Singular life
Party nerves
Pe tronella Wyatt
About six weeks ago I made a terrible mistake: I decided to give a party. This, admittedly, excited the Hungarians in the household. There weren't many parties under communism, it seemed. At least not for ordinary people. Heinekin asked me if there would be caviar. I said, 'Are you joking?' But goose liver, at least,' she insisted. 'What, I cried, I'm not a millionaire. Cook your own goose.'
No wonder the communists didn't hold parties. What I had in mind was not a spectacle out of the Satyricon, but something simple. A simple drinks party. But these things are never simple. It is hard enough sending out invitations: you forget your friends' addresses and then run up a large telephone bill trying to find them out. Then I had to change the date because people said there was to be another party that night and no one would come to mine. So the invitations had to be written out again.
I must tell you that if you receive many replies to a drinks party invitation, you are fortunate. People don't seem to bother these days. I suppose they think that as it is not a sit-down dinner it doesn't really matter. I have been guilty of this myself. But never again — it does matter. You have to calculate how much food to give people and how many bottles of wine to buy, let alone cans of soft drinks. And how can you do that if you can only guess at the numbers coming?
Then there are those people who take it upon themselves to tell you what your party should be like. They regard you as a DJ to whom it is perfectly acceptable to put in a series of requests. These usually involve you in more expense. 'I hope you're getting a marquee,' said somebody. 'No, I'm not a duke either.' Don't be selfish. What if it rains?' I replied that if it rained they would all have to stay indoors. This seemed a reasonable response.
Suddenly there were demands for music. Would there be dancing? This I had not thought of. Drinking, yes, but dancing, no. But so badgered was I, that 1 was forced to hire a pianist and pay a vast amount of money for three burly men to move the piano from the top floor to the drawingroom.
Then people started ringing again asking what there would be to drink. 'My wife only drinks apricot juice' or 'I can't drink white or red wine. Get some Scotch, but make it old.' Is this normal? Did people do this in the old days? When my parents gave cocktail parties I cannot recall any of this happening.
The day lurches nearer. I am filled with a creeping terror. What if there is a traffic accident and no one can get into our street? What if I fail to recognise one of the guests and throw him/her out?
Of course, it is possible that no one will come at all. I am reminded of an Oscar Wilde story about an elderly Anglo-Irish lady who decided to give a party. This was because a great number of arriviste rich had turned up in her neighbourhood and were throwing swanky balls which the lady considered to be of the greatest vulgarity. So she determined to show these social climbers how it should be done.
The old lady ordered the finest French champagne and brought up from her cellar the best claret and brandy. She had her cook conjure up delicacies such as salmon covered in aspic and decorated with cream in the shape of doves' tails. She sent for Caviar and plovers' eggs and everything that delights the palate. She had her grand but faded house cleaned and polished. She hired the greatest orchestra in Europe to play for her guests. This, she thought proudly, will be the finest party Ireland has ever seen.
On the appointed night the tables looked lovely, with sweating silver champagne buckets, and adorned with beautifully prepared food. The orchestra looked splendid in white tie. Happy, the old lady went up to change. She put on her most beautiful dress, the one she'd worn to her last ball. She had her maid dress her hair and get out her jewels, all family heirlooms of course. What a show she would provide.
The guests had been invited for half past eight. They were late. How typical, she sighed to herself, of these impolite new people. But the orchestra was warming up nicely and the ice covering the caviar hadn't melted. At nine, still no one had arrived. The ice was melting and the salmon was looking sad. Ten o'clock struck. The old lady did not give up hope, even though the orchestra was beginning to look decidedly woebegone. She stood erect in the hall and waited. And waited. By midnight there was still no sign of any guests. The champagne had become warm and the orchestra had given up. The old lady realised that no one would be coming. With great dignity she mounted the stairs to her bedroom and laid aside her jewels and her dress. The next day they found her dead, of a broken heart. It was only when they were going through her things that it was discovered that she had forgotten to send out the invitations.
This story always struck me as being particularly tragic, which probably indicates a superficial nature on my part. Indeed, I used to weep over it when I was a child. But surely it won't happen to me? Will it? Surely?
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