Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

when my clothes were lost.”
    â€œWell, there you are,” said Rupert O’Brien. “Friends are useful. I remember I was in Miami once and I lost my jacket. But I bumped into Versace at a party and I told him, and he said:
Funny – I’m a tailor! I’ll fix you up
. And he did, would you believe it?”
    Fatty looked down at his plate, and then gazed at the houndstooth trousers that Mr. Delaney had adjusted for him. They were made of cheap material and looked shabby beside the thick cloth of Rupert O’Brien’s elegant suit.
    â€œWe’re simple people in Arkansas, Mr. O’Brien,” Betty suddenly burst out. “But we do our best. And my husband is a good man. He always has been.”
    â€œI’m sure,” said Rupert O’Brien smoothly. “I’m sure he is.”
    â€œAnd just because we don’t mix in the sort of circles you mix in,” she went on, “that doesn’t mean to say that we don’t amount to anything. We’re still your company for the evening. We didn’t ask to be, but we are. My husband is a good man. He may not have read everything or met everybody, but he’s a good man. And in my book, that’s what counts.”
    A complete silence had fallen over the table. Spoons, which had been dipped into soup, were stopped, poised halfway to trembling lips; nobody moved.
    â€œSo if you’ll excuse us, Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien,” said Betty. “We shall find somewhere quieter to have our dinner.”
    She rose to her feet and moved deliberately over to one of the unlaid tables at the other side of the room, taking her placemat and side-plate with her. Fatty, immobilised for a few moments, did nothing, but then, with an apologetic nod to the others, he too got up and went over to the other table.
    â€œI’m sorry, my dear,” whispered Betty. “I couldn’t stand it any more. I just couldn’t.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” said Fatty, reaching over to place his hand on hers, his voice uneven. “I’m so proud of you. And anyway, I would sooner sit here and look at you any time, than listen to all his highfalutin’ talk through dinner.”
    Betty smiled at him. She noticed that there were tears on his cheeks. She reached into her pocket and extracted a small, Irish linen handkerchief that Mr. Delaney, the outfitter, had given her.
    â€œHere,” she said. “Use this.”
    They sat in silence at their separate table. After a few minutes, the waitress returned to clear away the soup plates and bring in the main course. This she placed unceremoniously on the table, leaving the guests to help themselves.
    â€œAll the more for us,” said Rupert O’Brien, passing the serving spoon to Niamh. “Short rations for some, I’m afraid.”
    Fatty leant over the table to whisper to Betty. “Did you hear that, Betty? Did you hear what he said?”
    Betty nodded, and they both watched miserably as the main course disappeared at the other table. There was no sign of the waitress and they both realised that there wasnothing that they could do without losing face to a quite unacceptable extent.
    â€œWe shall simply withdraw,” said Fatty, after a while. “I’m no longer hungry.”
    â€œAnd neither am I,” said Betty.
    But her voice lacked conviction.
    Upstairs in their room, they retired to their beds, separated by a bedside table on which back issues of
Horse and Hound
and two glasses of water had thoughtfully been placed by Mrs. O’Connor. They were both tired, and the light was put out almost immediately.
    â€œOur first night in Ireland,” said Betty, in the darkness.
    â€œYes,” said Fatty. “I hope that tomorrow’s a bit better.”
    â€œIt will be, Fatty,” said Betty. “It will be.”
    Fatty was silent. Then: “Betty, I felt so … so
inadequate
beside that O’Brien