I met James' friends last night. I can confidently say that we won't be setting up a mutual-appreciation society any time soon.
I got seriously sidetracked by the pub yesterday afternoon so by by the time I get to the King's Road and manage to find the flat where this bloody dinner party is taking place, I'm unfashionably late, mildly hammered and feeling more than a bit harrassed. And I'm also unsettled from thinking about Sam. Not a great start to the evening.
I ring the doorbell and James answers, looking very pleased to see me which makes me feel better for all of two seconds before I'm led into the kitchen for the Big Introduction. James goes, everyone, I'd like you to meet Sara. A sea of curious faces look up and there's a murmer of, hi. Then James thrusts a glass into my hand and disappears, leaving me next to this enormous rugger-bugger type with a neck like a bull and a face like a beacon.
Ollie-the-rugger-bugger spends the first five minutes laughing heartily at his own jokes - which, by the way, are about as amusing as a Brazillian wax - and gives me a blow by blow account of his latest rugby team triumph. Yawn. Then he asks me what I do for a living. I'm a barmaid, I say, in a West-End club. He's silent for a moment, a blessed relief, and then goes, har har har! He turns to Sophie (who, it transpires, has the misfortune of being married to this buffoon) and bellows, hey Soph, did you hear that? Sara says she works in a nightclub! Har har har. I'm like, yes so what? He goes, what? really? You're not joking? I go, no I'm not joking. And he goes, oh.
By the time dinner is served I'm already ready to go home. James pulls me into the chair next to his, thank God. On the other side of me is Kate. I sense immediately that Kate does not like me. She makes a point of speaking over my head to James, cutting me off when I try to get involved in the conversation. I notice that when she speaks to James, she smiles. She doesn't smile at me. Fuck her, I think, and leave her to her issues. I'm not getting into this. So I sit, drink, try to eat, and occasionaly tune in to the rest of the conversation.
At one point, noticing that I'm playing with my food rather than wolfing it down, Kate goes, no wonder you're so skinny. Don't you ever eat? Then she looks down at her chest, squishes her tits together and adds, James likes a woman with curves. Bats her eyelids, coos, don't you James? I just smile politely, while imagining how much fun it would be to feed her, bit by tiny bit, into the waste disposal unit.
I try to engage Penny, who's sat opposite me, in conversation about a book I'm reading, A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. She looks at me blankly and goes, oh I haven't heard of that one. Then she shrugs, anyway, I only read books on holiday.
When Kate finally relinquishes her monopoly on James, he turns to me and says, quietly, are you OK, Sara? You seem kind of quiet. Huh, no kidding.
These people all know each other very, very well. It's a bit of a closed shop, a happy clique, and it's obvious that I am very much the outsider. I am different. And that makes them nervous. They don't quite know what to say to me and I don't quite know what to say to them. Their conversation, which seems to revolve around children, their work, holidays and other people they know, punctated by in-jokes, is incomprehensible to me.
What the fuck is James doing with this lot? Is there something that I'm missing here? Is it me? He's the same person that I've got to know over the past couple of weeks, saying the same things, behaving in the same way, but he - it- looks all wrong in this setting.
I leave after pudding and before coffee. Alone.
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11 comments:
I'm on holidays this week working away on computer and so time to check posts here and there and here again.
date sounded awful, awful, awful. i could tell you some equally bad stories about my first social meetings with Phoebe's friends. once the life of any party I'm now the wall-paper blenderer.
I'm wondering why you don't have a stab at being a PAID writer. You're a bit like Julie Burchill without the wall-to-wall ego. You read a bit, you obviously like writing and, more importantly, you can write.
It sounds like a no-brainer doesn't it?
hi light - why, thank you. That's a very, very, very nice compliment, in fact, one of the nicest I've had in a long time (that doesn't involve my t&a, anyhow). Know any agents? :-)
you can't get an agent without a product. you have to write something first, then send it away and say, hey! look at me i can do handstands in a lexicographical way.
but... listen... if you buy a Writers Almanac from one of those heavenly large bokstores in Charring Cross Rd, say, before work one night, you'll see there are hundreds upon hundreds of magazines who accept freelance work. The almanac will give you the features editors' contact e-dresses (so you don't have to bother about not having the motivation to post anything snail mail you can send an e-mail and often hear back the same day). The Almanac also tells you about the type of freelance stuff that a particular magazine generally considers.
Writers Almanac is a new writer's Bible.
All you have to do is: think of an article that you think will suit a particular magazine (this month you could have got anything about coke in almost any magazine in London after Kate Moss did her thing on camera.)
E-mail the editor with your proposal before writing it, if they're interested in it then go ahead and write it. It will still be on spec but they've expressed an interest, at least, so you have some motivation.
try not to write opinion pieces because if your unknown they don't care much for your opinion. that means you have to interview a few people, get some facts in.
you'd be surprised how willing peope are to get their names in print. interviews are easy to arrange.
there, easy as pie. you'd like freelancing and you'd be good at it. it's just mind over matter.
now i must run and pick up my duahgter from pre-school so forgive if there are lots of spekling mistakes as i did not have a chance to check over
Maybe he was pretending, with them, not you. Maybe you should ask him - which you is real?
Don't worry about his friends. You two can make new friends together and yet still keep your seperate cliques.
Female Bartenders are called Barmaids over there? Hm, we don't use that. But I learned something new.
Oh dear. I always think you can tell a lot about people from their friends. And you missed pudding too.
Maybe this is one for your fuck 'em and chuck 'em approach ;-)
I'm with Lighterate, you write very well.
This post reminded me of Bridget Jones when she goes to the dinner party and they are all grilling her on why she is not married with a sprog on the way!
Great stuff, even though for you the date was ghastly!
Thanks Light.
Networkchic - he wasn't being different really, apart from a bit less attentive than he has been so far which kind of pissed me off. But how can I put "please explain to me why you hang out with such a bunch of arseholes"? nicely?
Doctor - I'm delighted that I've been able to help you broaden your knowledge of the English language. I'll see if I can come up with some more for you. :-)
NYPC - Yep, it's barmaids over here, unless I've missed out on any new PC terminology. I can be a bit retro at times. I guess so, but it still worries me.
wdky - I agree. I did stay for pudding (tarte tatin, yum), I love pudding. I just missed out on coffee and an extra dose of undoubtably unbearable small talk... and as I don't much like either, it wasn't much of a loss. I'll have to think about the f&c option. Hmmm.
Thanks Claire. :-)
Sorry the dinner party was such a bust. I was worried that it was going to go in a different (but equally disappointing) direction. I thought that James might have been escorting you about without letup, trying to project the image that the two of you were an established couple to all of his friends who were themselves already in relationships.
But he was a complete tosser for sitting their silent while his friends carried on like that. If it's a choice between sitting around with a bunch of insufferable bores or grabbing a vibrant, sexy, intelligent woman by the hand and going off somewhere by yourselves--well, then, that's no choice at all.
But on the positive side, at least the night included pudding...
That sounded fun, bunch of stuck-up toffs by the sound of it, 100% on me posh test types. I hope you stole some cutlery or china at least, so the night wasn't a complete waste.
Chav, say the word and I'll email the address. You can send Dazza round - they're usually out on Friday nights. ;-) But to be honest, their stuff was all a bit John Lewis... not your thing is it Shar?
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