My close friend invited me to her reception for her husband’s book launching.
Ordinarily, I don’t accept social invitations. I am a terrible guest. Either I become very abrasive,
Or I am overcome with sleep and sneak away upstairs to push to one side the little boy
sleeping in his bedroom so I can fall asleep beside him.
(One hostess called me out of the blue one year after my sudden disappearance from the table,
and said in a sinister voice, "I saw you. I knew where you were hiding!")
But I never refuse invitations from very close friends, those who have passed the 30-year friendship
mark. Noblesse Oblige.
My friend invited me to a reception she was holding for her husband.
To celebrate the publications of his first book.
I called on the afternoon of the reception to ask for directions on where to park.
Her husband answered the phone.
In the midst of giving instructions, my friend grabbed the phone away from him
and, out of nowhere, boomed Into the phone, “Claire, don’t put your feet on my coffee table!”
I was completely stunned. For a moment I had no idea to what she was referring.
Besides, since when was putting feet on a coffee table an issue?
Whenever a visited the couple at their country house,
I always put my feet on the coffee table. But that is the country. No big sweat.
Country furniture. Country manners.
And then I remembered. They had another reception a few weeks before, this time for his birthday,
And it was there that I got into an animated conversation,
and although I can’t remember the actual act of putting my feet on the coffee table,
it was very feasible that I did, given the country experience and all that.
But her accusation made in the city took my breath away.
If I did that so called “inexcusable" faux pas, that "reprehensible" act,
her taking me to task for it was a much greater breach of supposedly "fine manners."
Hurtful. Unforgettable. Unforgivable.
There was no way I could go to the reception.
“Sylvia, I can never again go to your home.
God knows what other horrific act I can do in your humble abode
when I am under the influence of excitement.
I will always be ready to see you,
but never in your home. Only in a restaurant!” (Before Covid!)"
I hung up. And as I was opening the door to leave my home, the phone kept ringing off the hook.......
After that incident, She was gracious. It was in her DNA to be gracious.
And I was gracious. (Not in my DNA, but there are times I DO try!)
Our relationship continued unmarred, always pleasurable,
And for the next few years, we kept meeting at restaurants.
Until one day, she fell and broke her collarbone.
I was a close friend. I had no choice. I went to visit her in her apartment.
There we were, she and her husband sitting on the sofa, I in a tub chair facing them,
And in between us was…THE COFFEE TABLE!
I looked down at the table, looked up at her and said sweetly, but with a mischievous twinkle in my eye,
“I suppose you would prefer I didn’t put my feet on your coffee table.”
SHE EXPLODED. “OH! NOOOOOOO!”
For the rest of the visit, Emily Post would have been proud of me. I was on my best behavior!
