The Dinner Party

a tale in five courses, by Kieren Martin

Entrée.

Vivienne Fremer and Horace Fremer were rich.

Very rich.

They had made their money on the stock market. This engendered in them the feeling, especially in Horace, that their money had not been particularly hard-earned. In fact, their money had not been hard-earned. Horace had misheard an instruction from his stock broker and had placed his father’s inheritance in an unknown and mismanaged company. In one of those twists of fate by which the stock market distinguishes itself, Horace’s false hunch had paid off, and he and Vivienne had found themselves overnight millionaires.

They moved from their inauspicious house to what was technically a mansion on the city’s shorefront. They appropriate all of the trappings of the upper class, including a world-class wine cellar, and an émigré gardener from a developing country. Vivienne made sure that multiple children were sponsored using the services advertised in the pamphlets she received, and their smiling, gleaming-toothed visages were placed in conspicuous locations around the house, more for the benefit of any visitors than for Vivienne. She didn’t like looking at them.

And yet, Vivienne found that she was not accepted among her new neighbours. Horace had noticed this also, but he was less concerned. He was still comfortable with making the journey down one of the city’s arterial roads, back to his old tavern and ring of friends. He light-heartedly brushed away their jibes about his newfound wealth, and relieved his guilt with the occasional generous gesture, such as picking up the bar cheque every couple of weeks.

Vivienne’s concerns were not so easily assuaged, however, and she found the idea of public houses repellent. She had hoped that the move to a four-storey house would relieve Horace of his predilection for them, but this had unfortunately not been the case. Vivienne had attempted to gain entry at a number of the local country clubs but, without a subscribed member as her sponsor, she was able to see no more than the guest lounge of most of the establishments. As she would sit and drink the excessively priced cocktails, she watched the patrons come and go. She did not feel any malice towards them, but she did desperately wish that she would be acknowledged.

One day Vivienne had an idea. “Horace,” she said. “Why don’t we have a dinner party?”

Horace looked up from the investor magazine he was reading. “Sure,” he said. “Why not? I’ll call my mates tomorrow. It’ll be nice to have them all around here. You’ve only let them over once since we moved here.”

Vivienne shuddered at the memory. She had let Horace talk her into having his friends over once, just after they had moved. Along with the friends had come a sizeable contingent of alcohol, and the resulting noise and drunkenness had not gone unnoticed in the rest of the neighbourhood.

“No, darling,” she said, as sweetly as she could manage. “I was thinking of something a little more sophisticated. Why don’t we ask the MacKenzies from up the street? There’s also that arts festival in town at the moment—I’m sure we could invite one or two of the visiting guests from that.” Vivienne’s eyes flickered with ambition. “We could even ask a politician along. How about a senator? Pull some strings at work, Horace, and see what you can do.”

Horace mumbled something in disappointment and returned to his magazine. He would have preferred to have his own friends around, but that seemed to his wife to be a cardinal sin.

First course.

The dinner party had been arranged. Amazingly, Vivienne’s adventurous guest list had become a reality. Horace’s money might not have commanded respect, but it did attract certain people’s attention. It bought the appearance of respect. Through contacts at his firm, he was able to invite a senator—simultaneously the Minister for the Arts—and his wife, two visiting arts critics, currently in town for the festival, and Harold and Joy MacKenzie, the richest couple in their neighbourhood.

Horace’s money also got Vivienne entry into the city’s art museum, after hours. Vivienne had pushed past the embattled curator, Mariella Michaels, and into the main gallery.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Vivienne said, “but I’m having a dinner party.”

Mariella looked down at her watch, thinking of her husband and child at home, waiting for her. “No, I didn’t know that,” she said. Nor, she wanted to add, did she care.

“Oh, yes,” Vivienne said. “It’s going to be very important. Very upper class, you know? We’ve got the Minister for the Arts coming along, as well as Harold MacKenzie, the wine-maker.”

Mariella sighed inwardly. She didn’t care. But—and this was the way these things always worked—the Minister for the Arts was her boss, if only indirectly, and the whims of the richer components of society had to be satisfied.

“That’s very interesting,” Mariella said. Then, attempting to prod the conversation in a productive direction, she added, “You mentioned on the phone that you’d like to talk about a painting?”

“That’s right. I need the Minister to think that I’ve been collecting this stuff for years. Give me the most expensive and impressing painting you’ve got and wrap it up. My credit card’s in my purse.”

