An Evening With Mr Maxwell-Scott Chapter 1

It was yet another Saturday night. The same routine every single time. Everyone went. We would all make the short car drive up through West Egg to the large mansion on the water’s edge. Lit up every weekend for yet another display of frivolity – the Gatsby party was the place to be. There simply wasn’t anywhere else. In fact, it was often as if the whole of New York made the trip out to that gloomy midnight blue mansion that, on that night, would be saturated in the rich glow of champagne and the ritz of New York.

That had, of course, been where I had met him. Joseph Maxwell-Scott that is. He claims that he was simply there for business and that the Gatsby get-togethers were news to him but that seems frankly impossible. After all, everyone knows who Gatsby is – if not by sight but by name. And the Maxwell-Scotts are one of the most established families on East Egg. Their ancestral home is a landmark, rooted into the very culture of the slightly peculiar landmass. I, on the other hand, was a certified nobody – in New York that is. My family lived out west, in a place where on a night you could see the stars and hear the gentle rustle of the evening breeze filtering through the bright copper leaves. That was the magical thing about a Gatsby party. It was a place that managed to draw people in miles away from their true homes, attracting millionaires and nomads alike. And so, here we were together, preparing for yet another evening.

I sat at my dressing table attempting to tame the single curl that refused to sit in its place. The last of the day was starting to bleed into nightfall as faint patterns of golden light filled the bedroom with an undeniable warmth. This was arguably my favorite part of the evening – pure quiet, no distractions, no gossip. It reminded me of life back home where such performances of wealth and levity were sure to raise an eyebrow or two. Gazing past my reflection, my eyes settled on the black Italian leather Gladstone that lay over in the corner. Sometime, sometime soon I promised myself.

The possibilities of what tonight could hold were still too tempting. Joseph tapped delicately on the door as if he were to wake me from a deep slumber, a dream of a faraway life perhaps. I felt a warm smile spread across my face. There was, after all, many a reason why I loved being here with him. I’m not in love with him. But there is something quite magical about him as his distinct generosity of spirit charms everyone – especially me.

“Ready to go my darling? The driver’s here.”