Now, she did not.
Colin’s seat at the head of the table was vacant. Phoebe sat at the foot, to her right sat Mrs. Byrne, to her left, the only other empty chair next to Mike. On Mike’s other side sat Mags, who sat to Colin’s right. Scarlett (to Sibyl’s despair) was to Colin’s left then Bertie then Claire coming full circle to Mrs. Byrne.
It was the Seating Arrangement of Doom.
Sibyl took her seat and a young man in dark pants and a white shirt immediately entered carrying a tureen of soup to the side table. Sibyl watched, captivated at the idea of having a waiter at a dinner party in your home.
“Sibyl, I hear you make lotions and bath salts,” Phoebe forged in while the waiter served soup. “You smell divine, is your perfume one of your creations?”
“Yes,” she admitted, leaning back to allow the young man access to her place setting. “If you like, I can make you a goodie basket of my products,” Sibyl offered and then wondered why she did and then gave herself a mental forehead slap.
“She makes the best goodie baskets,” Scarlett put in helpfully and, if she’d been close enough, Sibyl would have kicked her sister. There was a small chance that Phoebe would have demurred.
“Oh, I’d like one too,” Claire said exuberantly.
Gone was the small chance.
“Of course,” Sibyl murmured.
“Tell us about your work at the Community Centre,” Mike boomed so loudly, Sibyl started.
Everyone stared at her curiously, even her family who knew all about her work at the Community Centre. Therefore, she had no choice, so she did. While everyone ate their soup, Sibyl talked about the oldies, their bingo and sing-a-longs and the kids, their art projects and their talent show. She talked and pretended to eat while she felt Colin’s eyes on her. Then she gave up all pretence of eating to focus her attention to pretending she didn’t feel his eyes on her.
Once she’d petered away on a story about Mrs. Griffith using her cane on an unsuspecting neighbour with an overly loud dog (Mrs. Griffith was feeble, it didn’t hurt her neighbour… too much) the waiter came in and whisked away the bowls, quietly asking if Sibyl was done with her nearly full one. She nodded mutely and he swept it away.
“So, what do you do Colin?” Bertie enquired.
Sibyl turned startled eyes to her father then to Colin, realising, with a hysterical feeling rising inside her, that she didn’t even know what Colin did for a living.
“I buy and sell companies,” Colin replied.
This was met with complete silence and Sibyl tensed.
If Mike and Phoebe were posh, tailored yin to Mags and Bertie’s oddball, unconventional yang, Colin’s profession was the Antarctic in relation to Sibyl’s Arctic Community Centre.
“He’s very successful,” Mike offered hopefully into the silence.
“What does that mean, you buy and sell companies?” Mags asked dubiously.
“It means he’s a corporate raider, Mom,” Scarlett offered and Sibyl held her breath at that explosive comment, definitely wishing she was close enough to kick her sister.
“Not exactly,” Colin muttered, his eyes on Sibyl.
“The corporate raid stopped over a decade ago,” Mike boomed in defence of his son as the waiter walked in carrying salads this time.
“What does it mean?” Bertie asked, every liberal bone in his body rankling and Sibyl wished the floor would open up and swallow her.
And Colin, of course. She couldn’t leave him behind at the Table of Doom.
“I buy mismanaged companies, clean them up and sell them for a profit,” Colin answered patiently.
“Sometimes not still in one piece, I assume?” Scarlett asked sweetly, perversely loving every minute of this. Sibyl hoped that the Morgans would realise that Scarlett was annoying in the extreme, even to her own family and especially to her sister.
Colin opened his mouth to answer but instead, Claire, desperately burst out, “Colin saved a girl from drowning when he was sixteen.”
All eyes swung to Claire.
“Remember that, Colin, at the club?” Claire continued courageously. “She nearly died. Colin had to give her CPR and everything. It was quite something,” she told the table at large.