Week 52: The Party

 

A corps of caterers comprising of Harriet, her mother and mother-in law made their way to the beach hut. On buffet tables, ambrosian cup cakes crowded against homemade sausage rolls to create a sweet-savory symphony for the tastebuds.

In the hut a bar was set up and stocked with exorbitant pop, sparkling elderflower being just one refreshment. Jostling alongside were bottles of Sainsbury’s finest Taste The Difference Prosecco.

By eleven o’clock the guests had arrived. Guests that have come from the four corners of the globe. Guests from Watford, guests from Hemel Hempstead, guests from Hitchin, guests from Swanage. All beautified in their best beachwear to drink, to be merry.

A grey cloud threatens the sky, but the party will not be cowed. The sky is unquestionably dulled by nature’s pall but the scene below remains colourful. The conversation flows like The Thames, snaking from person to person, interconnecting each and every one. Laughter peals out of diaphragms, creating a church bell chime, letting everyone know a celebration is in town. All faces smile in repetition like a Warhol displayed on a seaside canvas.

And there glistening in Factor 50 was the boy they called Jude. He was in the centre of things, smiling like one who knew all the secrets. Everyone else was in his orbit, living off this his charismatic pull. Like royalty, people waited in line to talk, to clasp his hand, in the hope he would return their affections, and in doing so invite them behind the rope, into his celebrity, into his world.

The party was about to begin. 

Soon it was in full swing.