Looking ridiculous in a wide-brimmed lilac straw hat, in a gap in the traffic LC dragged me over Park Lane and we made a dash for the reception at the Four Seasons Hotel. Wet sleet was falling and mixing with the snow on the ground, yet all the wedding guests were dressed as if it were the height of summer, shivering in light dresses while slipping and sliding in the slush in their flimsy high heels. I was also shocked at how old everyone looked. No matter how much had been spent on designer gear and hair-dos, the ageing guests had found it impossible to disguise their lined faces.
We ran into the shelter of the hotel reception, which was swarming with serving staff. A waiter was carrying a packet of monogrammed handkerchiefs. I guessed that this was a present from the best man to the groom. Another was asking a colleague what he was meant to do about stains. I leant against a pillar opposite the reception desk watching all theses comings and goings, until I was approached by a very tall, blond waiter in his twenties.
“Vintage?” he asked.
I mumbled a reply to indicate that yes, please, I’d like a glass of wine, but since I was not a connoisseur, it didn’t really matter whether or not it was vintage.
He poured me a glass of red, then did the same for himself, made a toast, chinked glasses with me, and took a sip. This all seemed a bit forward to me. Wasn’t this man on duty? Then he invited me on a date for later that evening. It was now beginning to dawn on me that perhaps the term “vintage” was meant to describe me?
When I glanced along the reception desk and spied TPR, I felt terribly guilty. However, my young beau wasted no time explaining the plans for later, and TPR responded happily to say that my new suitor was welcome to me.