Best Served Any Way You Can Get It pt 2

“I didn't think you'd be... Er…"

“Coming? Sarah shuffles in front of me, a makeshift barrier of awkwardness. “I got the invite didn't I?”

“Of course of course. It's just... What with the whole Martin thing. You know-” I know I know I know. Force a smile to force Sarah to move on. Is it too early to start biting my lip, digging my nails into my palm? “-Things might be a bit raw? A bit delicate?” God I hate the head tilt.

“I won't break.” Breakup. Breakdown. Bone. It's all downhill from here. I won't. Can't give him the satisfaction. He'd eat it up, trough slop sticking to a weak chin.

“What am I saying! Come in, come in! Your coat? Richard's by the fire. He's practically steeped in Merlot. One fall and it's a spontaneous flambé. At least then he'd be useful. Bit of theater you know…"

She's rambling. An unconsidered spewing of words to stop herself from saying what she actually wants. “I'll keep it, thank you.” Something to cling to.

“It's really good to see you Myra.” Not heard my name this much since school and I had pig tails. A patronising hand pats my shoulder. This is how you comfort a child who's dropped their lollipop. Light touch as if I'm wild. A primed bomb. Set to spoil the occasion.

I linger in the doorway, wondering whether I can actually commit to this dance. Faces overstretched with facetious grins, abandoned at my back. Side glances and words pulled close in hushed corners. Did you hear what happened to Myra? Like I'm this week's charitable disaster, salvo of gossip. Something to dip in only momentarily lest it taint their tongues. Be not the plague at my door but the distant remarked tragedy, the thing that sparks a secret smile of relief. Thank God it wasn’t me.

Such a brave face; surely holding back tears of mercury. Careful, she may breakdown any minute, cameras at the ready.

There's that word again. Made me clench my jaw and crumple the papers. "Citing...

A breakdown of communication Mr Farnsworth…”

Breakup. Breakdown. Where am I? Still locked in the doorway, tension chained to red lacquered heels. Guess I should go in, face the discordant music.

A drink and hastily wrapped starter are shoved into my hands by a pre-pubescent waiter practically spinning, like an automaton on rails. I always hate how Sarah relies on staff, vampiric in her deference. I survey the soon to be battlefield, the faces and what they attempt to hide. I think how pretty this house will be drenched in red. It's hot. Most of the guests are half-cut, supporting themselves next to the wall art Richard assures everyone isn’t fake. I'm hot. Both senses of the word. Setting the food aside on a nearby table piled with waste, I take my napkin and wipe my forehead, praying I haven't replaced my makeup with smeared vestiges of hors d’oeuvre. Smoked salmon blinis, just like the ones we had at the reception. Martin is not typically late, it conjured within him a uniquely comical anxiety. Lot of pacing, huffing, even reddening. Thought this would be a case of new woman, old man. But this, is a fresh development. Is it actually a new habit if it's simply the abandonment of an old one? He learnt his punctuality from his father. It was dependable. Unlike so much else. Frankly I'd half expected him to be here before me. Life of the party. Poisoning our friends with my mythical misdeeds. I'm glad I didn't have to deal with that. I'm trapped now. No choice but to commit.

I'm waiting. Waiting to reveal my full outfit. Waiting when Richard stumbles over, no doubt in search of something to soak up the acid bubbling in the cauldron of the stomach he’s currently cradling. He did indeed reek of alcohol. Maybe I'll get some honesty carried on his hot breath. He’s wavering like some fresh deck swab, each outburst a struggle pushed out from pursed lips. He tries to grab my waist and pull me in close, overestimating his stupor for speed. It was easily missed. What came next, wasn’t. “M..Myra…”

“Richard. Take it you’re enjoying the party?”

“Terrible what hic Martin did to you r really hic. I told him he should… try hic try harder. But he was in hic love.”

What was it with me then?

I down the champagne immediately, I want something bitter, something that burns. Anything to stop me remembering all the times it wasn’t love because he said so. But I’m not even given that indulgence. In this frozen moment, an instance of decidedly hilarious timing, in he walks. Smug. Fat neck trussed with a starched collar. Almost begging for a butcher knife. And in she follows. Doting. Waif thin. Like the mere breadcrumbs left in his wake were enough sustenance for weeks. He sees me and looks away immediately. Anyone else clearly. Hides the disappointment well. Bravo. Sorry to spoil your evening.

Mine won't be much of a cake walk either.

I leave Richard, shedding my faux leopard print fur to the elbows, revealing a second skin of crimson silk, barely held by taught straps. I position myself between Martin and the other guests, ensuring he’ll have to pass me. Me, who he passed over. In hushed tones, as if some saintly utterance, I overhear “Penny is here. She wasn't even supposed to be invited” and I realize. They've met her before. How many times? Did you cover for him? Hide his dirty little secret all the while you reassured me it's nothing, he loves me, I'm just being crazy? My knuckles bleach. If I break this glass I have a weapon.

“Penny? Where'd you pick her up? See a flash in the gutter? Didn’t think your knees could stand the strain”

“Myra, dear Myra.”

“Not anymore…”

“Nice to see you.” Nice to see you? I’m not some college friend you’ve stumbled across in the street, I’m the woman you spent half your goddamn life with, the fool that evidently didn’t know anything, least of all how unbearable her company is. Shame I’ll have proof for myself now. He moves to Richard, spineless, but admittedly a non combative act.

I wasn’t here for you anyway Martin, of course not, why would I be? I’m here for her. The dolt dressed in virginal white. “Penny! So good to meet you.”

“… Hi. You are?”

“…The older model. Sarah, let’s get Penny a drink!” I throw my arm over her delicate frame and dig down, pulling her across the floor. Martin is too stupid to act it seems, as most are stunned into silence. “While you’re there Sarah, can I get a refill? Red this time. In fact, could you hand me the bottle please?” Sarah, bewildered, is tentative but ultimately obliging, swapping it for my glass. I look over the bottle. “69? That’s a good vintage. Don’t you think Penny dear?”

I pour the whole bottle over his whore, a seeping bloodstain blight. Raising it empty above my head I announce “Happy Anniversary Richard and Sarah, here’s to many more years together!” and walk out into the cold, never looking back.