{b}It was not at all what they expected.

It was not at all what they expected. Pete and Cathy had come to the reunion venue expecting champagne and canapés. They had thought there would be a string quartet playing Bach in one corner of the hall and a sumptuous buffet on tables in the middle from which they could sample cheeky amuse bouches. That was what they were used to in the golf club and at the bank’s Christmas party.
However, fortune had not smiled upon them. “I told you when we got the invitations that it would be appalling, didn’t I?” said Cathy to Pete, accusingly.
“They were sent out on the cheapest paper available. And I knew it couldn’t be a top drawer affair if they were going to hold it somewhere like this!”
Cathy, nose high in the air, swept her eyes disparagingly round the Donmare Hall.
“How could you have a sophisticated gathering in Newjerseyshore? It just isn’t possible.”
“Would you like to go home, my sweet?” murmured Pete, trying not to lose his temper with his wife.
Cathy backed down somewhat. “No. We’re here now. We may as well try to grin and bear it,” she said, sulkily.
Pete led her to a table for two and pulled out a chair for her. She sat down and folded her arms across her chest. “What can I get you from the buffet, darling?” he asked. “You can see if there’s anything other than pork scratchings, and I’ll have that. And wine, if they aren’t just serving beer,” sniffed Cathy.
Pete made his way over to the buffet table. There were no pork scratchings – he hadn’t imagined there would be really, he knew Cathy was just being scathing. But the spread wasn’t very impressive, he had to give her that.
There was a large platter of cocktail sausages skewered on sticks, some stale looking crisps and various sorry looking sandwiches. He picked up a paper plate and chose a selection of what was on offer; a few cheese and onion crisps, two cocktail sausages and the sandwich he felt Cathy would deem the most acceptable – chicken (butter, no mayonnaise, no lettuce). He made up an almost identical plate for himself, but he chose a ham sandwich instead of chicken.
Pete had noticed on the way in that there didn’t seem to be many people here yet. He had been disappointed at that, since it was 8.45pm and the invitation had said 8. He and Cathy had taken their time getting ready, as they hadn’t wanted to be the first to arrive. But surely most people ought to have arrived by 8.30?
So far, he had only seen some of the guys from the rowing club. They’d been smoking just outside the door. Still as chummy with one another as ever. Some things never change. They’d smiled and nodded in greeting, but he and Cathy hadn’t stopped to chat and none of the men had attempted to detain them. Pete had never been friends with any of them.
He looked around for wine. He couldn’t see any. But then he noticed a forlorn looking bar in the corner. The barman was a small, nondescript figure of indiscernible age.
“Evening!” said Pete in his cheeriest tone.
“Urgh,” muttered the barman in response.
No point waiting for him to ask what he can get me, thought Pete, so he plunged straight in. “What white wine do you have?” he asked, pleasantly.
“Eh . . .” said the barman, checking under the bar. “Just chardonnay.”
(Cathy won’t be happy, thought Pete.) “That’s fine. A glass of that, please. And I’ll have whatever red you’ve got.”
The barman looked under the counter again.
“We’ve only got merlot. ‘ that do?” (Of course you’ve only got blessed merlot, sighed Pete, inwardly.)
“Of course!”
The barman put two glasses and two ‘single serve’ bottles of wine on the bar in front of Pete.
Pete looked at him apologetically – “I don’t suppose you have a tray, do you? Only I want to get this lot (he nodded at the plates and glasses) over to the table over there” (he nodded in Cathy’s direction).
“No problem,” said the barman. He smiled as he turned to get the tray. While he was doing that, Pete poured the contents of the bottles into the glasses (What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I’ll say it’s sav blanc).
“The wife doesn’t look to happy,” the barman grinned as he turned back with the tray.
Cheeky sod! thought Pete. He hated that expression – ‘the wife’. It was bad enough when men used it to refer to their own wives, but rude when they were referring to other people’s. He said nothing, though. At least Cathy’s peeved expression seemed to have cheered him up. He just thanked the barman for the tray and rolled his eyes, conspiritorially.
“This is all that was on offer, I’m afraid,” said Pete when he got back to the table. He set about putting the plates and glasses on the table. “The sandwich is chicken.”
“Thanks, dear” said Cathy. She didn’t sound cross any more, just tired. “I haven’t seen anyone we knew. Have you?”
“Not a soul, actually. It’s a bit strange. I thought everyone would be here. I don’t know why. Do people bother with these sorts of things?” He bit gingerly into his sandwich. Not bad, as it happened. He sipped his wine even more gingerly. It was pretty rancid, but he’d guessed it would be.
Cathy was sipping her wine. She didn’t seem to be finding anything wrong with it. She must be very tired.
“Is that Jimmy Walsh?” squealed Cathy, suddenly, spraying the table with chardonnay?
“Where?” asked Pete, twisting around in his chair to have a look.
“There! Over there, in the purple shirt!” Cathy was waving her hand directly ahead. “Doesn’t he look a complete state?” She guffawed, obviously not caring at all that he might hear her and be offended. “Don’t stare, Pete. He’ll see you!”