Affectations

He knows he looks the business in his three-piece tuxedo suit; ironed to perfection and funked up with a polka dot bow tie, worn at an angle so as not to look too stuffy. No one knows he hired it from the little old tailors around the corner from his flat in Stoke Newington, and he sure as hell isn’t about to tell them. He likes everyone to think that he’s not into this kind of event; black- tie charity balls don’t give you much street-cred back with the uber trendy crew in East London, but deep down he loves it. Once he’s qualified as a chartered accountant he’s sure to be attending these kinds of events regularly, as well as raking in the cash.
He’s been cornered talking to some girl, a friend of his girlfriend who’s married with two kids-she’s nothing of interest to him and he wishes he could escape. He shifts around, not listening to what she’s saying, looking over her head, and scanning the crowd for someone more interesting to talk to. He wouldn’t of bothered making conversation with her but she made a beeline for him, firing questions, trying to be friendly. He fiddles with the silver rings on his right hand, and runs a hand over his head. His hair is thinning and has receded back to expose a high forehead. His remaining hair is razored to fine stubble, and instead of feeling embarrassed by his early onset baldness, he thinks he looks cutting edge with his naked scalp.
The annoying girl is still talking and he looks at her and exhales snottily, replying to her questions in his nasal voice with one-word answers. He’s telling her that he is originally from Leeds and she laughs and asks what the hell has happened to his accent. He clenches his fist and replies through gritted teeth. He’s spent years trying to shake off his working class northern background and tell tale plummy accent; all for some nobody to pull him up on his affectations. His cheeks start to colour up crimson so he takes a swig of his red wine and pushes past her off into the crowd.