Bernie, Sheila and Dave

The dining room table groaned under the weight of food from M&S. Bernie hoped people would eat more. She couldn’t face the prospect of the limp, misery sodden left overs. “People are always too polite at funerals” she thought as she watched George from over the road politely picking at the prawn sandwiches and mini pork pies.

The last of the day’s sun hit Bernie’s sequinned top and lit the room up like a glitter ball as someone (she couldn’t see who), turned up the hi-fi. A chorus of Duran Duran joined the chatter of people and clatter of knives and forks. She hoped wherever Dave was, he could see all this. “It’s a good turn out, love” she said to the air. She picked up the white marble table lighter they had bought from Venice and lit a cigarette.

She stepped hazily out into the garden and sat on their love seat, watching the guests in their house. The lights flicked on and she felt like she was a viewer and not a participant any more. Drunk. She liked that. Like this wasn’t happening to her. Like she was watching this awful day on her 42-inch telly. Like this wasn’t real. That is when she saw Sheila by the vol-au vents. Bernie watched her dab her eyes with a napkin as a cheese laden cracker disappeared between Sheila’s glossy lips. Bernie swigged from a champagne bottle, tossed it onto the lawn and marched into the kitchen.

Sheila was struggling with an errant slice of prosciutto when she felt the impact. “What the bloody hell…” as gobs of eviscerated chocolate roll melted down her hair and fell in soft, foamy blobs on the kitchen floor. The second impact was blancmange. Before the third assault happened, Sheila spooned guacamole and flung a glob down Bernie’s top. They both paused, watching the green-brown goo slip in-between the sequins before slowly coming to a stand still on her velvet pencil skirt. “Its Jean Muir, you bitch” shouted Bernie. She threw sausage rolls like grenades.

George from over the road silently ushered the funeral guests out as the women threw the mezze board, bread sticks and trifle. He shut the door silently and exhaled. “A nasty business, all that” he thought as he crunched down Bernie’s drive. He could still hear the wet slaps of food being flung. He shuddered and went inside his house.

The M&S buffet was now a thick sea that covered the kitchen floor. Bernie waded through to grab the wine box, slipped on a slice of smoked salmon, and grabbed at Sheila to steady herself. They both sploshed to the ground.

The two women sat on cling film covered chairs, both of them covered in brown sludge which dripped off them into the mush below. “Do you want a glass of wine?” said Bernie. “Fill her up” said Sheila as she pushed a glass across the breakfast bar. It had taken them a surprisingly long time to pull themselves up off the floor. The nondescript sauces hadn’t allowed for much grip. They sat in silence, slowly drinking the contents of the wine box and smoking. “He was a bit of a bastard.” said Bernie. “I suppose. He loved us in his own way” said Sheila. “What, a shit one?” snorted Bernie. “Shall I see you tomorrow?” “Aye, love. Pop into the shop” said Bernie, as she stubbed a cigarette, lit another and peppered the ash into an empty hummus container. Sheila zipped her coat up, fluffed her hair and re-applied lipstick. “Ta ra, love”.