THE COMINGS AND GOINGS

"Miss Cowley on line two, sir." The intercom beeped intrusively, jarring Donald Gregg from his daydream. He lifted the receiver and stabbed the button on the console, swinging slowly in his high-backed chair.

"What are you wearing?" He oozed into the mouthpiece.

"A frown, Donald."

"Huh?"

"I overheard some gossip about a party for residents on The Pathway, and I found it very strange that I didn't hear it from you."

"Hey! I just got the damned invite this morning. I was gonna call you." His little fantasy bursting like a silent soap bubble.

"Oh. Well then I'm sorry for jumping the gun." Her miffed tone changed to a pacifying coo.

"Yeah, okay. Well it's for this Wednesday night, at the Richardson's. You met them I think; Ellen and Jeffrey?"

"The dentist."

"Right."

"What kind of party? What should I wear?"

Donald dropped his head to the desk and closed his eyes. Why couldn't women just put something on and go, why did it always have to be a planned outfit? "I don't know, Denise, something... casual elegant, I guess."

"What, like slacks, or a dress?"

He groaned into the desk blotter. "A dress, I guess. Wear a dress. Look, it's just a simple open house for the neighbours. It's no big deal."

"Listen Donald, I know what the women on your street are like, nothing is, no big deal."

"Okay, fine. You're right; a dress should be perfectly acceptable. Oh! My sales manager is waving to me, gotta go. I call you later sweet buns." He cradled the receiver gently, rolling his head side to side on the desktop.

*****

The weekly council meeting began and ended with a full-bore discussion of the search committee's report. The proposal that local residents mount the play was met with mixed enthusiasm, but after a long session of badgering and cajoling, the idea passed with a vote of six to two, Jeffrey and Antonio providing the opposition. It was also decided, over Jeffrey's vain protestations, that Victoria and her nephew be included at the open house, where everyone could meet and question the potential architect of their summer program. Calculating the possibility of inclusion in the project, Amanda ventured her own, unsolicited, vote of confidence, bringing a mild rebuke from Milo, as chair, and a welcome cheer from the search committee.

"This brings this session to a close." Milo banged his gavel and rose to leave.

"Wait just a moment," Antonio complained, "we haven't discussed anything else yet."

"Our time is up, Antonio, anything else will have to be tabled for the next meeting." He turned to Amanda, continuing his role as the consummate professional, reminding her to provide the members with copies of the minutes as swiftly as possible. She responded with an equally serious nod. "Until next Tuesday then..."

The members filed out, pausing to let Antonio barge from the room in disgust, before consulting about time and dress for the party the following evening.

THE PLAY

"I wanted you all here early for any last minute preparations you have to make." Ellen paced fussily in front of the seated gathering. "When my guests arrive, I want everything happening; no waiting for drinks, hors d'oeuvres, or anything else. Ross, I want the music playing before they arrive." She stopped in front of them, an expensively manicured finger tapping her chin, "I think that's it. Any questions?" A negative rumble issued from the assembly. "Good. Then places everyone."

"My, my, Mr. Matute, don't you look simply stunning in your bartender whites."

Henry displayed a good-natured frown, fingering the lapel of his friend's jacket. "I pale before your own sartorial splendor, maestro. A paisley jacket?"

"On loan from our hostess, and I'd pay money to see you pale," he jibed, pinching his black friend's cheek.

"Yeah, well it would take more than you can afford."

"Henry," Hartley Meloncore pranced up to the two men, hands making butterflies in the air. "I want to place my seafood fountain at the far end of your bar. Please see that there is a sufficient supply of napkins and picks at all times. Comprendez voo?"

"Ahh, cert-a mwah, Monsieur Hartley. My far end is yours to command." Ross turned away to cover a choking laugh.

"Mmmmh, thank you, Henry... I think." Hartley raised his chin and strutted off after one of his catering staff.

"You're a bugger, Matute." Ross punched his arm, laughing.

"Wrong, maestro, Hartley's the bugger, I'm the buggee, comprendez-voo. What a pompous jerk." They whooped in unison, stumbling off to their respective stations.

Ellen flitted about the room, adjusting and readjusting the recessed lighting, searching for the perfect level, straightening doilies and drapes, and, to the annoyance of the staff, picking bits of lint from their uniforms. The wistful strains of Dancing in the Dark leaked softly through the room, bringing Ellen in a rush to the piano on the patio.

"I don't think that's appropriate yet, Ross. People won't be dancing until later. Something more suitable to- to grace their entrance perhaps." She flitted off again, pestering the next closest person, and Ross rippled the keyboard with a flowery introduction to, Send in the Clowns.

*****

Melaine Braithwaite slid the single strap of her dress over her shoulder, adjusted the bust and waist, and checked her panty line in the wardrobe mirror, pleased to note it added just the right touch of allure. The pearl white, silk material flowed like mercury over her body, clinging and rippling with every subtle movement. At forty-seven years of age, Melaine was pleased that she still had an attractive figure; it was token consolation for the life style she found herself living. Running a brush through the thick blonde hair framing her face and delicately fine-tuning her mascara, she applied a light touch of gloss over the soft red of her lips, pouting in the mirror and sighing. This was not one of her favourite distractions. With the possible exception of spending some time with her favourite banker, Cal Amarca, she would have much preferred staying home.

"Stunning darling, simply stunning," Milo came up behind her, tickling her bare shoulder with the edge of his moustache, "and the diamond set is the absolute perfect choice."

Melaine fingered the Georges Braque designed necklace, silently agreeing; it seemed to magically enhance the luster of her hair and the green in her large eyes.

"I thought we might take a bottle of our Moët et Chandon, you know, begin the evening with an added touch of class." He moved in front of her, primping and preening in the mirror.

"God Milo, why can't you just trust people to run their own affairs. Really." She gathered up a few things from the dressing table and stuffed them into her evening bag, fed up with her husband's silly artifice.

"Now my dear, don't start our night with another one of your bitchy sermons. I happen to believe our friends enjoy the level of distinction afforded by such epicurean delights."

Melaine rolled her eyes and made a sucking sound through her teeth. "Would you just listen to yourself. You live in a fantasy, Milo." She shook her head and headed for the bedroom door, followed shortly by her wincing, pink faced husband.

*****