31st December, New Year’s Eve - The Party

Painful as it was, I had to stop in Ascot first. I had offered, but in that gratuitous and polite way that suggests you’d really rather not. Now I was a taxi. Hastily arranged a week ago over the phone, I’d suddenly found myself with plans for New Year’s Eve. I found it in keeping with my luck that I should try to isolate myself in the French mountains, only to be dragged back to Surrey.

Motoring down the M25, exhausted from a Christmas with my family, I was ready for a different type of socialisation. But first, I needed to pick up Sophia, my best friend’s ex-girlfriend, her brother, and her new boyfriend, who was, in a twist of fortune, Caspar, a family friend of mine. She’d been the one to invite me, her flatmate desperate for men who could dance. And in my gratefulness to be given an excuse to abandon the annual family party, I had offered to pick the trio up along the way.

Such were my circumstances that I pulled into the driveway of my errant hitchhikers with a bottle of Laurent Perrier, a sleeping bag, and a change of underwear. I was wearing what passed for smart casual – a white collared shirt from Ralph Lauren, a cashmere pullover my grandmother had acquired from Hawico, and the trews my father had gifted me. The trews were an interesting object, black tie trousers made in the family tartan but unfortunately very tight as I’d done the tailoring myself over the phone, unable and unwilling to travel up to borders in person. It was my mother's side who were the proud Scots, yet my father took a much greater interest in that family history. Hence the trews.  

I could hear shouting from inside before I’d even made it through the front door. The dog had been sick. At times, the dog received more attention and affection in that family than the children. It owns two Barbour coats. I own one. If I were more materialistic, I suppose that would make me inferior to a dog. I was offered a virgin mojito, only while I was still driving, and a view of poor Hugo trying to wrangle the dog before it threw up everywhere. Hugo is the brother, and he’s also deathly afraid of vomit. He’d spent the last week in Dubai, had found himself on what he was kindly informed was the wrong yacht, and had generally been blown away by the luxury and opulence of a city that consumed money like air. Like me, he had been recalled to England to participate in this impromptu party. From yachts to dog sick. Poor Hugo.

Caspar downed a mojito, the dog was fed and given a heated blanket, and we were off. Added to my impromptu packing were two extra sleeping bags—Caspar had forgotten his—and a bottle of Bollinger. Back down the M25 again, slightly faster now. Someone was telling me a story about someone he’d been briefly associated with who had tried dating a seventeen-year-old while at university. He’d tried bringing her back to the flat and been barred entry. He’d been twenty-one at the time. The reason why this had been brought up was my fault – as most unfortunate circumstances I find myself in are. I had mentioned to Sophia that my ex-girlfriend of sorts had reached out to me a few days ago. After eight months of no contact, she was ready to assure herself that I was the one who should regret ending things. Charis was charming enough that I might have married her if she hadn’t been competing with the DSM for who could contain more mental disorders. Thankfully, I had not, and now she was dating a flashy new self-made millionaire. Instead of going to university, he built a start-up and sold it to Anthropic for about 4 million pounds, and now works there for a 400k base salary. Impressive, I admit. What was more impressive was Charis convinced him to pay for her university tuition and living costs. She made sure to point out all the holidays he was taking her on, the fact he’d bought flats in York and London for them to live together. Sick in bed the day before New Year’s Eve, I had become her entertainment. When I met her, she was still in her last year at school, held back a year for various reasons, and I, a foolish first year at university, hadn’t thought twice. Consequently, I was subjected to a story about the dangers of dating girls who weren’t at the same stage in life. Lesson learnt.

Caspar, or possibly Hugo’s storytelling, was interrupted by a sudden “STOP” from Sophia. We had arrived in the local village, and now the navigation must begin. Round the church thrice, up past a set of cottages worth more than my entire university education and down a winding driveway. We had arrived.

Rather than the hulking monstrosity I had been expecting, it was actually rather tasteful. It was smaller, certainly, but the wisteria gave the honey-coloured walls character that they might have been otherwise lacking. Pulling in, our hostess, Sophia’s flatmate Vie, ran out to greet us joyfully. With a warm jumper and mud-stained jeans, she maintained an air in that manor house that so many other people I’d met were desperate to attain—some things you’re born with. Her mother was lovely, perhaps helped by our offerings of decent champagne. Immediately, they were hidden, presumably to be opened at some later date when the rabble her daughter had invited was gone.  

I felt as if I had stepped back into my childhood once inside. The Pitt Rivers Museum comes to mind as an eclectic collection of objects from around the world tied together by a thin thread of thematic convenience. There was a painting of the Temeraire at Trafalgar, perhaps an early version of Turner’s work. Appropriately, they had a chair made out of the Temeraire itself. The captain had been an ancestor. Then there were sketches of fish dotted around the house; the distant cousin they’d inherited it from had been an ardent fisher, and his sister was an even more passionate sketcher. And, of course, the obligatory portraits that followed you everywhere, such that you thought these undead fogies might still be judging you from beyond the grave. I was, unfortunately, familiar, as there was an enormous portrait of my many-time great grandfather by Andrew Geddes over the Casabianca on the landing. I suspect my father had placed it there to elicit some guilt or even fear if I dared return home too late. The eyes watched every step you took, judging in place of the parents who might have stayed up to reprimand us. Delegation at its finest. Not to mention the rest of my extended family, whose portraits were scattered across every room in my significantly smaller house.

