Fatty O'Leary's Dinner Party Read Free Page A

face of such a fulsome apology. He turned to look out of the window. It was a moonlit night, and they were over a sea of cloud; by pressing his face against the window he could just make out a field ofstars above. How exhilarating it was to fly in such comfort, suspended between the silver-white of the clouds and the darkness above; and to be in the First Class cabin too – a tiny cocoon of Waterford crystal glasses, excellent wines and luxury foods, all kept in midair suspension by the very finest American technology.
    Fatty looked into his glass of champagne, which was almost empty, and thought of the wines that lay ahead of him when they brought him his sumptuous First Class meal, served on real porcelain. Would they offer him a Mouton Rothschild Premier Grand Cru? If not, it would be something close enough to that in quality. He thought for a moment of Betty, languishing in her narrow economy seat; it was such a pity she could not join him in First Class. Still, she would not appreciate fine wines quite as much as he would and she would be happy enough with those cheap plastic bottles they served back there.
    As he was reflecting, the attendant brought him his tray. Fatty looked down at it, and then looked up at the attendant in mute incomprehension. Before him was a small, compartmentalised dinner tray of economy food (prawn cocktail; lasagne; chocolate mousse), all crammed together, with an upturned plastic beaker for the quarter bottle of Napa Valley Chardonnay which he had beenunilaterally allocated.
    It took him a few moments to recover his speech. Then he said indignantly: “Excuse me, but this is First Class. I’d like to see the menu, if you don’t mind.”
    The attendant pursed her lips. “Sorry, sir, but you’re actually an economy passenger. You’ve just been allocated here for seating purposes.”
    Fatty gasped. “But that’s not fair!” he protested. “The food goes with the seat. You can’t expect me to sit here and watch everybody else have all that fine food while you serve me this … this fodder.”
    The attendant was unperturbed. “Those are the rules, sir. I’m very sorry. May I recommend our frequent flyer programme that allows you to build up points that can be used for upgrading tickets? I’ll get you the leaflet if you wish.”
    Fatty pushed the tray away from him. “I’m not hungry,” he said peevishly. “Take it away. And I don’t want your leaflet either.”
    An hour or so later, when the other passengers were preparing for their Stilton and port, Fatty succumbed to the gnawing pains of hunger that had been becoming ever more insistent since he rejected his meal. Rising tohis feet, he made his way toward the washroom; that, at least, they would allow me to use, he thought. But he did not reach it; noticing that the attendants were busy with an elderly passenger at the front of the cabin who was having difficulty adjusting his seat, Fatty walked past the washroom and into the galley. There, laid out temptingly on their separate plates, were several slices of choice roast beef and half a smoked salmon. Wasting no time, he seized the salmon and tore off a large section, which he stuffed into his mouth. Then, snatching an open bottle of wine – and it was Mouton Rothschild after all – he took a deep swig. Then there was time for more smoked salmon and a quick slice or two of roast beef.
    â€œMr. O’Leary?” It was the unhelpful attendant.
    Fatty spun round, his mouth full of illicit food.
    â€œThat’s First Class food, Mr. O’Leary,” said the attendant severely. “You have no right to eat it.”
    Fatty tried to mumble an explanation, wanting to say that he was hungry and that he had not asked to be transferred to First Class and that it was quite invidious to make a distinction between himself and the others. But the explanation, had he managed it, would