The Extraordinary Dinner Party

“I went to the most extraordinary dinner party at the weekend,” said my friend Felicity from Little Twittering-In-The-Marsh. “With my boyfriend Henry.”

“Oh,” I said, surreptitiously adjusting my Zoom camera to hide my double chin. “That sounds nice.”

Photo by Colin Watts on Unsplash

Felicity nodded and settled herself against the tasteful chintz cushions on her overstuffed sofa

“Henry’s wife Grace was there too,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. “That sounds, uhm, interesting.”

“And Grace’s boyfriend Jack,” she said.

“Oh,” I said again. And since it seemed like something extra would be in order, “Jack, huh?”

Felicity took a delicate sip of tea from her grandmother’s bone china cup. “He used to be her pupil at Sixth Form College,” she said. “But, luckily, he’s just got himself expelled for that silly nonsense with the French mistress, such a ridiculous fuss they all made, because it’s not as if they don’t have other teachers in France, is it?”

“I’m supposing they would have,” I said, because I do understand the state of the French educational system to be robust.

“But it’s all worked out for the best in the end,” said Felicity, “because now she doesn’t have to worry about any of those boring grey people finding out about them and making another silly complaint like they did with Oliver.”

“She wouldn’t,” I agreed, carefully, because it seemed safe for me to surmise, “want another Oliver situation.”

“Jack’s awful little sister Chloe was there too,” Felicity said. “She’s the most frightful little bore because she will go on and on about what she likes to do with her Jack Russell, and really, it’s so tiresome, because didn’t we all do naughty things with our Jack Russells at that age?”

“Did we?” I said. My own teenaged idea of naughtiness had involved inventing nicknames for teachers, but we Londoners had apparently led sheltered lives.

“But they had to ask her,” said Felicity, “because when she’s not busy wearing her poor Jack Russell out, she likes to join in the fun with Jack and Grace.”

“Oh,” I said. And then, irresistibly, “You know, I don’t want to pry, but when you say ‘fun’ …”

“Fun, darling,” she said. “You know. Fun. Fu-u-u-uhn.”

“Oh,” I said. “Fu-u-u-uhn.”

Felicity sipped again at her tea and settled the cup carefully back into its saucer.

“Is it 15 or 16 when sex becomes legal?” she said. “I know it’s one or the other but I can never remember which. Anyway, they had to ask her because if they didn’t the little nightmare would run off to sneak to Mummy and then no more lovely long massages for Jack from naughty Auntie Tasha, and he does love his times with Auntie Tasha. Well, with all those yummy little extras, you would, wouldn’t you?”

“I imagine you would,” I said.

Felicity reached to her plate and picked up a piece of Duchy Organic lemon shortbread to nibble on.

“Of course, Rufus was there,” she said.

“Of course,” I agreed, because in Little Twittering-In-The-Marsh, there is always a Rufus.

Felicity examined her shortbread and looked reflective.

“Now that I think about it,” she said, “I do believe I was the only person at the table who actually hadn’t had sex with Rufus.”

“Imagine,” I said.

“Although I nearly did once,” she said. “And I’m sure it would have been great fun, everyone says he leaves them smiling, in spite of that other business he will insist on.”

“Other business,” I echoed, just a little faintly.

“But right at the last minute his wife walked in,” said Felicity, “and unfortunately that meant we had to stop because she’s the sort of impossibly dreary person who’s likely to cause a scene about that sort of thing.”

“How very tiresome of her,” I said.

“She’s no fun at all actually,” she said. “Everyone hates her, including him. But he can’t divorce her because she has the manor house, and where else would he keep all his equipment?”

I decided to by-pass the opportunity of educating myself as to the precise nature of Rufus’ equipment.

Felicity laid down her biscuit and leant forward impressively.

“And do you know what was extraordinary about the party?” she said.

“I can’t begin to guess,” I said.

“I looked around the table,” she said. “And I suddenly realized that of all the three men who were sitting there … every single one of them had a beard!”

She stopped, and nodded in confirmation.

“Every single one,” she repeated. And, lest I had failed to comprehend the fully outlandish nature of the occasion, “Henry. And Rufus. And Jack.”

“Well, well,” I said. And then, since more appeared to be called for given the stupefying circumstances, “Well.”

“All three!” she affirmed, widening her eyes in wonder. “Can you imagine? I thought it was just extraordinary. Men don’t really have beards these days, do they?”

“Mr. Los Angeles has,” I said. Mr. Los Angeles has a Van Dyke beard that he trims every couple of days with scissors and a razor. I like Mr. Los Angeles’ beard. I was beginning to reflect that there were many parts to Mr. Los Angeles that I liked a great deal.

Felicity smiled tolerantly.

“Oh, well, Americans,” she said. “But not sensible English men, really, you just don’t see things like that here in England.”

“Don’t you?” I said. I couldn’t say that I’d noticed; but it seemed that there were many things I hadn’t noticed during my visits to Little Twittering-In-The-Marsh.

“Henry hates his, of course,” she said. “He only grew it because he lost that bet with Will about the au pair – he can shave it off when she goes back to Sweden, and we’re just praying the court case goes well, because six to eight more months of Henry’s beard would be more than either of us could bear. Rufus grew his deliberately to spite that miserable wife after she’d been so awful about the ice skating twins, such a scene she caused, you’d think she’d have got the point after what happened in Mauritius, but it seems she just doesn’t learn. And Jack’s is mostly just a scraggle, but he’s so proud of it, bless him, he keeps saying he wants to give Grace beard burn, as if she hadn’t had enough of that when she was fostering the donkey, but it was definitely more of a beard than not a beard, so I think that counts, don’t you?”

“Indubitably,” I said.

Felicity picked up her teacup again and shook her head in disbelief.

“So there they were,” she concluded. “Three men with beards. All sitting at the same table in the same house on the same evening. Extraordinary, wasn’t it?”

“Extraordinary,” I said.