The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER TWELVE

A cadre of world-class chefs with an indefatigable dedication to the craft had poured countless hours into the creation of a culinary tour de force that redefined the very essence of fine dining.

From the amuse-bouche to the petit fours, every morsel was a delectable delight, leaving those fortunate enough to partake in a state of pure bliss.

By recreating classic dishes and combining unexpected flavours, the appointed culinarians produced a gastronomic experience unlike any other.

Duck and chicken liver canapés circulated on hallmarked sterling silver trays, tantalising everyone's palate with rich flavours and cream textures: beef Wellington, red wine reduction, roasted Brussels sprouts and toasted pecans made for a succulent entrée. A quenelle of vanilla ice cream paired with chocolate truffles, beige macarons, Dom Perignon, rose sorbet, whipped cream, melt-in-your-mouth brownies and edible gold leaves finalised the sit-down meal alongside sliced seasonal fruit on an artisan white serving platter.

The melodic sound of clinking champagne flutes provided a pleasant accompaniment to the swank yet flat ambience, for the room of grandiosity, with or without the parade of ostentation, lacked enthusiasm and excitement.

Conversations flowed freely, the topics entirely focused on business and politics. The guests spoke grandiloquently and superfluously, employing overly verbose terminology and flowery language, which made for a very uncomfortable dinner service.

In their company, I detected an inlinking of self-consciousness, a gnawing self-doubt that perhaps I was not intelligent enough to grasp the intricate symposium of ideas being exchanged.

Lulled into a false sense of security, I longed for a respite from the complex rhetoric around me and worried that my attempts at expression might be unsatisfactory in this verdant field of eloquence.

Like a fish out of water, I got lost amid the interlude of witty badinage, completely disconnected from the formal discourse and the superiority complex holders. I could quite happily sell an organ to escape the dull, tedious situation.

Bored to death, I monitored the parameters of the banquet hall, with its vaulted ceilings and sparkling chandeliers, for an extended period of time, wishing the talkative gentleman to my right would lay off the dairy products. That brazen old fool has tooted the night away, and what is even more shocking is he is unabashed by the ever-present smell of his own bloody flatulence.

The charity auction is at the height of feverishness. A raven-haired, bespectacled, moustached auctioneer, clad in a crisply tailored tuxedo, took centre stage beneath a radiant pendant light.

His deep voice, sonorous and methodical, reverberated throughout the town hall, each utterance a calculated and harmonious intonation that invigorated the eager congregation.

Excitement was on the brink of charitable prowess, and as the numbers climbed, the stakes soared even higher.

The auctioneer held aloft a porcelain vase, a rare relic from a past age, a piece from a bygone era, its intricate designs shimmering beneath the spotlight's concentrated ray, and the first tentative bid came as a subtle nod from a gentleman at the back, his face a facade of imperturbability.

His offer was met with a steady paddle-flick from the female buyer near the bar, who communicated with eloquent brevity, her eyes never straying from the object of her desire.

Soon, the room crackled with energy as more bidders joined the fray. One by one, auctioned items left the stage in velvet-lined cases: a centuries-old manuscript, an ornate, jewel-encrusted timepiece that had once graced the wrist of royalty, a breath-taking oil painting by a skilful master of Renaissance, a famous replica of Stradivarius' violin and the keys to an iconic Ferrari.