‘If Salman Rushdie popped through those doors for a chat, this lot would head for the hills.’ It was the first Academic Night of the year and our dining hall had been turned into an auditorium with serious people in glasses trying to say smart things while waiting for the talk about Rushdie’s fatwa to begin. Kesh, Rachel and I, dressed in white shirts and black skirts, had been commandeered to serve at the food and drinks table. Kesh was wearing a tight-fitting blouse that she had borrowed from Annabel. The material gaped as the buttons strained to keep it together. ‘You don’t think this is too revealing?’ she asked, doing up the third button which had popped again. ‘Kesh, your boobs are the most appetising items on display,’ Rachel said, hitching her black skirt higher. She had a point. In front of us was a trestle table with sweaty cubes of anonymous cheese sitting next to toothpicks of cocktail onions and processed meat. Rows of thimble-sized glasses were filled with what the Sub-Dean had described to us as ‘perfectly adequate sherry’.
What do You think about All These Perfect Strangers?
