Most invitations received at home these days are addressed to my wife, and though I’m no male chauvinist, it makes things a little awkward to be the hanger-on at parties as the spare-part spouse. “Your name, please?” a hostess will ask at the table guarding the venue, where a team is seated to scan lists and confirm that you aren’t gatecrashers, and when my wife takes out her business card, I can see all of them looking up and thinking: “Loser”.
The good part is that since I have the keys to the mailbox, I hide all the mail I think is irrelevant, including wedding invitations from people we almost don’t know to brand launches and openings and parties that serve no purpose unless all you want is to get sloshed on free alcohol. Mostly, though, I’m defeated by the arrival of SMSes requesting our confirmation or, increasingly, telephone calls insisting on our attendance. “It must be the courier,” my wife sighs, glaring over the phone at me, “just e-mail me the invitation, and yes, darling, we’ll be there.”
But for once, even though the invitation seemed genuinely misplaced, I didn’t mind my wife cajoling me into getting dressed for a Veronafiere wine-tasting dinner, not because I was particularly interested in the wines – which, for the record, were quite nice, though I wish they’d been a little more generous with the servings – but because the event was to be held in the Leela Palace which the celebrati are saying is already the city’s swankiest hotel even though it is not yet open. That is what the security reminded us when we turned into its imposing gates. “We know,” I said, “but we’re here by invitation.” “But it isn’t open,” the security manager insisted – perhaps we didn’t look the wine-drinking type – but on pointing out that they might want to make the same exception for us as they seemed to be doing for their other guests, and following a somewhat unnecessarily intrusive search of the car for explosive materials, we were reluctantly let in.
I have to say, we didn’t hasten immediately to the venue of the function, even though we were late, choosing instead to stroll through the parts of the hotel that seemed open, even though the stone-layers were putting in a complicated inlay floor, and the management team seemed to have gathered in the coffee shop for food tastings. “Oh dear,” said my wife, which I may or may not have echoed, for I have to say that the hotel in Chanakyapuri certainly manages to look …“posh?” suggested my wife, “intimidating?” I managed, “opulent?” pointed out another guest, who seemed to have become part of our entourage, and we told him he’d hit the golden nail right on its head with a silver hammer.
For there’s evidence of both – loads of silver furniture and doo-dahs, wooden chairs and tables with gold paint over the carved bits – but also dazzling crystal, rock-cut elephants, priceless artworks, brocaded drapes hung from a ceiling that seems several storeys high: it’s all very Maharaja meets the Viceroy with an emphasis on both big and bling. Finally, though, afraid of being booked as trespassers, we hastened to the ballroom where there was still more crystal suspended from the roof, and silk draped on the walls, all of which made the people in the room appear tacky.
“The next time we’re invited,” my wife whispered, “remind me to wear my heaviest zardozi saree and my wedding jewellery.” “And you’ll still look less dressy than the cushions in the lobby,” I smirked – my wife, of course, had spent considerable time checking out every sofa and chair there. “I could get used to it,” she sighed dismissively, “but let’s go home, dear, you don’t look to the manor born.”
