It was what the newspapers would refer to as a ‘high profile party’. The men, were all in their party wear or their version of party wear. Look-at-me shirts with the name of a well-known fashion designer tailored to hide the burgeoning paunches that almost all of them seemed to sport. Signs of success. Who has time for exercise anyway, careers are far more important. The selfies were being taken with the unflattering wobbly bits being cut out of the frame. “I can’t hold my tummy in, any longer, please click fast,” said one of the men to many guffaws. It made a great picture, almost on the same level as the Ellen Degeneres selfie.
The women in comparison were fitter. Perhaps they had more time as their husbands worked hard to provide them a luxury lifestyle with access to the best gyms, enough hired help and hours of leisure. I know as I asked what they did, and mostly their answers were that they ‘helped out’ in the husbands businesses. The women mostly over forty were in designer wear, high heels, off-shoulder dresses, perfectly manicured nails and sported dazzling smiles. Fake or genuine, I could not tell as there was more than ample Dom Perignon, Glenfiddich and Chivas that had done the rounds, ironing out the awkwardness, concealing the effort that it took to fit into those dresses to look glamorous.