The Invitation

The Invitation

There was a towering stack of them. On one side was a jolly Father Christmas sitting with his legs spread out in front of a fireplace, a glass of port in one hand and a dreamy smile on his face.

And on the other side, in shiny black letters embossed onto pristine white card, were the words that had been the same for as long as anyone could remember:

On the longest night of the year

the pleasure of your company

is requested at

the Snow Ball

Foxwood

Nr Breverton

Somerset

The twenty-first of December. Always the twenty-first of December.

People for miles around kept the date free, hoping to find one of the coveted envelopes pushed through their letterbox.

No one knew quite how you got on the guest list, but if you were lucky enough to be invited, you would think of nothing else until the longest night arrived.

She looked at the list of names she had drawn up for this year.

In consultation with the rest of the family, in theory, but of course she had the final say.

It was always a mix of stalwarts and surprises.

You didn’t want it to be the same every time.

You had to keep it fresh and ring the changes.

That was the art of being a good hostess.

She unscrewed the lid of her Waterman and filled it with ink. Her husband couldn’t understand why she didn’t give the job to his secretary, but he must know by now she was a perfectionist? Every detail mattered, from the dotting of an ‘i’ to the elaborate flourish on a guest’s name.

As she began her task, painstakingly blotting her work to avoid smudges, she began to picture the evening in her mind.

She could smell the resin of the Christmas tree, the waft of spices from the kitchen, the mingled perfumes of the guests.

She could hear the rustle of silk, the faint arpeggio of a distant piano, the ringing of dress boots on the flagstones.

Cold cheeks ready for a kiss of greeting; the warmth of a fur coat removed by a servant.

The frantic tooting of a horn as an excited party arrived in an overcrowded motor car, a hip flask passed from guest to guest in the back seat.

There was so much to do to make it perfect.

And all the while she wrote, there was one name conspicuous by its absence that repeated itself over and over in her head, a metronome that might eventually drive her so mad that she would relent, perhaps against her better judgement.

But for now, she was determined this particular guest would be left off.

If anyone else noticed her omission, there would be puzzlement, for why on earth would she leave him off when he was such a close and dear friend of the family?

There was such a thing as too close, she thought.

And perhaps he would come anyway, assuming his invitation, not needing his inclusion to be confirmed in writing.

He had that kind of confidence. Some might call it arrogance.

So maybe she should include him after all?

Would she even notice him amongst all the other guests?

She decided not to, for now. There was plenty of time to add him later if she had a change of heart.

Nearly an hour later, the invitations were all addressed, sealed and ready to be taken to the post office for a crimson stamp, then whisked away in a hessian sack for each to begin their journey, perhaps to a sprawling country manor or an elegant London townhouse or a cottage on the outskirts of Breverton.

She screwed the lid back on her pen, stared at the one remaining invitation, then picked it up and put it away in the bureau drawer which she locked with a tiny key.