An Evening With Mr Maxwell-Scott Chapter 4

The party was a typical Saturday night. Raucous laughter, hushed whispers and the vibrant sound of an orchestra offered a pounding soundtrack to the evening ahead. After all, this wasn’t simply a five-man brass band, it was an ensemble of oboes and trombones and saxophones. This was my first year spent, each weekend, making the trek among the masses to Gatsby’s otherwise eerily quiet abode. And, as always, there was a rush of excitement in the air, a sense of anticipation because who knew how long this joie de vivre could continue.

You can find anyone who is anyone at these parties, the Buccanans, the Chester Beckers, Mr Maxwell-Scott, the Leeches, the Hornbeams and the Willie Voltaires. That was the magic of a Gatsby party, without invitations or pretence it attracted just the right crowd. Famous golfer Jordan Baker is always surrounded by people for example. They are like moths pursuing the brightest light in a city of stars. She stood among them tonight, towering a head above the rest with an elegant arm resting on the shoulder of a gentleman that I did not recognize. She was often wearing a wide-leg trouser so that she stood out in the crowd, highlighting her pure femininity without ever having to conform.

This evening the inevitable huddle included Ava. She made quite the entrance the first time she arrived. I remember her waltzing in, accompanied by a friend she instantly slipped into the masses and became part of the Gatsby crowd. It was effortless. In the hope to speak to her I had slipped my unique faux crocodile leather card holder into my suit jacket pocket and moved towards her, completely enchanted. This seemed to be a spell, however, that she cast over every man that night as they all swarmed to her. It was only a few weeks later that I realized that she had chosen her man. A man called Maxwell-Scott, from a wealthy East Egg family of course. He too appeared to be completely infatuated.

But tonight, I caught her eye. Slowly, I realized that she was studying me with a delicate curiosity that felt as if she was looking straight through me and yet, deeply into my soul. A single tear welled at the base of her lashes and then escaped onto her smooth light peach skin – just for a second. For that second I felt that she recognized me. That there was a connection between us, like she was trying to tell me something. It was as if everything in her world had quite suddenly clicked into place. And then she turned her head. She turned towards the man I now knew to be Maxwell-Scott and with that, the moment disappeared. Once again it was a typical Saturday night. There was raucous laughter, hushed whispers and the vibrant sound of an orchestra. But I will never forget how, for that moment, it was completely silent.