“But really, ” I finally inquire to the young faux socialite.
She then proceeds to tell me about an evening, a social event where we all met, a gangly of met, French prostitutes, arrivestes, an English aristocrat, a bisexual socialite host and a large pantry of laxatives in the background. She then begins to tell me about a bunch of prescription pills she had taken that day and then I suddenly remember who she was and laugh:
“But my dear, I was the one who stood by you while the French poof, (as we had decided to call him that evening), had tried to prod you into bouts of sanity.”
She stops to think.
“Yes, you are right now that I come to think of it. Yes, you were after all very kind to me. You stood up for me. What a lovely man you are.”
At this stage the faux socialite has come running to my side of the dinner table and is violently clutching my arm whilst the architect looks on confused, the hostess- still in a faint position, my French friend beyond bemused, the German sculptor is cool as ever and the blind apartment owner slowly brushing his hand along the inside leg of the faux socialite sitting by my side.
She proceeds to then tell me about a broken leg she sustained one year, when one of the English thoroubreds her father owns threw her off whilst in the countryside, reaching over and bringing my hand so I can feel the remnants of the shattered femur and how she had to sit in “a bare Hospital room for 4 months of my life?”
“If only you knew how livid I was with Missy,” she finally scowls, her eyes slowly opening to the world around her.
Eventually we all say our good bye’s our host somehow resurrected from near death and the faux socialite now slightly quivering when I go to offer her my hand for her to slip on her evening coat.
In short it was a delicious disaster and I am glad that I got this fateful Christmas Eve faus pas out of my system in the ardent hope next Christmas Eve I will instead listen to my intuition and choose to stay home all by myself.