It all started with people staring at my pink dress while pretending to cast their eyes over me in a casual way.
I knew perfectly well what they all were thinking. I knew it from the very moment I realised I was the best clothed woman in the entire hall.
‘You may like to join us for the drinks Miss P. I saw your pink dress and remembered you from the conference. We are over there, on the lawn.’
‘Thank you’, I said, overdoing my gratitude in spite of myself.
I didn’t know if I had to be amused or flattered. I would have stayed in that shady corner, sitting on the bench and listening to the conversation between K. and D., had the conference convener not come over in order to invite me.
The evening air was cool by now and the willow leaves were moving in the breeze above our heads. I sighed and made a move towards the party.
‘What a beautiful dress you have!’ a stern looking woman croaked.
That only increased my unease, my perception of being dressed too finely and not liked by the women gathering in small groups and exchanging small talk.
The men were wearing suits but no ties, while the girls were strutting in their dark evening dresses, like wounded peacocks.
At the table I was besieged by two Polish women, the one with the croaking voice was sitting in front of me, while to my left a former hostess for a popular airline was extolling the educational benefits of cheap flights around the world in a shrill voice.
An elderly Irish man, bored to death, was fidgeting with his forks, which one were we supposed to use, anyway? but soon his face lighted up when given a chance to speak about Ireland.
And then, suddenly, the questions travelled at light speed across the table and soon I found myself caught in their web.
Did I and D., my boyfriend, have any intention to marry? Would we stay in the UK? Sadly enough, the current recession would not make it easy for us, but maybe in D.’s sector —public relations and advertising— there might be some chances still. Predictions are dire, you know. Yet, fortune helps the brave.
The dining hall was high-ceilinged and covered with wood panels and a few stern portrayals of former university dons.
Green cannelloni, roasted salmon with carrots, overcooked broccoli and raw sweet potatoes, a jam tart with cream, coffee — definitely not an espresso... the dishes came and went, the Latin American middle-aged waiter trying to fill my glass to the brim with wine I did not want looked tired and old.
Her face was plump but her dark round eyes were framed by deep wrinkles that gave out her fatigue and worry. She may have had grandchildren the age of most of the dignified snobs sitting at the famous table, as patrons of the arts must have done in a distant past in Italy, my home country.
They were still staring at me, the two girls in their twenties eager to tell me they paid four thousands pounds a year in order to attend that prestigious university —and rumours had it that the fees would increase too. Not quite the same as the university at home —they said— which manage to get by thanks to the international students’ substantial fees. How unfortunate.
Their eyes searched and searched, scanning and sifting every single detail in order to find even the most hidden fault or weakness. I resisted. I smiled. I knew they would be satisfied with my foreign accent, which I stressed on purpose.
I wondered if Cinderella would have felt the same, had she stayed on to dine with the prince’s guests. But then, this was exactly what these people implied: propriety, understatement and class distinction. And I, I had a too proud dress. Where did I fit in?