‘Would
you care for a glass of champagne, sir?’
‘No,
I bloody well wouldn’t’ he replied without making eye contact, it
was only the waiter.
‘Waste
of money if you ask me,’ he went on, slumped in the worn leather
chair in the corner of his club, cigar in one hand, brandy in the
other, and it only 6 o’clock, as he wiped the drips from his florid
nose with a crisp white monogrammed kerchief.
‘Can’t
stand the wretched stuff, all those nasty bubbles getting up your
nose.’
He
was warming to his theme now.
‘Don’t
know what all the fuss is about, much prefer a good claret myself.
Poncy ladies drink if you ask me, nothing to it, and as for those
tiddly little glasses they serve it in, hardly hold enough to whet
your whistle, something to do with someone’s breast aren’t they?’
he leared at the distant memory of the thought, not seeking a reply.
‘Overpriced
for what it is, only wine with fizz added, and can never get the
bottle open, can’t even use a cork screw, then the stuff pours all
over the place, half of it wasted before you even get there. Makes a
right mess altogether. Used to drink it at the races mind you, when
the old nag came in a winner. Now that WAS something to celebrate.
Those were the days, before the war you know, a high old time we had
of it.’ Rambling on he suddenly recalls, in a rare lucid moment,
his reason for such an intense dislike. ’55 it was, and Rosalind,
his first and only love, was seduced over a bottle of champagne, and
left him for some foreign count.
‘Money
to burn, he must have had, serves him right, let him keep her in her
fancy drinks, better off without her.’ Knowing full well that the
pain was still as raw as the day it had happened. If only he had
realised how important the bloody stuff was to women, maybe he’d be
at home now instead of slumped in the worn leather chair in the
corner of his club, cigar in one hand, brandy in the other, and it
only 6 o’clock, as he wiped the drips from his florid nose with a
crisp white monogrammed kerchief. ‘Champagne, never touch the
stuff.’
‘All
the more for me, darling.’ He hears the faint whisper of her voice,
thirty years on.
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