The Tea Party | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: The Tea Party | Previous Challenge Entry
By Lucy Steel
08/18/16
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As I waited at the front door I smoothed my silk skirt and patted the French bun in my hair that I’d spent an hour styling. When I’d gratefully accepted the invitation to Sally’s afternoon tea I’d sensed it would be a French-bun-best-skirt type of occasion, which was fine as I’d decided I was going to become the type of girl who wore French buns to afternoon teas - after spending the morning doing Pilates and cooking breakfast for my gorgeous husband. I didn’t yet have the gorgeous husband, being currently single, but perhaps this new and improved me would be a step towards obtaining him.

My life planning was interrupted by the door opening – “Hi Francine”, Sally beamed, “sorry about the mess, I’ve been baking.” She led me down a spotless hallway that opened into a pristine living room with cream leather sofas. A lavish spread of scones, cakes and cheese sat on the glass coffee table.

“Girls, meet Francine”, Sally trilled to a group of about twelve women milling around the room. Smiling faces turned towards me. I felt a flush of self consciousness but quickly composed myself and smiled my most gracious smile back.

Sally led me to two stunningly attractive girls. “Francine just moved here and it’s wonderful she could join our little gathering”.

The girls took their cues perfectly. “I’m Gina and this is Lauren”, one girl said, offering a perfectly manicured hand. “What brings you to Randonneur Grove?” I gave my well practiced explanation about the head teacher job offer being too good to refuse. As usual, I left out the real reason for the move.

As the girls listened and commented encouragingly, I let my gaze flit to the other guests. Each girl was more attractive than the last, with unblemished complexions, model proportions and designer wardrobes. They all smiled and nodded in similar fashion as they listened politely and attentively to each other. Lovely as they were, there was something slightly unnerving about this group. They seemed too perfect - almost artificial in their faultlessness.

I realised even my silk skirt and preened hair may not be a match for the girls’ seemingly effortless perfection. It wasn’t just their looks – Lauren, a travel reporter, was now explaining without a hint of vanity that Harper Collins had asked her to write a travel book on Morocco, which would be published next spring. I noticed both Gina and Lauren sported exquisite diamond rings on their marriage fingers and realised with a jolt that I was probably the only unmarried person here. My earlier whimsical plans for finding a husband now seemed childish and unrealistic.

My musings meant I was caught off guard when Gina asked me whether I’d explored any of the walking tracks that made Randonneur Grove famous. “Yes,” I said without thinking, “they were one of the reasons my psychiatrist suggested I move here.”

At the word ‘psychiatrist’ I saw the two girls momentarily flinch before righting their features almost immediately. But it was too late – I could tell I was no longer regarded as one of them.

I felt a moment of panic at having revealed my secret, and considered running. But a semblance of self-respect – and my six inch heels - made me decide against it. Instead, to my surprise, I chose brazen honesty. “I was diagnosed with depression six months ago after a relationship break-up and haven’t worked since. I’m hoping to make a new start here,” I said.

I had inadvertently chosen a lull in conversations, and the room was suddenly silent.

I looked at Sally, her mouth gaping like a beautiful fish. I’m sorry for spoiling your party, I tried to convey with my eyes.

Then I heard a small voice from the back of the group say, “I also have depression. I’ve taken Zanax for years”.

As if the girls had collective whiplash all heads turned to the hapless girl.

Then another voice said, “My husband doesn’t love me”.

Then another – “I’m addicted to painkillers”.

Abruptly, the party had turned from elegant chatter to candid group therapy. The noise rose as girls began yelling their secrets.

“I can’t cope with the kids....”

“I have irritable bowl syndrome…”

I quietly inched my way to the door - I’d had enough for one day. I made my escape and reflected how it had taken just one comment to crack the group’s polished exterior, revealing the realness within. Perhaps I would fit in here after all.

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