the way round. The papers have been incredibly cruel, printing pictures of the young girls he's supposed to have bedded alongside pictures of Jan. She looks two decades and two kids older . . . because she is. But what I'm discovering tonight is that she's really sweet. She keeps looking over and mouthing, 'Are you OK?' to me and smiling warmly. Her comment about Oscar Wilde doesn't go down too well though.
'Absurd,' squeals Lord Simpkins, who sounds quite beside himself with frustration – and for a minute I think that his fury may result in an end to the continual stroking up and down my leg. But, no. He's one of the few men I know who can do two things at once.
I push his foot off again, this time quite violently, and though it thumps to the floor, causing Her Ladyship to look up sharply, it still doesn't deter him. It's almost as if he's relishing the sport all the more for my participation in it.
'Why, Oscar Wilde was dated before it even hit the stage. The man and his work can only be defined within the context of the period in which he lived. It's nonsense to understand his work in any other way. Shakespeare deals with much broader, more human issues. Wilde's overrated if you ask me.'
'Agreed, my dear. Agreed,' hoots Lady Simpkins and the couple smile warmly at one another before she turns her attentions back to the rather dashing-looking Edward and His Lordship grabs my knee with the sort of strength that wouldn't disgrace an arm-wrestler.
The debate rages across the table. It turns out that Oscar Wilde is overrated; is underrated; is sometimes overrated; can be overrated, depending on your point of view. I feel like saying, 'Isn't that the point? Isn't the point that everyone has a view and no one's views are wrong because it's art, not science,' but I know that'll be wrong, so I shut up and concentrate on Edward. Now, he's an interesting man because he's fabulously handsome – a combination of Barbie's boyfriend (Ken) and the Kennedys. He's so perfect he looks like he's made of plastic, and I have to say that I fear for him greatly as he bends over a little, moving perilously close to a candle. Will he melt into a small puddle of plastic, Botox and collagen before our eyes?
He has hair that's so thick and glossy it looks almost black against his tanned skin. His eyes are the colour of hazelnuts with an intensity that borders on lunacy. His suit is immaculate, and he wears cufflinks and shoes that are so shiny, someone must have been polishing them for days. There's the perfectly ironed shirt and the thick and well-knotted tie. The man looks as if he's been cut out of a magazine. Really, he's an incredibly handsome man but – this is the thing – desperately unsexy. He's too doll-like, too perfect to be considered a handsome man. I mean, there's nothing manly about him at all. I can imagine him hanging up his shirt and making you shower before he'd touch you. I bet he's got his initials written on every towel, handmade shirt and expensive tie he owns. There's just something mind-numbingly asexual about him even though he's model good-looking and perfect in every way. Isn't that interesting? His good looks are very different from Rufus's which are far more rugged, more masculine and sooooo much more appealing. I look up at Rufus as I compare them and see him take a large gulp of wine.
'This is the point though, isn't it? The very reason that we're here and why art matters so much to us is that it provokes these differences in opinion. We all have different views – this is art, not science.'
Fuck, I should have said that.
Edward's wife Isabella applauds him (she's the one who fell out with Elody – I hope you're keeping up here). She is as good-looking as her husband, but very, very feminine and somehow sexy at the same time. She radiates beauty and I keep feeling myself drawn to look at her. No wonder she winds Elody up so much! She's dressed classically, with none of the flair of Elody, but she looks
'Absurd,' squeals Lord Simpkins, who sounds quite beside himself with frustration – and for a minute I think that his fury may result in an end to the continual stroking up and down my leg. But, no. He's one of the few men I know who can do two things at once.
I push his foot off again, this time quite violently, and though it thumps to the floor, causing Her Ladyship to look up sharply, it still doesn't deter him. It's almost as if he's relishing the sport all the more for my participation in it.
'Why, Oscar Wilde was dated before it even hit the stage. The man and his work can only be defined within the context of the period in which he lived. It's nonsense to understand his work in any other way. Shakespeare deals with much broader, more human issues. Wilde's overrated if you ask me.'
'Agreed, my dear. Agreed,' hoots Lady Simpkins and the couple smile warmly at one another before she turns her attentions back to the rather dashing-looking Edward and His Lordship grabs my knee with the sort of strength that wouldn't disgrace an arm-wrestler.
The debate rages across the table. It turns out that Oscar Wilde is overrated; is underrated; is sometimes overrated; can be overrated, depending on your point of view. I feel like saying, 'Isn't that the point? Isn't the point that everyone has a view and no one's views are wrong because it's art, not science,' but I know that'll be wrong, so I shut up and concentrate on Edward. Now, he's an interesting man because he's fabulously handsome – a combination of Barbie's boyfriend (Ken) and the Kennedys. He's so perfect he looks like he's made of plastic, and I have to say that I fear for him greatly as he bends over a little, moving perilously close to a candle. Will he melt into a small puddle of plastic, Botox and collagen before our eyes?
He has hair that's so thick and glossy it looks almost black against his tanned skin. His eyes are the colour of hazelnuts with an intensity that borders on lunacy. His suit is immaculate, and he wears cufflinks and shoes that are so shiny, someone must have been polishing them for days. There's the perfectly ironed shirt and the thick and well-knotted tie. The man looks as if he's been cut out of a magazine. Really, he's an incredibly handsome man but – this is the thing – desperately unsexy. He's too doll-like, too perfect to be considered a handsome man. I mean, there's nothing manly about him at all. I can imagine him hanging up his shirt and making you shower before he'd touch you. I bet he's got his initials written on every towel, handmade shirt and expensive tie he owns. There's just something mind-numbingly asexual about him even though he's model good-looking and perfect in every way. Isn't that interesting? His good looks are very different from Rufus's which are far more rugged, more masculine and sooooo much more appealing. I look up at Rufus as I compare them and see him take a large gulp of wine.
'This is the point though, isn't it? The very reason that we're here and why art matters so much to us is that it provokes these differences in opinion. We all have different views – this is art, not science.'
Fuck, I should have said that.
Edward's wife Isabella applauds him (she's the one who fell out with Elody – I hope you're keeping up here). She is as good-looking as her husband, but very, very feminine and somehow sexy at the same time. She radiates beauty and I keep feeling myself drawn to look at her. No wonder she winds Elody up so much! She's dressed classically, with none of the flair of Elody, but she looks
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