Having secured a roll-out mattress on the open landing next to several other guests, I met the Australians this had all been planned for. Four sisters. Their mother was best friends with Yolanda, the lady of the house, and had flown out with her daughters to celebrate New Year’s in the UK as part of a greater tour of Europe. From nineteen through the late twenties, Vie had resorted to grabbing young men off the streets to make up equal numbers.

I was in the ballroom, surveying the table we’d be eating at before it was cleared away for the dancing, when I met the owner of the house. He was tuning the organ, an elaborate old thing that required one person, me in this instance, to pump air into it with a handle while another played it, and a third person for good measure as the F key had fallen off and needed to be pressed separately. It needed to be ready for the final song of Auld Lang Syne, he explained as he worked away. Nobody mentioned the accordion he had been playing earlier, thrown to the side now in favour of a greater challenge. Satisfied, we adjourned to the drinks reception at the room next door.

Moscow Mules galore in various glasses ranging from fancy to possibly handmade. I was a big fan of mine; I think it was meant to be a fish. Caspar and I agreed we were certainly keen to start drinking like one. Not very social, his parents had despaired at first, keen as they were on being part of the social scene. Luckily for them, he’d met Sophia after her egregious break-up with my best friend. She was well versed in coaxing him along to social events. I had been informed a week beforehand that this was a reeling party, Scottish dancing. He had been told it was a gathering. Then he’d been told a few days before there was dancing. Finally, on the day she had informed him, there were twenty-five strangers. Tricked but not unhappy, he was used to following the lead of his girlfriend at this point. I was grateful for someone to talk to, but the liquid courage had not quite grown strong enough to delve back into this group of strangers. Hugo, on the other hand, was in his element.

I’ve been told I am very social, and sometimes to the effect of annoyingly positive, yet everyone can also agree that my first impressions are interesting. Tonight, I was brought low by an offhanded comment about how greedy Vie’s uncle was, scoffing at all the plain crisps in the corner with his elderly mother. The elderly matriarch was lovely, a small woman with the calmest manner. Utterly unfazed, she echoed my sentiment and scolded him for being a pig.

While the recounting of our socialising could go on – it is monotonous, and nothing of note stands out beyond how I took a liking to bullying one of the Australians for her interest in administrative law. I kept asking her if she had any hobbies, and her lack of defence or response beyond retorting back about my own life status was amusing. Piling three portions of spaghetti Bolognese onto my plate, I followed her back to the table and engaged in my very best attempt at light-hearted conversation. Sat opposite me was a history student at Durham. I don’t think she liked me. Instead, I found a better conversation in Yolanda. She vaguely remembered my parents, who knew her sister-in-law. The tone with which she mentioned the affectionately named “Hurricane Harriet” suggested that it was a widely known moniker.

Wine flowed freely, and soon enough, the tables had been cleared away, the dishes piled up to be washed later, and the dancing began. We had small dance cards to write the names of our partners, of whom I found myself in no short supply, as despite Vie’s best efforts, there were still more women. We followed through the dances from ‘The Dashing White Sergeant’ to the aptly named ‘Hamilton House’ before taking a break for cheese, more wine and the onset of the New Year.

Cheap champagne, the LP and Bollinger notably missing, and sparklers were passed around, and we all headed outside to celebrate the New Year with a fireworks show. I can’t help but think it was almost pointed in how no one kissed, at least in front of everyone else, when the clock chimed midnight. The clock had chimed midnight several times already and must have been broken, but the sudden flurry of fireworks across the landscape suggested we weren’t too far off.  

I’ve always liked sparklers.

And then once more unto the dancing. Tired by now and sufficiently inebriated, it was chaotic at best and downright wrong in some cases. Who was I to judge though? I’d found the jug they’d been serving the Moscow Mules out of and finished it.

Auld Lang Syne began with Ed, Vie’s cousin, who I’d been at school pumping the organ, and his sister on the F key – and away their uncle went. With the song's end, everyone over the age of thirty seemed to decide now was best for bed, and we were left to our own devices.  

Une Voila – the hat game appeared. A top hat of sorts, with many levels to the game. We wrote the names of famous figures, or figures everyone would recognise and placed them in the hat. Everyone had to try to mime out the person they were given. One of the Australian girls, Tabitha, who did administrative law, had been getting close to Hugo all night, making it all the funnier when she picked his name. I wonder if she knew he was seventeen. I think she was twenty-four. Fun as this game was, it was quickly replaced by drawing someone instead of names. Eloise, one of the Australians, drew a soldier on my arm. She felt it was very appropriate and fell into a fit of giggles. Tabitha didn’t miss the chance to poke fun at an officer's salary. How kind.

Sophia had wished me goodnight at this point and headed upstairs, with most people following. I’d run out of wine and, having dipped in and out of sleep on Olympia’s lap, eventually gave in and dragged myself upstairs.

Disgusting. Sophia and Caspar had fallen asleep holding hands.

I crashed the moment I hit the makeshift pillow.