The Company Dinner

“I’d go to the end of the earth for you!” A. proclaims shooting his date a tipsy wink.

The company dinner guests stiffen and stare expectantly at her, the wronged spouse, eager for her reaction to the public humbling. Will she jump up, slap her husband’s face and storm out of the restaurant? Will she break down in tears? Will she lash out at her rival? The restaurant room buzzes with anticipation of a major scandal that could potentially ruin A.’s career for good. To say that they don’t like him would be an understatement. His arrogance has worn thin, and they can’t tolerate his insolence any longer, especially when he seems to act with impunity while others would face consequences.

Seated calmly, the wronged spouse gives her undivided attention to the lemon sole on her plate. If she was fool enough to marry an ill-mannered person, reminding her closely the upstart Johnny Farrell in Charles Vidor’s film “Gilda”, then, in consequence, she cannot but overlook his transgressions.

“May I have the salt, please?” She asks her neighbour with studded unconcern, gracefully deboning her sole, while A. brandishes the red rag under the very eyes of his colleagues making it perfectly obvious that he doesn’t give a damn about the company rule to maintain a facade of a perfect couple in public and keep extramarital affairs discreet. His colleagues watch his flirting with duplicitous concern. Was it really necessary to bring his spouse to the company dinner to confront her with his affair? And what about her? Why has she agreed to come - having been timely warned by an anonymous call from A’s secretary, another discarded fling, about her husband’s private encounters with his American colleague?

She lifts her eyes from her plate and casts a probing glance at A.. What was his reason to insist on her presence? To have a good laugh at provoking her to make a scene? Unlikely, as he knows her too well for that. Does he want to test the limits for getting fired? Improbable, as he knows he can hardly find another firm that would give him this autonomy combined with a generous financial compensation. Does he want her to file for divorce? She doesn’t think so. He needs her like a heroin addict his daily fix, providing him with a unique thrill that no other woman can replicate. And, yet, in spite of it, or because of it, he has an urge to break free from her. Much like a horror movie enthusiast yearns for a shiver in the dark, knowing that when the lights come on, he will totter into daylight and life will go on in a threesome of a man, a woman and a comfortable marriage.

She observes his lips tantalizingly close to his flirtatious target while he flashes her a toothy grin, signalling her that his interest in his American colleague is a charade and his flirtation is nothing more than a prank. Does she mind either way? Somewhere, in their remote past there were moments when she sought revenge: to make him long for her and while he’d be begging for forgiveness, leave him. Those were the days when she still had feelings for him. Her life has become easier once she stopped being hurt by his lack of manners.

The waiter clears the plates and serves dessert. This morning, her bathroom scales had tipped in favor of indulgence, allowing her to savor her chocolate mousse with a clear conscience.

Will A. leave with his flirt or bring her home? She secretly hopes for the latter. As usual, she has no money on her- a bad habit of hers. Walking home in this mild weather, in this mostly safe part of Paris, would be enjoyable, but not tonight. Don’t ask her why. The dinner guests begin to depart, leaving a chilling emptiness behind her. It seems she will be left on her own. At least, she has the key on her -a good habit of hers, she acquired when A. walked out on her during one of his virulent and unpredictable hate attacks and she was locked out in the dead of the night.

She exits the restaurant among the last guests, catching a glimpse of A. and his date getting into a taxi and disappearing from view. The Champo, her trusted cinema from days gone by, has just finished its last screening, and moviegoers are spilling out onto Rue des Ecoles, discussing the film. She blends in with them, stepping into the same river twice. Slipping her hand into the phantom’s offered palm she traces back their usual walk along the Seine embankment. She stops. She takes the home key from her pocket. With a determined flick of her wrist, it flies off and hits the water with a splash. “At last you got our story straight!” The phantom gives her a deferential smile, and as the moon rises, the key on the riverbed sparkles like a diamond heart, accompanied by a chorus singing “Moonlight Serenade,” an authorized version according to the phantom’s artistic sensibilities, reminiscent of Busby Berkeley.

“Come, my dear! We’ve finally made it into the world that belongs to us! Abide with me. If you gain, you gain everything, if you lose you lose nothing!” The phantom’s voice is persuasive. ‘How typical of him to use Blaise Pascal for his argument!’ The sharp sting of reasoning cuts straight through her brain. This is a scene she has never imagined before. Is it a short story growing into a novel? A still-born novel if she loses her courage to tell the truth?′

A sudden honk from a speeding car propels her back to reality. She is standing on the Seine’s quay, alone but for a couple of bums cursing their empty bottle. She buttons her jacket. The night air is chilling if you have just your own warmth to get you going. One step, then the next, until you stop to count: she turns into a walking device, losing her past for her future - her present reduced to just walking, falling into the rhythm of her steps…one, two, a hundred, a thousand, until counting no longer matters.

She crosses Pont de Iena, she walks up Avenue Wilson. At the Trocadéro she feels the comforting sense of coming home. Her hand brushes against the key in her pocket, confirming its presence. She turns the key in the lock. She enters. A. is sitting in his armchair, a glass of wine in his hand.

“It took you a while,” he remarks casually, as if nothing has happened. Has it really?

“I felt like taking a walk. May I have a sip of your wine?” she asks, taking the chair opposite him.

“Of course.” He pours her a glass and hands it to her smiling.

She thanks him, realizing that there is no good reason tonight not to stay.

There will be another night tomorrow.

The night of the phantom. The night to leave A.

Only weaklings say goodbye.

Epilogue. Rule for a lasting marriage: Don’t fall in love!