High Society by Sam Smith

‘Speech! Speech!’

            Benedict looked down at the plate of seared pheasant in front of him and stroked his bushy eyebrows, hoping to avoid looking any other party guest in the eye. He had taken one bite of the gamey bird and though it was delicious, as every meal at the Brentwood Country Club is, he was not in the mood for such extravagance.

            ‘Speech! Speech!’ brayed the guests. A few of them tapped their half-full champagne glasses with dessert spoons. Benedict sunk lower in his seat.

            He felt a soft hand touch his elbow and looked to his left. Jessica smiled down at him, her eyes as bright as the ring on her finger. She leaned in close to him.

            ‘I think they want you to make a speech, Benny,’ she said in her cheerful Welsh accent.

            Benedict wiped his mouth with his monogrammed handkerchief and dropped it onto the plate. ‘After the day I’ve had, I’m not sure I’m up to it.’

            Jessica nodded. ‘Yes, well I’m afraid that’s what you get for being the birthday boy. A couple gifts you don’t want,’ she rested her hand on his thigh underneath the table, ‘and a lot of gifts you do.’

            A smile somehow appeared on his face. He stood up, flattening the creases of his dinner jacket. The Country Club cheered drunkenly.

            Benedict took a small sip of champagne and cleared his throat. ‘Thank you. Thank you all so much, my relatives, my friends and those like Desmond who are just here for the free booze.’ Desmond, sat a few seats down from Benedict, shakily held his glass up in the air. The guests cheered and clapped quietly.

            ‘Now, I don’t mean to bore you all, I know you’re all very busy people,’ a couple guests laughed heartily, ‘I’m afraid I have a short anecdote of something that happened to me this morning that I would like to share with you. I could very easily not be here right now, enjoying this time with you. I felt the urge to go out for a run this morning, which might been something the realisation that I’m now a forty year old man with what can only be called an ever increasing waistline. As I galloped across a country road, very near to the Stuart estate, I failed to notice an oncoming Land Rover, travelling at quite a speed. By the time I did see it, I was sure that I was done for. If it was not a heroic lad, one Greg Harrison, whom was hitchhiking along the same road, I would have surely died. This gentleman pulled me out of the way, with merely left centimetres between my backside and the bonnet. I owe Greg my life. He didn’t know me at all. He’s a drifter, a poet, roaming from place to place, without a penny or care in the world. But still he saved me. It made me realise that both me and Greg are the same. We are not as elite as we think we are. The only thing that separates us is our self-importance that we imposed on ourselves with money and cars and beautiful wives. Which is why I would like to ask you, my friends, for a favour. I would like Greg to be accepted into the Brentwood Country Club as a member, equal to us all.’

            A silence filled the hall. There were a few confused looks were shared between the guests, but most of them stared at Benedict, mouths hanging open slightly.

            ‘But we are not the same,’ said Desmond. He stood up and stumbled over to Benedict and leant on him, arm over his shoulder. ‘We are better than that.’

            Benedict shook his head. ‘What do you mean? We are all people. We are made of exactly the same pieces. Some of us have just been luckier than others.’

            ‘We’re not made of the same stuff at all. We’re made of better stuff!’ slurred Desmond.

            Benedict moved Desmond’s arm off from his shoulder with quite some force. ‘No. No, we are the same. We all breathe. We all eat. We all go to the bathroom!’

            The guests all gasped. Desmond’s eyes widened. Jessica covered her mouth with her hands, but Benedict still heard the small scream escape her throat.

            Puffing up his chest, Desmond lumbered up to Benedict, their faces only an inch apart. ‘I do no such thing!’

            ‘What do you mean?’ asked Benedict.

            ‘I do not go to the bathroom! How dare you suggest that?’

            Benedict glanced at the other guests. ‘Do you hear Desmond, everyone? He’s saying that he doesn’t use the bathroom. That’s ridiculous! Everyone uses the bathroom!’

            A few more confused looked between guests. An older man in a sharp tuxedo near the back of the room stood up. ‘I don’t.’

            A woman in a glittery dress raised her pale hand. ‘Me neither.’

            ‘I haven’t taken a shit in thirty years,’ called out a large man wearing a monocle.

            Benedict was stunned. ‘I… I don’t…’ He turned to his wife. ‘Jessica, do you…?’

            Jessica looked down at the ground, shaking her head.

            ‘Benedict, are you telling us that you go to the bathroom?’ asked Desmond, completely seriously, all surliness gone from his voice.

            He stood up straight and starred at Desmond, his eyebrows close together. ‘Yes. I use the bathroom every day, and I am proud.’

            Benedict was swiftly removed from the Brentwood Country Club.