Dinner at Six. Sharp
AT THE TABLE
My mother dearest, always looking more regal than any royal, of course, sharp on the tongue, and just as effective at getting what she wanted, dressed me down with a piercing stare.
But held her breath. Silence. The kind of silence that made me wish she would just say something.
Nonetheless, as I took a seat I was particularly happy I was seated nowhere near Miles; however, he was still just two chairs away, facing me. Fan-tastic , I sighed.
As I swept my gaze around the dining room, I tried to remember the last scandalous time I sat at this very table: large enough to accommodate twelve people, a fine linen tablecloth paired with matching napkins, so soft to the touch it almost— shhh, can you hear? —whispered wealth and extravagance.
E for etiquette , and so, like a proper young lady, of course, I unfolded the fabric and placed it in my lap, the crease facing my knees.
A scintillating array of silver forks and knives momentarily blinded me, glimmering against the elegant crystal chandelier right above us.
A vase of freesias sat at the centre of the table, the delicate scent filling the air.
And, lo and behold, a tray with silver vegetables.
Did the market run out of the fresh ones?
I wonder. Onions looked cool, though. I reached for a glass of water then leaned back against my chair, probably the most comfortable chair I’d ever sat in in my life, and took a small sip, desperately wishing someone poured me some wine already.
***
As the evening progressed, the starter plates were whisked away and replaced by the main course dishes.
Wine flowed like, well, wine, and the room slowly filled with laughter and loud chatter.
My father launched into his story, and for once I truly believed this dinner wouldn’t come with a side of steaming drama—just for tonight. Pretty please.
“There we were—” His voice rose with each sentence.
“—dining in a charming little trattoria in Positano, when who walks in but Antonio Banderas himself!” He chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye.
“The resemblance was uncanny, I’m telling you!
” We all listened, entertained by his enthusiasm.
“It was only after we got back home that Josephine—” He lowered his voice dramatically.
“—dropped the bombshell. Imagine the man’s surprise when Elizabeth asked if he wouldn’t mind us taking a picture with him? ” He finally burst into laughter.
“Wait, what? There is a picture?” I asked, amused. “I wanna see it!”
Intrigued, we all gathered around as dad rummaged through a dusty photo album. He finally pulled one out and there they were, beaming alongside a man who could have easily been Antonio Banderas’ Italian twin. The resemblance indeed was undeniable.
“Damn,” Mark conceded, “that is a strong similarity.”
So far I had successfully avoided any interaction with Miles, and I was truly grateful he did not engage with me either. The dessert plates arrived shortly and everyone drifted back to their seats.
Chocolate mint mousse, huh? My brow furrowed in confusion. Mum knew I hated mint desserts. Jo, too, seemed puzzled, well aware this did not seem right.
“Looks like mum’s got a special welcome planned for you,” she whispered.
“Is there something wrong with your dessert, Florence?” asked my mother, her voice calm and nonchalant. Damn , she was good.
“Um…well, I don’t like the mint flavour in it,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Nonsense!” she uttered, her tone overdramatic. “This is the first I’m hearing about this!”
“Surely not!”
But my mother only leaned back in her chair, a relaxed grin spreading across her face as if she savoured my growing frustration. Then, adding a hint of amusement to her question, she finally asked, “Since when don’t you like mint?”
“Not mint in general, Mum, but minty desserts. And since the day you made me try that green gooey stuff that tasted like toothpaste, and then I told you, ‘Yuck! That’s gross! Please, don’t ever make me eat that again!
’” I exclaimed, a touch of exasperation in my voice.
Mother looked at me for a brief moment longer then abruptly switched her attention to Mark. Seriously?
***
“The dinner was absolutely lovely, Elizabeth!” my father said.
“Thank you, Dominic.”
“Yes, it was very nice,” I added with a smile.
Not that she cooked that . “I will make sure to thank our cook later,” I muttered under my breath, reaching for a sip of coffee.
Just then, I noticed Miles across the table, a faint grin playing on his lips as he seemed to catch my words. Well, I then did my best to ignore it.
“Miles, I hope you are having a pleasant stay?” She turned to him.
“Oh, absolutely, Elizabeth.” He shot a brief glance at me. “I truly love the room and the bed, oh wow, so comfortable.” He let out a wry chuckle, “I could lay sprawled out on it all day.” Jerk!
“Maybe that’s a little too comfortable.” My words escaped me faster than I could think. “Yeah, what’s up with that, Mum,” I added, looking at her, “were you planning on us two sharing sleeping quarters or something?”
