...of dropping a clanger

She said it so well, with a mixture of professional pride and personal regret, that the others believed her - she sensed it at once. There is a brief freeze-frame. The man with the stoop feels a bit of a jerk now that he has his answer. He manages a polite rejoinder, all the same: And have you been in the business long? Maybe he's not so lacking in imagination, after all. Quick as a flash, her voice steady. Ten years, I started young. Even the virulent husband is taken aback; a few more details, and he could almost feel sorry for her. She knows that none of the four men will dare ask her how much she charges. Besides, they have ceased to look upon her with kindness: she is no longer innocent. Only the two women continue to regard her with curiosity. And then, all at once, a heart-felt cry from the wearer of Iranian veils: life can't be easy for you. I isn't sarcasm or disdain, but sincerity, and it plunges all present into what, from the outside, appears to be intense introspection. At which point he returns with a strawberry tart, Ange, and nine dessert plates. Ange enquires about the subject of their conversation. She then realises that she has overstepped the mark. I was talking about my work, she says eventually, as the others maintain an obstinate silence. Yes, its unusual, says Ange, people always forget that's a job, too. Frowns from the guests, surprised by such tolerance on the part of their hostess. Silence reigns as Ange dextrously divides the tart into near-equal portions. The sugary taste in the mouth helps the dinner to continue as if nothing had happened. No one else deigns to show any interest in her now; the man with the stoop hasn't even dared lay another finger on her plate. One thing is for sure, there won't be any more questions for the remainder of the evening. She wonders how many of them will remember the interlude which briefly disturbed the course of their evening. There was a prostitute at Thingamabob's the other night; she seemed like a nice girl. She imagines herself as an anointed saboteur of the social order. A single word from her and she switched identity in their eyes: reality had cracked in a place they never would have suspected.

[Voice Over, Curiol, C.]