Nadia Debere

It could have been anyone’s sitting room, in anyone’s house, in any suburban street. The walls were painted a cream and the sofas were nice dark brown leather. There were pictures on the mantelpiece of kids in school uniforms and crisps and dips were laid out for us on the coffee table.

My husband and I sat together, squeezed into a chair rather than joining others on the sofas. We were handed wine without being given the choice of red or white. I hated red wine then and still do so I just held it in my hand and smiled.

Looking around at the other couples I saw the usual wrinklies but interspersed between them were some middle-aged and even younger ones. One young man caught my eye and then my attention when he spoke. I didn’t recognise his accent at first but I now know he was from South Africa. He had a mop of blonde hair and his wife too was blonde, although she looked older.

He appealed to me, more so than all the rest and I hoped I would end up with him. I wished we had been given a choice because I knew when he looked over, that he would’ve picked me.

Then the bowl came in carried by what I believed to be the organiser, a man in his late fifties with hair combed over from the side to hide his obvious baldness.