I MIGHT be smiling on this picture but I was out of my comfort zone.
Black tie balls were never my thing and I always felt out of place. So too did Michael Morrison as he entered the grand mansion on the hill overlooking Padria for a party that would change his life and that of the family who owned it.
That night forms the crux of The Choreography of Ghosts. It's one of my favourite chapters because when I spotted the big house (actually on an island in Greece) it gave me the idea that provided the jeopardy and the confrontation that makes the story.
Here's a small part of the chapter in which the party takes place:
Suits too tight, suits not right, suits bright, bellies bulging out, over and under cummerbunds, some with ties, some without, some with loud bow-ties, some open-necked.
Old money, new money and probably, in reality, no money, swirled, twirled and smiled, their drink-glazed eyes betraying their true states of feeling from love to deception, joy to exasperation and desperation.
Sparkling long dresses, glittering short dresses, plain, long and short, high cut, low cut, bright colours and pastels, looking good, being told they looked good, hands creeping above and below waists, moved in and out of rhythm, those with eyes on someone else’s prize betraying their intentions, but not so much their intended victim would notice.
Diamond boys, diamond girls, diamond men and women in the chandelier-lit spotlight, every one of them attempting to catch the eye of another, silently acknowledging and accepting each other’s lies.
These people did not, as he did, dance to the tune of another. They choreographed their own movements, their own lives. The air of money, of overwhelming invincibility, was evident, but Morrison witnessed telling signs of nerves, guilt and apprehension as he watched closer from the edge of proceedings.
He listened to the laughter, some of it true, some of it not, this time from a bench again covered in red velvet, under a sinister looking portrait of a portly man with a large hooked nose, dressed in a jacket of bright red, possibly a former owner of the very house they were in, staring into the distance thinking of what?
Would any of the people here eventually have their portrait painted staring into the distance, believing it depicted them considering their lives, their world, but in reality was simply oily vanity brushed on to, sinking into and spreading over canvas?
The smarm dripped, the smugness dripped and the self-satisfaction dripped from all of them. Nothing good ever drips. Morrison could never fit in with these people. You can escape, but you can never escape yourself, he thought.