hall of pig

The big room felt suffocating. High ceilings with heavy red curtains, absolutely everything rimmed or lined with gold. The smell of the hog roast was inescapable. I never liked hog. A polite young girl offered her tray of champagne towards me. I pick up two. She smiled and I winked at her.

I only came to this because of the offer of free drinks. In my then-current economic situation, I was taking anything I could get my hands on if it was free. Argos pens, Ikea pencils, complimentary cups of tea or coffee… This whole thing was something to do with a girl who I vaguely knew, enough to consolidate an invite anyway. Went to school with her, she was boring, but that’s what having money does to you. Nice enough.

Apparently it was all quite important and a big deal, but I couldn’t remember why. I’d had a rough day that day, and took quite a liking to the idea of sticking a nice dress on and pretending to be a tory for the night.

I wandered over to a painting; a large, kitsch looking thing. An older lady, adorned in velvet and lace, surrounded by whippets, on a carpet of some sort of dead animal. Bear?

“Ghastly, isn’t it?” A voice queried from my left side.

I finished my first glass of champagne and nodded. Not taking my eyes off the painting.

“She looks super bummed out. Even though she’s got all those dogs.” I replied.

They scoffed, like they were disguising a laugh. I turned to them.

He was handsome, tidier than I was used to, but handsome nonetheless. His hair looked like he’d literally just stepped out of the barbershop, and his face looked clean and bright. Like he actually gets sleep and a shower.

A pang of embarrassment shot through my stomach as I realised I might smell like a pub, and that I’d picked this dress up off the floor two hours prior.

“Wouldn’t you be bummed out too if you had such a fowl looking living room?” He retorted, raising an eyebrow.

“Touché. What do you think of this anyway?” I turn around to face the bustling room, hog roast smell and bad piano playing.

He shrugged and half smiled at me.

“Fine. Not my cup of tea if I were to be brutally honest. What do you think?”

“I’m here for the booze. Not even sure what we’re celebrating. I’m never going to forget the smell of hog ever again and I’m pretty sure most of these people were probably friends with Epstein.” I necked my second glass of champagne and looked at him. His lips were pursed and he had a pained look in his eyes.

“Oh. Is… Is this your party?” I grabbed another two drinks.

“Sort of.”

I start to sweat gently.

“Good job this isn’t your mansion though eh?” I gently elbowed him jokingly.

“It’s my father’s, actually.” He looked straight at me, expressionless.

“Shit.”

He then burst out laughing. Thank god.

“Don’t worry. It’s horrible I know. I don’t even think he likes hog. He definitely doesn’t know Epstein though.”

“Yes, of course not. Sorry, by the way. Although, if he did, he wouldn’t tell you would he?” He laughed again. He had a nice laugh, held together, easy on the ears.

“Quite right. I’m Alex, by the way.” He offered his hand out to me and I put a glass of champagne in it.

“Nice to meet you.” I flashed a smile at him.

“Wanna see more bad art?” He asked.

“Uh, do I ever.”

I followed him out of the hall of dead pig and into, what I assumed, was the bar. He hastily grabbed a bottle of scotch and shooed me out into a stairwell.

“Did I just see a fucking bar? In your house?” I found it hard to contain my excitement.

“Come on, and this isn’t my house. Up these stairs.” We took them two at a time as he opened the scotch and took a swig.

At the top he handed me the bottle and pushed open what looked like the heaviest oak door I’ve ever seen.

“This is the gallery. My father has the worst taste in art.” He opened his arms, facing me, like he was confessing.

I gulped down some scotch and looked around in awe. They were all pieces similar to the one we met at downstairs, horrible portrayals of old rich people.

“Horrendous, if you don’t mind me saying. Is that Henry the eighth?” I pointed the bottle towards one particular portrait of a fat white man.

“Definitely not. Where did you go to school?” Our laughs intertwined with each others.

It was a trait of mine, making myself look a fool to make other people laugh. Maybe it comes from me always feeling like i have nothing to lose.

“My school was free, unlike yours I’m presuming.” I fell back into a leather sofa in the middle of the room.

“You shouldn’t presume, it’s impolite.” He slumped down next to me, loosening his tie slightly. “You’re right though.” We smiled at each other.

He held my gaze longer than I would’ve liked.

“You never told me your name.” I looked away.

“Take me somewhere I can smoke.” I stood up and offered him my hand.

Half a bottle of straight scotch down, we swayed slightly as he took me up to the roof. We sat near enough to the edge, the bottle between us. I should’ve been cold but a combination of nerves and liquor warmed me from my insides out. Alex was funny, well spoken, polite. He knew about science and literature and classical music. He laughed at my jokes and had impeccable taste in expensive scotch.

“Why are you here?” He asked, breaking a comfortable silence.

“I ask myself that every day, Alex. One of these days I’ll have the balls to end it all.” I passed him a cigarette and sparked up my own.

“Not like that you weirdo. Tonight. What made you come here?” Direct questions made me anxious.

“Free champagne. Nothing else going on. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of meeting you.” I smirked at him as he took a swig.

“I’m glad you did. I think.” We looked at each other, and I thought my heart was going to jump out of my mouth.

For a second I wanted to kiss him, but that’s never really ended well for me, so I buried the idea.

The acres below us looked beautiful. The garden strewn with fairy lights and punchbowls. Children running around in suits and little dresses.

I’d spent so long being self absorbed I hadn’t stopped to think what this party was for. Everyone was beautifully dressed, there was hundreds of people here. Champagne, hog roast, live music…

Alex took a drag and looked wistful. Pained.

“Why are you here, Alex?” He looked into my eyes and for the first time I felt truly seen. Like I was really here. In all my years of being alive had I ever felt so… Real.

“It’s a wedding reception. It’s… My wedding reception.”

I laughed.

“Good one. What kind of dickhead would be sat here with a stranger at their own wedding reception?”

“Me, apparently.” He wasn’t joking.

“Ah. Right. Congratulations. She’s a lucky lady. Or she will be whenever you spend some time with her.” It all started to feel bad and uncomfortable.

I threw my fag butt off the edge of the roof praying it landed on someone’s head and stood up.

“Where are you going?” He got up after me.

“Home, I think. And you should go and see whoever it is you just married.” Despite trying to keep a neutral tone, I sounded cutting.

I make for the stairs, for some reason expecting him to shout for me to stay or run after me.

But he didn’t. Why would he.

I took one last look at him, before I followed the stairs downwards. Stood there, facing me, his tie loose and wonky, the empty bottle in his left hand. An expression on his face I couldn’t quite work out.