Mariella stifled a laugh. “It doesn’t work that way, Mrs Fremer. These paintings are hundreds of years old. They’re worth millions of dollars. And, besides—they’re not for sale, anyway. On the other hand, we’d be happy to loan you a piece for the weekend, in consideration of how generous the Minister has been to our museum through the years.”

“Oh, okay,” Vivienne said. “A loan would be fine.” She reached down into her handbag and began rummaging, hoping the activity would distract Mariella from the redness creeping into her face. Horace’s pseudo hunch on the stock market had paid out well, but not that well. On the other hand, Vivienne did aspire to wealth of that scale one day, and made a note to investigate companies that would experience explosive growth in the future.

Mariella directed Vivienne through the main gallery, pointing out works of significance as she did. “Was there anything in particular you had in mind? Do you have a favourite artist? A favourite period?”

Vivienne stared back at Mariella blankly. “No,” she said. “Not really.” She paused for a moment. “I would like it to match the décor in my dining room, though. That’s where the Minister is going to be spending most of his time. It should all match.”

Mariella stopped walking. “I see… What colour is your dining room?”

“It’s brown. Well, burnt sienna, actually. That’s what the brochure called it. Did you know it cost fifty thousand dollars to have that living room redecorated?”

“No,” Mariella said. “I didn’t know that.” She began walking again. “Brown, you said?”

“Burnt sienna.”

Second course.

Vivienne heard Horace walk in through the front door. “Horace!” she called. “Come in here! I’m in the dining room.”

Horace didn’t even have the chance to drop his briefcase and loosen his tie before his wife’s insistent cries coerced him into the dining room. He walked through the doorway and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. “Good evening, darling. What did you want?”

Vivienne put her hands on her hips. “Can’t you tell?” she asked, pouting.

Horace placed his briefcase by his feet and looked at his wife for signs new coiffure; nothing. He looked at the dining table, looking for a new tablecloth or cutlery set; nothing. In desperation, he looked to his own shoes, attempting to remember how long it had been since his wife had bought him that particular pair; nothing special came to mind.

“I give up,” he said. “I can’t tell.”

Vivienne frowned and pointed to the wall immediately behind the dining table. Horace squinted and peered. He scratched his cheek.

“Where’s the window gone?” he asked. “What’s that hanging where our window used to be?” (Horace was more attached to that window than any other person might necessarily be—the window looked into the house next door’s backyard, and the owners of that house had a nineteen-year-old daughter who would sunbathe in a bikini on occasion.)

“It’s a Van Gogh,” Vivienne said, still a little unsure of the pronunciation. She had first heard of him that afternoon. “The Potato Eaters. It’s very brown, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it is,” Horace said, clearly displeased. “You’d want to take that back.”

“Oh, no,” Vivienne said. “This is going take pride of place at the dinner party tonight. Don’t you love the way the painting goes with our burnt sienna curtains?”

“Not really. And anyway, those are brown curtains. Brown.”

“You’re so uncultured, Horace. I sometimes think you’re not even trying to better yourself. Look, get upstairs and get changed. You’ve also got time for a shower, which I recommend. I really want to impress our guests tonight.”

Horace mumbled something under his breath but, nevertheless, ascended the stairs and entered his first-storey bedroom.

Ninety minutes later, Horace had showered and changed into a suit hand-picked for him by Vivienne. Vivienne herself had changed into her evening gown, accompanied by an array of glittering jewellery. She had encountered a minor dilemma in applying the jewellery—she, too, wanted to match the curtains and the painting, but her jewellery box was almost obstinately devoid of any brown pieces.

She settled instead on one of the more ostentatious pieces—a large diamond brooch, bought for her by Horace as a conciliatory gesture after Vivienne had caught him making use of the dining room window to observe the nineteen-year-old daughter in the backyard next door.

The doorbell rang.

“Get the door, darling!” Vivienne called. “I’m just freshening up my make-up.”

Third course.

Vivienne had the guests assemble first in the lounge room. The lighting was dim and there was a Yanni LP playing unobtrusively in the background. Vivienne had hired a small group of three catering staff for the night, one of whom was a dedicated cocktail specialist. (The man referred to himself as a “mixologist”, but Vivienne had a sneaking suspicion that that wasn’t a real word; she wasn’t certain that it wasn’t, however, and so afforded the man an uneasy respect.)

The cocktail specialist set up a makeshift bar in the corner of the lounge room and dispensed drinks to the guests. The Minister was engaged in conversation with one of the art critics, and the other art critic was discussing something with the MacKenzies. This left Vivienne and Horace standing awkwardly alone, outsiders at their own party.

