Read At the Reunion Buffet for Free Online

Durrell.
    “The only doctor in our whole year,” said Eleanor. She glanced at Isabel, the tiniest of smiles playing about her lips. “Sorry, I mean,
real
doctor.”
    Isabel said nothing; she rarely, if ever, referred to her doctorate, so the barb was misplaced. She could correct her and say that medical doctors were relative newcomers to the title—doctors in the early days of universities were doctors of everything
except
medicine. She settled for a bland response. “Well, at least we shall have medical help on hand if there’s an emergency.”
    “Actually, she’s a psychiatrist,” said Eleanor.
    “Then she could be of help if anybody has an attack of Stendhal syndrome.”
    “But, as I said, she’s a psychiatrist.”
    Isabel gritted her teeth. The rudeness she had glimpsed on their first meeting at La Barantine now seemed to have resurfaced.
I am the hostess
, she thought.
This is my house. You do not offend the hostess.
    “Stendhal syndrome,” Isabel said quietly, “is a psychiatric condition. It occurs when people find themselves in the presence of great art. Visitors to Florence often get it. People become short of breath. They faint. They get hysterical.”
    Eleanor listened, but seemed unimpressed. “Highly unlikely,” she said.
    Isabel stared at her. Was she doubting the reality of Stendhal syndrome, or was she saying that it was highly unlikely that anybody would get it in this house?
Not beautiful enough. Victorian architecture—the wrong proportions for Stendhal syndrome.
    Isabel noticed something. “Claire Sutherland,” she said, picking up one of the badges.
    Eleanor made a face. “I wonder how many husbands she’s had. You’ll see that I put a married name for her in brackets, but heaven knows whether he’s current, or the one before the last.”
    “Actually, I was thinking more of the spelling,” said Isabel. “You’ve put Clare, as in Clare College, Cambridge. Our Claire was always very fussy about her
i
and her
e
.”
    “Too late,” said Eleanor dismissively. “And it doesn’t matter, anyway. It’s clear enough who she is.”
    “Clear?” said Isabel.
    “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    The badges were now all laid out neatly on the hall table. Eleanor took hers and pinned it on the lapel of the jacket she was wearing. She picked up Isabel’s badge and passed it to her. As she did so, she fumbled and pricked Isabel’s finger with the pin.
    She apologized profusely. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry. I’m nervous, I suppose. What a thing to do…”
    Isabel sucked her finger. “That’s all right. No harm done.” She stared at Eleanor. Suddenly they were twelve again. It was deliberate, she thought. She meant that. Eleanor met her eye, and blushed. That proves it, thought Isabel; one doesn’t blush over an accident; one blushes when found out.
    One of the caterers came into the hall to seek their advice, and they accompanied him into the kitchen. He was a young New Zealander, fresh-faced and cheerful, whose spoken sentences ascended at the end, making each a question.
    “The canapés are almost ready?” he said.
    The intonation made it difficult to decide whether he was asking or telling them something.
    Isabel decided it was the latter. “Good.”
    “But what I wondered was whether we can put the vegetarian ones on the same plate as the non-vegetarian ones?”
    Eleanor took control. “Put them together. People shouldn’t be so fussy.”
    Isabel caught her breath. This was
her
kitchen. “No,” she said. “I think there are people who don’t like them mixed up like that. There are more plates in that cupboard over there if you need them.”
    “Righty oh?” said the young man.
    Eleanor shook her head. “Unnecessary,” she said. “Put them together. It’s simpler. It’ll make them easier to hand round.”
    Isabel decided that a line had been crossed. “No, separate plates please.” And to Eleanor she said, “As the hostess, I feel I should…”
    Eleanor glared at her.