An Evening With Mr Maxwell-Scott Chapter 2

Over the past two years I had driven many a couple across the bay, from the far more fashionable East Egg to the West which seems to swell come this time of a Saturday evening with the population of New York. Not a single one of them receives a physical invitation, of course, so it is quite bewildering that they all know to be there. There must be a sort of invitation system then, even if no one likes to admit it: to go to Gatsby’s, you have to know a person who goes to Gatsby’s. Drivers like myself are, on the other hand, simply the invisible mechanism in which they all arrive. I don’t mind though. There is something absolutely fascinating about watching such decadence from afar. With so little knowledge of the intricacies of the masses lives, it is possible to paint them all as a gold shimmering mass of stars.

It is only when they are in the car with me that I am welcomed momentarily into the reality of their lives. Tonight, I was with Joseph Maxwell-Scott again and his girl Ava. She was wearing a stunning cream silk dress that slipped down to the floor with effortless grace, a classic chain handbag was grasped in her delicate hand and to finish, she had applied a cold red lipstick. Joseph, meanwhile, entered like a shadow from behind in a midnight blue tux, tucking his leather suit jacket wallet into his pocket as he entered the car.

“The usual?” I asked barely requiring the affirmative response he gave. I had spent many a time in my career working for the Maxwell-Scott family. In fact, his father and I had spent a lot of time together during the war. I felt a certain warmth towards Joseph as a result, but his girl was always awfully cool towards me. This evening though she was transfixed on the rolling landscape outside and I felt a certain sadness. As we drove under the iconic glaring eyes of Doctor T J Eckleburg, I wondered what could have invoked such a change in me, a change in her.

I had never really imagined that these two would be together for very long. Six months from the very first time I picked them up together and he still seemed as infatuated as ever, she on the other hand appears to be drawing herself away into a disturbing silence. I thought of my own wife, Isabelle, and the motherly warmth that seemingly emanated from inside of her. My key ring glistened in the moonlight, embossed itself with the date of our wedding day. That was 32 years ago now and she is still the light of my life, the mother of my children. I want this for Joseph too. I want it for her.

As the car glided up the path, the couple began to whisper in the backseat clearly discussing the evening ahead. Slowly she moved her leg from under his hand, attempting to create a natural moment as she adjusted her shoe. Yet another night at a Gatsby party – I hoped that it would be as magical as it appeared from afar but something told me a storm was brewing.