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He plays her an angsty yet somehow upbeat Taylor Swift earworm about meeting someone you know will completely fuck up your life and getting involved with them anyway. It’s our theme song, he says. As soon as you walked into that engagement dinner, before I even knew a thing about you, I literally thought, Here comes trouble. And when you sat down next to me with your soft-focus silent film star face and your polite fury and your bad attitude, it was all over. I spent the rest of the night trying not to look at your boobs and praying that you would turn out to be a bore so I wouldn’t have to fall in love with you. No such luck, she says. None at all, he replies, and kisses her.
Fox & Flea: Dreams Chapter 6
It just really figures that on his one night out since moving to this neighborhood, he winds up with a front-row seat to a domestic shitshow masquerading as a dinner party.
Beggars can’t be choosers, but this is not his idea of a good time.
When Caroline had invited him to the engagement do, she’d made it sound like a party. That was the only reason he’d accepted. He figured he could turn up and do a quick lap, preferably avoiding any weird conversations about his profession, which is why he's out of uniform. The plan was to mingle a little, then disappear back home. He couldn't wait to put on sweatpants and mix up a gin-based beverage and crack the spine on the brand-new mystery novel he’d pre-ordered from a local bookstore.
But at this point, seated among five people who all seem to loathe each other to varying degrees, it’s looking like a blissfully nerdy evening is not in the cards.
He wonders whether watching a complete stranger's family dynamic deteriorate in real time is more or less painful than watching your own relations melt down. It's a toss up. His own blood much prefers naked aggression to covert bitchiness, so he’s given up trying to follow the low-grade hostility ricocheting around this particular table. On the other hand, it’s a nice change of pace that none of this gang screams expletives or punches each other in public.
That is, until they do.
When he gets to the restaurant, he's surprised to see Caroline and Bill waiting by the hostess stand. She trills with glee at the sight of him, kisses him lavishly on both cheeks. Then she's off and running: Terribly delighted he could made it, can't wait to show him off, there was a little mix-up with the reservation, the table will be ready in two shakes, et cetera.
“The table?” he asks, hoping his voice doesn't betray the sinking feeling in his gut.
“Of course,” she replies. “The rest of the family is joining us soon.”
“The rest of the family?” He knows he's just repeating words, but he can’t help it. He's totally thrown. “Are there... many of them?”
“Oh no, darling,” she says. “Not to worry. Perfectly cozy. Just us three” - an indulgent smile - “and Claire and Martin, you know them. And the other one.”
“The other one?” He should really look into a side hustle as a trained myna bird. Christ.
“My younger daughter,” Bill manages to put in. “Phoebe.”
“Yes, Phoebe,” Caroline says, her smile showing truly impressive levels of strain. “Interesting girl. A bit…” - she waggles her head vaguely - “Well, nevermind, you’ll see. Come along.”
His mind reels as Caroline attaches herself to his arm and aims them at the dining room. He's completely unprepared to make hours of small talk with a group of strangers. It’s not that he isn’t good at it; he can be a right charmer when he wants to. He just… doesn’t want to. He's tired, and unsettled in his new parish, and not sleeping well.
Also, he's lonely. Which is… whatever, it's fine. It's familiar. The main thing is that he has a specific routine for dealing with isolation, and strangely enough, it does not involve social events. After too many years of reckless distraction when solitude looms, he’s finally learned to make peace with it. To burrow into it, to become its friend. Ironically, he's discovered, fighting loneliness tooth and nail just makes it worse. It is only when he surrenders that it passes on its own.
Hence the sweatpants and gin and mystery novel.
Yet here he is, being steered through a crowded, buzzing restaurant by a clingy society matron and her elderly hen-pecked fiance, trying to gear himself up for the onslaught.
You can cope with this, he tells himself. He already knows Claire and Martin. Claire is all right, he actually quite likes her brisk, no-nonsense disposition. Martin is awful but manageable. He knows nothing about Phoebe (The other one? Who goes around referring to their partner's child that way?!) but given Caroline’s prickly non-description, maybe she’ll be at least somewhat interesting.
He gives himself one last pep talk as they approach the table. Just make it through an hour, mate. Then you can go. Game face. Charisma on a tap. You can do this. One hour.
He smiles grimly and takes his seat.