“Florence, I’m afraid you will now have to take the guest room,” she said with a pointed look.
Her calm demeanour and especially the lively tone she used infuriated me even more.
Was she mocking me? “Since you never confirmed whether you were coming or not, I took the liberty of assuming you wouldn’t be gracing us with your presence, and therefore I thought it would be most hospitable to offer those accommodations to Miles. ”
“With all the other empty rooms in the house?” I challenged, struggling to comprehend the logic behind her actions. Why would you put him in mine? I bit my tongue there, tasting the bitter in my mouth.
Also…Never confirmed? Confused, I stared at my sister.
“Mum, I told you Florence was coming,” said Jo.
“Did you? Hmm, interesting. Must have completely slipped my mind.”
“Of course I would come for the wedding!” I snapped, but as soon as I met my father’s gaze, I knew it was time for me to tone things down. “You know what?” I sighed. “It’s fine, I will take the guest room! Or whatever, even a hotel will do…” I quietly trailed off.
*
As the dinner came to an end, we all slowly moved to the living room, a fine bottle of dessert wine waiting for us at the coffee table.
Secretly, I was hoping my father would launch into another of their epic travel stories—anything to avoid any sort of word exchange with my mother. But it was not quite as I planned.
“Oh!” Jo turned to me, scooting closer on the settee. “You know who RSVPed to our wedding invitation?”
“No idea who that might be.”
“Caroline.”
“Caroline?!” I stared back at her, unsure.
“Your cousin, Caroline,” my mother said, looking at me.
“Is she some distant cousin? I don’t think I know a Caroline.”
“You are being ridiculous,” my mother laughed. “You two used to be best friends.”
The only expression my face could muster was confusion. Best friends? With Caroline? “When you were younger,” she added, both eyebrows raised with a feigned lack of enthusiasm, “you two were inseparable.”
“Sorry, Mum,” I mumbled, taking a small sip of wine. “Mmm, wow, this tastes really good!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Florence! You two practically grew up together when we lived in our former house.”
Trying to remember when that was, my brows furrowed for a moment. “When I was like…two?”
“You see,” she beamed. “You remember!”
“Um…no, Mum, it’s just maths. Besides, I doubt we knew enough words then to actually make a BFFs pact. I probably didn’t even know what a pact was at the age of two.”
Suddenly, Miles let out a short, surprised snort that made me glance at him with the faintest smile I couldn’t hold back.
“Sorry,” he quickly muttered at my mother, clearing his throat.
“Well, anyway—” she continued, well aware of the fact I had no slightest idea who Caroline was. Was I the only one present at this conversation? Because that would explain everything. “—Caroline is also getting married. A week after Josephine’s wedding.”
“Isn’t it her third marriage?” my father asked, busying himself at the bar beside us.
“Yes! Yes!” Jo added, “I remember the other two very well. Beautiful dress. Both times. And the venues. Just wow!”
“She said she sent you an invitation.” My mother shot her gaze at me.
“Hmm, I haven’t received one. Or the other two, for that matter. Must have gone missing somewhere…” I trailed off, muttering, “Pigeons…always get my post messed up!”
“Well, I think you should RSVP. It is a polite thing to do, Florence!”
“It would definitely be a polite thing to do, Mother. If I had received one.”
A sharp, pointed look struck me. It almost had me reach for the cushion across—a pathetic shield against whatever was to come. “So, you are not going?” she asked.
She can’t be serious!
“Um, no.” I took a quick shallow breath, forcing a smile. “A raincheck, perhaps?”
“A raincheck?!” she uttered with an obvious disappointment in her voice. “Well, another stroll down the aisle seems rather unlikely.”
“Wait, didn’t you all just say it was her third marriage?”
Clearly refusing to comment on that, my mother let out an annoyed sigh.
“Well—” I took another sip of wine. “—I promise to attend the fourth time. If there is one.”
“For heaven’s sake!” she muttered to herself.
“She has a point, though,” Mark cut in. “Besides, Bertram is old, she might as well bury him very soon.”
“Mark?!” Jo nearly choked. “That’s a horrible thing to say!”
“But he is.”
Distracted by the citrusy palette dancing on my tongue, “Who?” I mumbled at Mark, savouring the cold liquid in my mouth.
“Her third husband.”
“Oh!” I sighed. “We are still on that!”
“Well,” my mother muttered, “at least she’ll have a husband to bury.”
“MUM?!” Jo and I exclaimed.