Domestic dealmaking

PEOPLE LIKE US

Several people I have never before met in my life are coming home for dinner tonight. "It isn't as though you do not entertain colleagues from your office," said my wife when I complained about having to spend an evening at my own home amidst strangers.

"But you don't go to an office," I pointed out. "Even so, I have clients," she shot back, "and I'd be grateful if you would be polite to them."

My wife has taken to peddling baubles in her spare time, of which she seems to have a lot. At first, this did not bother me unduly. Then her friends, and friends of her friends, and friends of her friends' friends took to coming home at odd hours.

At seven in the morning and nine in the evening, while we were at breakfast or entertaining over cocktails. "This'll only take a minute," they'd say, disappearing into one of the bedrooms to try on cornelian strings and calcedonian beads.

It came to breaking point when I could no longer find a place in the house uninterrupted by a flutter of females by the elbow. There they were, pirouetting in front of the mirror, lounging on the sofa, sipping coffee on my bed, make-up and accessories strewn all over the bath.

It was no longer possible to emerge from the shower into a semblance of privacy. The cook's job was to keep them supplied with coffee and cola, with sausages and cheese, mine to stay out of their hair.

"I do hope," I said critically one day, "that you're making enough money to cover the expenses of the kitchen." "Money isn't the only thing in life," said my wife sheepishly, but philosophy isn't her thing, so she confessed: "Actually, I don't think I'm selling very much, but all the people seem to have such a good time, I don't want to be a wet blanket and turn them out." "Then you must allow me the privilege," I said, "since it is my bank balance they're eating into.

Even though my wife's popularity rating dipped, she adhered to the new home regulations: client visits were to be restricted to working hours, they were to be served only water on request, and definitely no dealings over mealtimes.

"You're costing me my business," sighed my wife, though the family seemed more relaxed now that we weren't tripping over somebody's tossed sandals, or searching for bags, combs and lipsticks gone missing.

Now, it seemed my wife had another plan up her sleeve. "Jewellery," she said to me, "is expensive stuff and most women don't want to spend all that much money without their husband's approval." "I don't think that's true," I started to say, but my wife sshshed me up: "You're a doll," she said, "which is why I want to make sure you serve the husbands your best whisky."

"What," I shouted, "you mean they're here to drink as well." "How else," asked my wife, "am I going to get them to saying yes to what their wives want?" "But that's cheating," I ventured. "It's business, silly," she laughed, "and by the way, there's someone you don't know who wants us to have dinner with them tomorrow night."

"Must be someone else peddling stuff from home, wanting to get me drunk so I agree to let you buy whatever you want," I joked with my wife. "How clever you are," she gazed at me in admiration, "actually, we've arrived at a pact so she buys jewellery from me while I buy sarees from her."

"But that way you can pay for each other's purchases," I pointed out. "That would be a silly thing to do," said my wife, "when the smarter thing would be to get the husbands to pay."