Water for a change

Posted on | May 23, 2006

Dietrich and Samantha: we had been close friends for a long time. I admired their minimalist approach to life – their attention to detail in their clothes, clean appearance, food, friends – wine, of course. Many made fun of their meticulous lifestyle – “everything has a place and everything in its place”. Pristine was a word that conjured up their home and the lives they led. I didn’t find it sterilised but on the contrary rather liberating.

Dietrich invariably wore a suit, they always seemed new. No tie, just a beautifully pressed opened necked shirt. Samantha shone in her designer garb which looked made for her. They both seemed to have stepped from an advertisement, illustrative of all that one aspires to. Nothing shabby. Clean, wholesome, and beautiful. Of course, it all comes at a price. Just as well they were both bankers.

I don’t like to compartmentalise people but the truth is one does. Rarely did I mix my painter and poet friends with those whose chrematistic living involved moving and spending substantial sums of money around the world. They didn’t seem to have much to say to one another. It isn’t as if I’m any kind of snob. They just don’t mix. Somehow one’s friends who worry about how they will pay their next mortgage instalment, assuming they haven’t already fallen off the property ladder, are confused by Rolexes, Cerutti suits, First Growths, Bulgari jewellery and the like. Not me.

Dietrich telephoned the other day and left his usual laconic style message on my answer machine:

“supper-Friday-8.30-only call if you can’t make it…” With an unusual addendum:

“We’re celebrating the birth of our daughter, Tabitha, 4 weeks ago.”

Now this came as a surprise as I hadn’t noticed any pregnancy and there had been no discussion of babies. But then why, I asked myself would they… with me? Well, it was certainly something worth celebrating. I was looking forward to that scrupulously prepared meal served up with vinous rarities most people can only dream of - and what an occasion to celebrate. The promise of some scarce vintages caused me for one brief moment to feel, well, dizzy.

I arrived at their house in a fashionable part of New York at the appointed hour - carrying my offering - a Perrier Jouët Belle Epoque ‘98 – buttery, smooth texture, good acidity and fruit - citrus with some exotic hints. Chardonnay and Pinot Noir balanced with a small addition of Pinot Meunier. Just the ticket for a warm-up aperitif before we got stuck into the California giants they so admired.

I pushed the doorbell and after a few minutes it was opened by a man whose ragged, indeed pilose appearance made me gasp. I stepped back to confirm the number next to the door and then hesitantly stammered “-Dietrich..?”. He stepped forward and threw his arms around me brushing my face coarsley with his unshaven visage.

“Uuuuugh!” Was all I could reply being taken temporarily off guard and already contemplating some excuse for an escape weakened by having to deliver it myself.

“I brought you this” I said in a dismissive tone and I stepped into the the large open plan ground floor space whose architectutral linearity and modernity had featured not so long ago in the pages of Architectural Digest.

I almost trod on some kind of plastic bright coloured piano but was saved as it spontanously burst into Yankee Doodle just as my foot hovered over it. I took in the scene. It was more reminiscent of my cousin’s potting shed than an elegant brown stone in lower Manhattan. There were… objects… literally strewn all over the place. I was aghast. There was nowhere to sit. My favoured Mies chair having provided a convenient spot for a pile of consumed nappies. Just as I had thought I would have to spend half-an-hour excavating a seat for myself Samantha walked in.

Clearly Samantha’s hairdresser had gone on vacation month’s ago or closed though bankruptcy. Her short dress stained, I assumed, with the human excretions of someone whose control over opposing orifices was many years from fulfillment. She shuffled towards me and I realised that she was tired. Dog tired. She looked it.

“Hugh darling, so good of you to come at such short notice. It’s just us. We wanted to celebrate with one of our oldest friends.”

“I’m off the booze because I’m feeding and Dietrich has promised to keep me company.”

It seemed churlish to leave.

If only I had thought of that backup call to the mobile. You know, “family in distress and have to leave right away…”. Always handy. One can always brush it off if there is any compelling reason why one shouldn’t attend the imminent death of one’s grandmother.

Supper was a collection of oven-ready prepared foods and some small unseasonable berries. We drank water, for a change. We discoursed on marriage, love, child bearing, work and our futures. For once, not about wine. The evening was none the worse for that and resisting the temptation to ask if my unopened bottled might be restored to me I walked home with a feeling that something special had passed between us. Next time I’d check on their drinking status before I set out.

Hugh Stanley

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