divine. Her skin is plump and fresh (as well it might be given the various solutions that have undoubtedly been injected into it) and her hair runs down her back in glorious, luscious golden waves. She wears a simple cream shirt and subtle gold jewellery and she reminds me of Grace Kelly. I have to stop myself staring. She must be mid-forties but there's something so luminous and divine about her; she's very thin (I'm finding this is a common theme) and her tiny birdlike frame makes her appear slightly helpless but at the same time so cool and in control. I find myself wishing she wasn't with the rather stiff and pompous-looking Edward, but had someone warm and kind.
Lord Simpkins's foot is jiggling around up by my knee now. I don't know what to do; every time I knock his foot out of my lap, and look at him in a 'stop right now' sort of fashion, he dribbles at me in a rather revolting way and I'm forced to look away again . . . quickly.
'Divine,' he mutters through a mouthful of pheasant jelly. (Yes, you read that right – pheasant jelly – and it's as unpleasant as it sounds. How could it be otherwise? Pheasant and jelly – two words which have no right to be side by side in the same sentence. How I'm yearning for a KFC in front of the telly with the girls right now.) His foot is on my knee; if nothing else, you have to admire the man's flexibility. Once again, I knock it off, and once again he leers at me. Any minute now I'm going to stab him in the ankle. I'll jab straight through his ludicrously expensive woollen socks with my fork.
'Kelly, dear, do tell us how you met our lovely Rufus. Was it through the theatre?' says Lady Simpkins.
'It was; I work there,' I say, quite pleased to be able to talk about work. I do know about theatre administration even though I know nothing about Shakespeare's contribution to man's understanding of his very consciousness.
'Really. I don't recognise you. What are you in?' she asks.
'In the main office,' I say. 'Right by the windows that look out onto Richmond Green.'
'Sorry?'
'That's the office I'm in, the main one.'
'So you're not in a play?'
'Oh no, no, sorry. I thought you asked which . . . it doesn't matter.'
'What do you do, Kelly?' asks Isabella kindly. I knew I'd like her.
'I'm head of theatre administration,' I say.
'Oh my,' says Lady Simpkins with a loud hoot and a rather absurd chortle, before she turns to shout over to her daughter Olivia, sitting at the far end, next to Rufus. Her husband's foot is practically in my lap. What then? Is he going to mount me, or have I just got all this wrong and he's just looking for a footstool?
I pull my chair back a little so that his leg tumbles off my lap and goes crashing to the ground rather noisily. I'd normally scream at someone if they treated me like this and threaten to kill them if they didn't remove their foot immediately, but how can I when the guy is the single most important person in the world of theatre and someone my boyfriend admires greatly? His Lordship looks over at his daughter, the Honourable Olivia Simpkins, the aspiring model and actress. ('Aspiring', in this context, means 'failed'. You're never an aspiring model because models start at the age of about three, so you're either a model, or you aren't a model. She isn't.) I've completely taken against her for reasons I can't fully explain. There's something about her that annoys me greatly. She has an hauteur to her, you know; a sense of superiority that is wholly undeserved. She wears her father's title like a war medal. The trouble is, she's never been a soldier and never committed acts of stunning bravery, she just acts like she has.
Now I appreciate that this is quite a conclusion to come to when the woman's sitting on the opposite end of the table, and hasn't spoken a word to me, but I just know. You do sometimes. She's opposite Elody, next to my boyfriend, and she's a vision of Sloaney loveliness – resplendent in the family pearls and taffeta. A
Lord Simpkins's foot is jiggling around up by my knee now. I don't know what to do; every time I knock his foot out of my lap, and look at him in a 'stop right now' sort of fashion, he dribbles at me in a rather revolting way and I'm forced to look away again . . . quickly.
'Divine,' he mutters through a mouthful of pheasant jelly. (Yes, you read that right – pheasant jelly – and it's as unpleasant as it sounds. How could it be otherwise? Pheasant and jelly – two words which have no right to be side by side in the same sentence. How I'm yearning for a KFC in front of the telly with the girls right now.) His foot is on my knee; if nothing else, you have to admire the man's flexibility. Once again, I knock it off, and once again he leers at me. Any minute now I'm going to stab him in the ankle. I'll jab straight through his ludicrously expensive woollen socks with my fork.
'Kelly, dear, do tell us how you met our lovely Rufus. Was it through the theatre?' says Lady Simpkins.
'It was; I work there,' I say, quite pleased to be able to talk about work. I do know about theatre administration even though I know nothing about Shakespeare's contribution to man's understanding of his very consciousness.
'Really. I don't recognise you. What are you in?' she asks.
'In the main office,' I say. 'Right by the windows that look out onto Richmond Green.'
'Sorry?'
'That's the office I'm in, the main one.'
'So you're not in a play?'
'Oh no, no, sorry. I thought you asked which . . . it doesn't matter.'
'What do you do, Kelly?' asks Isabella kindly. I knew I'd like her.
'I'm head of theatre administration,' I say.
'Oh my,' says Lady Simpkins with a loud hoot and a rather absurd chortle, before she turns to shout over to her daughter Olivia, sitting at the far end, next to Rufus. Her husband's foot is practically in my lap. What then? Is he going to mount me, or have I just got all this wrong and he's just looking for a footstool?
I pull my chair back a little so that his leg tumbles off my lap and goes crashing to the ground rather noisily. I'd normally scream at someone if they treated me like this and threaten to kill them if they didn't remove their foot immediately, but how can I when the guy is the single most important person in the world of theatre and someone my boyfriend admires greatly? His Lordship looks over at his daughter, the Honourable Olivia Simpkins, the aspiring model and actress. ('Aspiring', in this context, means 'failed'. You're never an aspiring model because models start at the age of about three, so you're either a model, or you aren't a model. She isn't.) I've completely taken against her for reasons I can't fully explain. There's something about her that annoys me greatly. She has an hauteur to her, you know; a sense of superiority that is wholly undeserved. She wears her father's title like a war medal. The trouble is, she's never been a soldier and never committed acts of stunning bravery, she just acts like she has.
Now I appreciate that this is quite a conclusion to come to when the woman's sitting on the opposite end of the table, and hasn't spoken a word to me, but I just know. You do sometimes. She's opposite Elody, next to my boyfriend, and she's a vision of Sloaney loveliness – resplendent in the family pearls and taffeta. A