The happy family

He swung his car into the parking lot, and killed the engine. Getting out, he extracted his jacket from its hanger in the rear, and put it on. He pulled out his briefcase, and beeped the car shut. Tall and handsome, he cut a smart figure as he walked across the parking lot. He carried his age with élan, in fact, the greying temples, and the light horizontal wrinkles on his forehead gave him an air of maturity and commanded respect. A high-profile lawyer, he was the Midas of the court-room. A home in the suburbs, a swanky car, socialite evenings and a neat sum stashed away for retirement. The perfect life. He smiled at the waitress as he walked into the restaurant for lunch with the family.

The estate agent slowed as she entered the driveway, and smiled at the valet as he came over to collect the keys. He recognised the car and its owner very well. She was svelte, attractive and vivacious and received regular double-takes from young men passing her way. Must have rendered many a men breathless in her prime, he mused to himself. They came in on the third Thursday of every month – the lady, her husband and the kids – and joked and laughed over an extended lunch. It was almost a ritual, and he wondered whether a family could be ever so happy. He watched her shaking her head as she saw her husband smile at the waitress.

From his corner office at the investment bank, the son saw his father walk into the restaurant below. A glint of red at the corner of his eyes told him it was the valet parking his mother’s car in the guest lot. He straightened his tie, and pulled his jacket over as he walked down the stairs into the restaurant. He joined the older couple just as they were about to sit down. The maitre d’ picked up three menu cards, and then he took one more – for he knew there would be four. Sure enough, the young girl came huffing and puffing, and kissed her mother before she took the seat opposite.

She was an art-student, and presently, in faded jeans, dull ochre top with swastika and Sanskrit motifs and a cross-bag, she stood in stark contrast to the spick, formal attire of the rest of her family. But then that was how she was – bubbly, vibrant and a beloved – she brought colour and fun into the family folds. Her stories of the impressionists, the way she explained the styles of Renoir and Rembrandt always fascinated the other three. It was as though she was living their dream.

They lunched for a long time, devouring the steaks and wine with great relish, laughing together, and enjoying their meal and time. As if they didn’t care for anyone else on the outside of the general vicinity of their table. The maitre d’ noticed that for the entire lunch, they never spoke business. It was always about the fun they had, or general small-talk. This cosy table, set away from the rest of the restaurant, should be the hotel’s happiest table, every third Thursday, he thought to himself. By dessert, the family was almost at home – ties loosened, collars open, cuffs folded back, vanity bags set away and everyone sitting back and letting the meal settle.

The waiters cleared up the table and the maitre d’ came up with a box of unordered Cuban cheroots. Setting them, he produced a Zippo lighter and addressed the lawyer, “On the house, sir, for the happiest family I’ve seen”. Father, mother and son inhaled indulgently as the daughter nibbled on the remainder of her dessert.

“The happiest family”, they all thought, as they walked back to their cars, “the happiest family, if only they had stayed together and not fought over divorce and custody”.