I’m an imposter at a birthday party, surrounded by strangers and celebrities, in a sprawling mansion where nothing works as it should…
I am a friend of a friend – that’s why I’m in this stranger’s house – but I have no idea know exactly who that friend is.
That will be the major problem as the day goes on: the feeling of having little justification for my presence. But for now things are warm and pleasant.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table and there’s some sort of wholesome gathering in progress, family members are milling around, squishing past, catching up like no time has passed.
I’m introduced to a young woman; it’s her birthday. There’s a gaggle of us chatting around the table and it’s a nice vibe. The girl has a wholesome, preppy look: long tawny hair and clear skin.
We forge an instant rapport and, in less than a minute, we’re talking like we’ve known each other forever.
The conversation isn’t flirtatious. Instead, it has a self-consciously performative aspect: it proves to our mutual friends how fun and improvisational we can be.
We clearly don’t know each other at all, yet we’re quick-witted enough to perform like we’ve rehearsed this ‘bit’ for hours, vibing off each other.
Mellow sitcom lighting
The kitchen is like something from an early-eighties American sitcom, in more ways than one. Beyond the interior decoration, the room is suffused with mellow light, so I have absolutely no idea what time of day it is.
The house is illuminated by production lighting
The kitchen lights are on, yet it could be morning outside. The house is real, but it seems to be illuminated by production lighting.
When the birthday girl has left the room, her father starts distributing little strips of black paper, about the size of a shopping list turned on its side. I think this is a nice touch: these are for us to write spontaneous birthday messages on.
As I’m handed my piece I realise that this is actually scratch paper. You use a wooden stylus to scrape off the soft black coating on the paper, revealing the base colours underneath. They’re fun – my daughter has a whole stack of these.
I try to think of a clever message to write to the birthday girl, about whom I know nothing. I decide to scrawl WE JUST MET! and then add an extravagant signature below it.
I press down hard with the stylus but, no matter what I do, I can’t make an impression on the piece of card. I feel a little silly when someone points out that I’ve been handed a pack of new scratch paper.
It still has the plastic wrapping across the front, and I’ve been trying futiley to write my message through the cellophane.
Celebrity guests appear
I start to remove the packaging but it’s very awkward to resolve. As I’m fussing with the pieces, the father is already briskly tidying up around us. I’ve taken too long and now he’s collecting up all the birthday messages and the styluses.
I get out of my seat to try, awkwardly and unsuccessfully, to retrieve the materials that I need.
I spot some of my heroes: George Lucas and John Williams
Except the father is now embroiled in a hushed and exasperated altercation with a family elder – maybe his father or his father-in-law? I get the feeling this goes on between them at every family gathering.
Not wanting to intrude, I give up on the birthday message and leave the kitchen to look around this sprawling and chintzy American house.
I start to notice that there are famous people at the gathering, and that the birthday celebration is entirely incidental: this is more like a relaxed extended family get-together.
There are celebrities here and there, because of the rarefied social circles that this family moves in. I spot some of my heroes: Star Wars creator George Lucas and film composer John Williams.
Frisky old couple
During my wanderings I stumble on a couple – old, slim, white-haired – who seem like they’re about to get frisky.
I have to beat a hasty retreat, feeling mortified for intruding on their privacy, even though they’re on the ground floor, in a public area nowhere near a bedroom.
I have a growing anxiety that some people must be wondering who I am and why I’m here.
I’m not sure what I’m doing at this gathering. It’s like there’s a code I haven’t cracked.
These events could be taking place years into the past, perhaps even decades ago; my ageing heroes all seem to have reverted to late middle age.
I’m out of place and out of time.
Banter with Steven Spielberg
Superstar film director Steven Spielberg walks past and asks me if anyone can tell him where to find the bathroom.
“I think George Lucas knows,” I say, unthinkingly.
Spielberg teases me goodnaturedly for using his friend’s full name. “Are there a lot of Georges here?” he replies with a playful smirk.
Spielberg teases me good-naturedly
Instantly, I feel gauche. His joke exposes me as a rube, someone unused to moving in such rarefied circles.
“I just wanted to give him the proper respect,” I quip back nonchalantly. “The George Lucas: Capital T – Capital G – Capital L.”
I’m quite impressed with my lightning repartee, with how cool, relaxed and detached I appear: not trying too hard with Stephen Fucking Spielberg.
I invite him to follow me to the lavatory – this is no big deal and I’ll show him the way.
Bathroom blues
But the fact is I don’t know where the bathroom is in this baroque mansion, and I’m destined for further embarrassment if I can’t work something out soon.
Spielberg and I walk past the lobby of the house and I’m relieved when a grandmotherly figure appears though the front door. She bears a passing resemblance to the canoodling retiree I stumbled upon earlier. Maybe this is a close relation of hers. A sister?
Anyway, she’ll know the way to the bathroom, except… I don’t know her name and, again, that might expose me as an interloper at the party.
I grope mentally for the right honorific to use and wind up sounding like an old woman myself.
“I’m sorry… dear,” I blurt out, “do you know where the toilet is?”
Thankfully, I’m able to pass Spielberg onto her; no harm done.
The worst cup of tea ever
Back in the living room of the house I’m standing apart from the action, trying to listen to the conversation, to pick up some social cues, while I drink tea from a large, thick-walled mug.
Except the tea is starting to taste unpleasant and kind of chalky.
I realise I’ve been drinking from a ceramic plant pot
I look down and realise with dismay that the vessel from which I’m drinking is not really an oversized mug, but something closer to a decorative ceramic plant pot.
There’s a huge crack along the side of the pot, and the bottom of the container is filled with wet fragments of grey clay – big moist chunks of Fuller’s earth.
It’s difficult to tell whether I’ve been duped into this situation. Am I the victim of a practical joke, or have I just not been paying enough attention?
Things are getting worse. I realise my mouth is filled not only with clay but other detritus from the pot: nauseating chunks of papery, half-chewed food. I need to get rid of them, and soon.
A trick tumbler
I return to the kitchen and spit the gunk into the sink for what feels like several minutes, working it out from the corners of my mouth. Eager to wash my mouth out, I pick up a lead-cut crystal glass tumbler from beside the sink. It needs a quick clean before I can use it.
I spin the taps – which are smooth and marbled, in a style I feel is more appropriate for a bathroom installation – and fill the glass.
But every time I upend the glass to rinse it out, the water squirts out at weird angles and in delayed rushes, as it negotiates a concealed structure of lips and ridges within its thick base.
Annoying little jets of water keep spilling out onto me and onto the countertop. I can’t work it out. It’s like it was designed to be frustrating and messy.
The trick glass feels heavy and threatening in my hand. I realise it’s difficult to sort out anything out in this house.
