, but it felt good to be honest with this girl, to not have to hide from my Kevin-hood.

“Not that kind of boat, silly. Daddy has a yacht in the south of France, which he named Pinky. We could hang out together, if you’re not too busy”.

I was confused. Did this beautiful, wealthy, unattainable girl find me attractive? Why? Was she serious? It must be some kind of cruel tease.

“Oh, I don’t think I could get the time off work.” 

She laughed. “You are funny, Kevin.” She swept her hand like a ballerina, then spun around and next thing I knew she was hanging on to me, and I could feel her body pressed against mine.

“I think you’ve probably had enough to drink, Pinky.” Close up, I could see how young she was. 

“Yeah. I think you’re probably right. How tiresome,” she hiccupped then sagged at the knees, so I caught her beneath her arm pits to keep her upright.   She stood on my feet as I walked her backwards towards the balcony, where I sat her on the stone balustrading and I held her about the waist, so that she wouldn’t fall off. We were alone.

“You know what I like about you Kevin”, she looked me in the eyes, and seemed very sober all of a sudden.

“I have no fucking idea.”

She tapped my heart with her fingers, looked me in the eyes – her face pinched up, like that brief instant when I first met her – and then she threw up on the ground, narrowly missing my trousers but splashing my shoes with vomit. 

“There they are”. It was Colin, the big rugby player, coming toward me, followed by James, Venetia, Magnus, and a couple of other people.  They didn’t look friendly.

“Hey guys”, I said. 

“What the hell are you doing with Pinky?” said Venetia.

“We were dancing”

“Yeah, sure.”

Suddenly, I was grabbed by the arms, Colin the rugby player to one side, Magnus of Mergers to the other, and they yanked me away from Pinky, who tipped slowly forward and fell into Venetia’s arms. James-the-green-jacket stepped in front of me, obscuring Pinky from my view. I struggled to get free, but couldn’t

“How dare you take advantage of a young girl!” said James. I was being lectured by a toff.

“I don’t understand…”. I understood very well, they assumed…

I was being frog-marched from the balcony.

“but I didn’t take advantage of her…”

I was rushed across the ballroom, headfirst through a throng of shocked faces. I was indignant and embarrassed in equal measure.

“Asshole” said Magnus.

“Shame on you” growled Colin. 

I landed on the lawn, face down.

“Leave and don’t come back”. It was James-the-green-jacket, inflated by full-blown righteousness. Behind him, a small group of people gathered at the doorway to the great house, back-lit silhouettes, Ollie among them. 

James kicked me in the side of the leg with his Gucci loafer, “go on, get a cab and get out of here, perv”.

“Wait a second, you don’t understand…” but James already turned away, was making his way back into Richmond house, back into the warm bosom of his own kind.

Skint, cold, a long walk ahead in the dark, I fucking hated Richmond.