When I’m famous

 

A gypsy once said to me, ‘Your face is your fortune.’

This probably explains why I am so slight of coin.

One of the Big Brother contestants once commented to another that he would stop his car to allow a woman to cross the road only if she was pretty.

I guess that’s why I’m the one who stands for ages on the kerbside watching the wheels go by as Big Brother clones and their acolytes drive by.

So it was nice to be invited to a dinner party; especially when one of the guests had travelled half way across the world to be there.

I looked forward to it.

The place for the venue was changed.

‘What time?’ I asked.

I was given a time that with the distances I’d have to be travel that day I’d be unable to meet.

‘Would it be all right if I came a little later than that?’ I asked, after explaining my circumstances.

Apparently it was.

On that night I rushed back the many miles from work, raced around a supermarket, came home, cooked the teenager his dinner, before I bathed and changed into my very special dress. A dress that is very sensitive to water stains.

Then I bought wine and flowers and set off to drive to the new venue. I was expecting conversation, lively chatter and humorous banter. I was tired and weary after a long difficult week so this was really going to be a treat.

I arrived just after seven.

‘You’re too late,’ I was told.

In confusion I proffered the wine and flowers.

I don’t understand.

‘What a shame. You’ve just missed them.’

I’m puzzled now. It’s embarrassing being told I’m late, when I’d already explained that it would be unavoidable.

‘They’ve gone,’ I’m told.

Had they eaten the entire meal in half an hour? I don’t understand. Had there been yet another change of venue?

Eventually, I fathom out that the guest from far, far away has gone off drinking with his friends.

‘Oh,’ I say, foolishly imagining that he’d be returning soon to eat with us, or that perhaps his friends would also be joining us.

Then I’m told that my friend’s boyfriend won’t be there either.

He sends a text to say that he’s ordered pizza and dancing girls for the evening. He’s just a few miles down the road.

So it’s just the two of us together with my friend’s parents (we are in their house).

However, apparently they aren’t going to be eating with us either, despite being in the house and not being distracted by dancing girls. They have already eaten.

It seems I’m also mistaken about the guest from far, far away returning to eat with us either. It seems he won’t be.

It is to be just me and my friend.

Which is fine.

I realise a table hasn’t been prepared for us. My flowers lie untouched. The wine unopened. I’m told they’ll drink it tomorrow. The food comes out of packets, and we are to eat on out knees.

I wish I’d worn my jeans. I feel foolish in my dress and I’m deeply hurt that the other two guests hadn’t bothered to be there.

I worry about my dress. I avoid the hot spicy food and try to hold the plate off my dress and negotiate a crumbling samosa.

‘Have some of this,’ my friend’s mother suggests placeing a dollop of something red on the plate.

I dip a samosa into it. It’s hot. It burns my throat, waters my eyes and instantly I’m choking.

‘Shall I do the Heimlich Manoeuvre?’ My friend asks.

She doesn’t move.

I’m coughing, my eyes are watering, and I’m trying to reply when a fiery piece of samosa goes flying through the air and lands splat upon my dress.

A widening stain instantly spreads around it.

I sense the disgust of my friend, and I feel even more embarrassed and upset.

I sigh inwardly knowing that a trip to the dry cleaners is now inevitable at a time when I have very little money to spare on such frivolities.

I am now sat like piggy in the middle of the settee and turning first one way and then the other to answer questions, while precariously balancing my plate.

All the time music from a Bollywood movie is blaring from the wide screen TV. I can not follow properly either the film or the conversation. I am given a magazine article to read that has something to do with the film and my balancing of the plate above the embarrassing stain becomes even more awkward and precarious.

My friend is tired and eventually I manage to say my goodbyes. The door is shut firmly before I’ve even turned from the porch. I step around the corner and my foot slips into the hole where the soil has been removed from the side of the house and between the path creating a gap. I fall and lie sprawled upon the ground.

‘Are you all right?’ a voice from just inside the porch calls. Nobody steps around to look.

‘I’m all right,’ I answer. ‘I fell.’

Nobody helps me up.

Once back inside my car I sit and catch my breath before driving away.

I am deeply hurt that the two other invited guests hadn’t thought it worth their while to be in my company; I’m bruised from the fall and upset about the dress.

I’m guessing that had I been a famous person, even with these looks, then the others probably would have turned up. I’m guessing that if I was famous and glamorous then the other guests most definitely would have turned up.

I’m thinking all this while I wait for someone to let me make a right turn so that I can return home. With my looks I know it will take a while. The indicator light flashes for an age before some most likely half-blind driver mistakes me for a siren and allows me to make the turn.

I imagine that if my name had been Obama then the guests would have turned up.

Once home I resolve that I will have to become famous in order to give future get-togethers more chance of success… and to make something more from the gypsy’s words.

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