Joining a Lady for cocktails and champagne
The cocktail party had arrived. It was time to meet The Lady again for the first time in five years.
I had just returned from visiting my family. Just returned as in 10 minutes earlier. I furiously changed into a new outfit before jumping back on the Tube and crossing London again.
The house was on Eaton Square, which is where Upstairs Downstairs is set. The party was like something out of Upstairs Downstairs. There was a door man (of course), a man to take your coat (nothing special) a man in the lift to press the buttons for you (a first for me at a house party).
The place was sumptuous. Every possible inch of wall space was taken up with a beautiful collection of art. The decor was understated, but only just. There was a grand piano in the front room and occasional table in the hall would have cost more than I earn in a year. Everyone there was tall, slim and in cocktail dresses or velvet.
The Lady said hello. She hadn’t changed a bit, well apart from having a bandage on the corner of her nose. I didn’t want to ask what had caused it.
She was wearing a black cocktail dress and giant heels so she was toweringly tall and her accent was even posher than I remember, although that could be the affect of having her mother nearby.
I said hello to her mother (tiny, immaculately turned out like someone on the cover of a Joan Collins novel) who remembered me as the chap who sent her daughter flowers and took her out to supper years ago.
The evening was very jolly. I chatted away to a range of interesting people. I learned about how film scores are made, discussed the affect of motorcycles on the mind and how to jump career suddenly.
I also talked to The Lady’s sister who I always got on with brilliantly and once interviewed for a feature. She said she enjoyed my facebook status updates which was terribly lovely of her to say.
I didn’t actually talk to The Lady that much, which was strange but fairly normal at the same time. She has rather lost her affect on me, which is for the best and I realised after typing up our misadventures that I wouldn’t put up with that sort of relationship if it happened again. I’m not saying it is likely to, just that I hope I wouldn’t make the same mistakes.
It got rather late after supper was served and I was more than slightly mashed after six hours of champagne drinking so I decided to leave and make a brave stab at getting the last tube home. I said goodbye to The Lady’s mother and set off to find the woman herself.
We said goodbye she made me promise to visit her in LA saying I would want for nothing and then we kissed briefly, and then again. Not in a sexy way but enough to make me vaguely aware of it.
We kissed again. I felt that it could have turned into serious kissing, but decided to leave instead of chancing it. Some things are better left as memories.
Although, something must be up. I’ve just been out to buy some fancy paper so I can write her mother a thank you letter.