Vivienne took a deep breath and walked over to the MacKenzies, placing her body in between the husband and wife pair. “What do you think of the uniform on the bartender?” she asked. “I picked it out myself.”

Joy MacKenzie took a sip from her cocktail—which was, she had to admit, excellent. “It’s certainly unusual,” she said. “You don’t see too many food servers dressed in brown.”

Horace had walked over in time to hear Joy MacKenzie’s comment. “That you don’t,” he said. “Do you want to know why? It’s because it reminds people of shit. And that’s not something you want to do when you’re serving them food.” He laughed coarsely at his own joke, spraying beer from his lubricated lips. Joy MacKenzie looked uncertain and Vivienne withered inside.

Attempting to block her husband from view by strategically positioning her feet, Vivienne turned to face Joy head on. “It’s not brown,” she said. “It’s burnt sienna. It’s a very earthy colour.” She took a sip of champagne. “That’s what all the magazines say, anyway.”

Joy MacKenzie nodded slowly. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”

Vivienne looked down at her watch and gave a startled gasp. She put her champagne glass down on the nearest bench and then clapped her hands sharply. “Everyone!” she called. “It’s time for dinner now. If you’d all like to follow me in to the dining room…”

Ten feet away and fifteen seconds later, Vivienne beckoned to all her guests to sit down. The guests complied, and each prepared for dinner. Vivienne listened to the metallic ring of cutlery being adjusted, and waited for somebody to notice the dining room’s centrepiece.

It didn’t take long.

“Isn’t that interesting?” Harold MacKenzie said. “You’ve got brown curtains. How nice.”

Vivienne sighed. “They’re burnt sienna. It’s an—”

She was interrupted, however, by an exclamation of surprise from one of the art critics. “That’s not… that’s not The Potato Eaters, is it?” he asked.

Vivienne said a silent prayer of thanks. Finally. “Yes, actually, it is,” she said.

The art critic stood up and walked over to the painting. “It’s a reproduction, surely.”

“No,” Vivienne said, “that’s the original.”

“I don’t think so,” the other art critic said, standing up and joining his colleague in front of the painting. “The dimensions don’t seem right.”

Vivienne turned around and leaned into the kitchen. She waved at one of the chefs and indicated that he should begin to serve the first course. To the art critics, she said, “It’s authentic. I went down to the museum today to pick it up. They were very nice to give it to me on loan.”

“The museum!” the Minister said, joining in. “They’ve always been very nice to me there. Very nice. I appreciate it immensely.”

Vivienne nodded, remembering that the curator had said something along those lines.

The two critics were talking to each other. Vivienne stood up and formed a trio with them in front of the painting. “Trust me, it’s the real thing. With all the paperwork I filled out, it would want to be.” She gave a sigh of mock exasperation.

“I’m having trouble accepting that,” one of the critics said. “It’s as I said before—the dimensions don’t seem right.”

“Do you mean its size?” Vivienne asked. “That’s probably what’s confused you. Don’t worry—I trimmed off the edge of the painting. It was too large, and that section also didn’t go with my burnt sienna curtains.”

“Trimmed?” the critic asked, incredulous. “You cut up a Van Gogh?”

“Yes,” Vivienne said, speaking slowly. “It was too big. You don’t think I threw that bit out, did you? No, it’s rolled up safely upstairs. I can sew it back on tomorrow morning.”

“You did, didn’t you?” the critic repeated. “You cut up a Van Gogh.”

“I had to,” Vivienne said. “It didn’t go with the curtains.”

Even Horace could tell that his wife had crossed a line. “You and those bloody brown curtains.”

“Jesus, Horace!” Vivienne said, a sheen of tears over her eyes. “They’re burnt sienna!”

Dessert.

The dinner party had ended abruptly after that. The critics had left instantly, each desperate to get back to his respective office and write the necessary reports. The Minister also left for this reason—he knew he was somehow connected to the mess, and he wanted to distance himself as much as possible. He had already paged his secretary and told her to inform any press enquiring about the event that he had emphatically not been present at the party.

The MacKenzies were the last to leave, but they did not remain behind more than a few minutes longer than the other guests. Joy hurried through the front door without speaking to Vivienne, but Harold put his hand on Horace’s shoulder. “Wives, eh?” he said. “They can get that way sometimes. Listen, I’ll send you around a crate of our newest chardonnay. It’s not a bad drop of plonk, if I do say so myself.”

Horace nodded, pleased. At least something had come of the night. He could call his mates and share the bottles with them. They’d have fun.