by Julia Ariss
"This must be the special reserve... for the great unwashed," M2 replied.
"Oh and boys, there's swag, a case of the special reserve for each of you when you're finished," Helena said, raising her eyebrows and tapping her foot. "See how simple that was," she whispered to Fanny, as the men looked lively, and hustled about hoisting signs.
"Like moths to a flame," Fanny muttered.
"Be right back. I've got oodles more people you'll want to chat with," Helen said, before disappearing into the crowd.
Fanny looked longingly at a waiter who was hurtling past with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. It was all she could do not to grab a fistful of meatballs on toothpicks and call it a night, but she was also incredibly curious about George, who was just that moment headed her way, sporting his disarming, rakish grin.
"I didn't know you were going to be here, seashell eyes," George said, sidling up to her and clinking glasses. "Helena and her lost boys allowing you to rest your voice, were they?"
"I like to warm my chords up slowly. I didn't know you were so chummy with Tish Strong," she retorted, wrinkling her nose.
"You didn't ask. Old Queen's pal. We go way back."
"I don't think she likes me."
"Impossible. What's not to love? You? With your fetching butterflies?" he murmured, stroking her scarf. "God, what does he have on that tray, and how can I get one?" he said, pointing toward a frazzled waiter who was overcome by a gathering horde.
"Jumbo or coconut shrimp. In either case, it's the law of the jungle," she replied. “I suppose Jack's here somewhere, if she's here," she added, offhandedly.
"He is. I'm told he sprang for the wine. Brilliant advertising, that. But very generous, especially since he's not one of us."
"No, the word is he's a Harvard man."
"Of course he is," he said, grimacing. He shifted about uneasily, then pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his messages. A wave of panic washed over his face, and his hand went to his forehead. "Look Fanny, I completely forgot, I have this other thing, a party, up town. Come with me. It'll be serious fun. This place is boring me rigid."
"George. I can't. I just got here, and as much as I would love to, I made a pledge to make the rounds with Helena. I did promise."
"Pledge. That's a greasy little word. A slippery slope."
"Plus, I'm not sure if it's such a good idea...if we're to work together, at some stage."
"Oh c'mon Fanny. Don't be such a stickler. Let's blow this popsicle stand. Besides, we have things to discuss. You've been too much on my mind," he said dropping his voice advisedly. "I promise I'll behave," he added, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.
Fanny shrugged and shook her head. "Now that I've got my voice and wings warmed up, I need to get in the game. It's important."
"Alright, have it your way. I'll leave you to your flitting about... Madame Butterfly," he said, before planting a moist one on her cheek. "We'll talk soon. Gotta go."
As George disappeared, Fanny caught sight of Tish again, nattering away at Jack, whose eyes were trained elsewhere, on George as he barrelled through the crowd, then briefly on Fanny, but just long enough for her to register his mood. He had the flat smile of the unimpressed, as though he'd just swallowed a meatball that was off. But Tish would have that effect, she told herself.
Helena appeared by her side again only to loop arms and guide her over to another set of her pals. "Everybody, you remember Fanny Bower," she said brightly, giving her a light push, in a sink-or-swim maneuver, as she dashed off to attend to pressing business elsewhere.
"Data Analytics," she heard herself telling the man standing beside her a while later, "but I'm not as well versed on the technical end of things." As both were sad satellites relegated to the perimeter of the group, Fanny was his best bet for getting his two cents in. And she had a hunch - after he let it slip he had a penchant for gaming in his parent's basement apartment, where he was 'temporarily' residing - it might pique his interest. Not only was his knowledge vast and abiding, but he'd done his thesis on the very topic, and as he held forth on a theme dear to his heart, she peppered him with more questions. It occurred to her that getting people to talk was an art but should also be the goal, regardless of the subject matter. She was certain this was how the socially adept Katherine would play it - a measure of her grace and ease. But Fanny was not above keeping an ear attuned to the other competing conversations, exchanges less technically punishing, for an opening.
'Often thought the same thing myself...', 'Yes, telling...', 'Um hmmm, of course...', 'Funny, eh?', 'Really? How nice...', and 'Ah...so true...' were the stock pleasantries that slid off her tongue in her effort to insinuate herself into the discussions. She was surrendering herself to the, loosely interpreted, universal truth: what most people really crave is the indulgent ear of a good listener. This night was no exception, for the more intently she listened, the more charming everyone supposed her to be, when it was possible the only thing they had in common was their enthusiasm for an open bar. Indeed, every wine glass shot up in unison the instant someone commandeered a passing waiter for a top up.
Any one of the discussions would do, she decided, if only she could spit out her comments before the conversation took a turn. The music, the laughter and the multiple threads were beginning to overwhelm her noise filter, as she struggled to keep pace. She'd had nightmares not unlike this in which she went to say something but nothing came out, so she carried on laughing heartily and nodding agreeably in spite of it all; if she could persuade others she was having the time of her life, it seemed likely she could dupe herself too.
In her peripheral vision, she caught sight of Helena leading Jack around, stopping occasionally to schmooze as though he were some exalted visiting dignitary. It seemed to her that whenever the audience was female, if he as much as opened his mouth to speak, their heads nodded so violently in agreement they risked collective whiplash. A vaguely superior snort escaped from her in the seconds before she realized her circle was their next stop on the tour. She strained even harder to follow the flow.
"He's lost his zip," one of the women in her group was saying, throwing her hands up. “Just this lacklustre, despondent moping all the time. Oh, and he stares out the window endlessly, pining away..."
"Staring out the window, you said? I don't mean to interrupt," Fanny piped up, helpfully, "but have you given any thought to a cat behaviorist; they're like a cat whisperer, but with credentials. Sometimes they prescribe an anxiety wrap. Just the other day I was googling it for a friend," she added.
This diverted everyone's attention, not the least of whom, Helena, who had just sidled up to the group with Jack in tow and stood staring at her, slack-mouthed.
The woman responded after a stunned pause. "He may be mildly depressed with a touch of dementia," she said, her hand flying to her chest, "but my grandfather's not completely off his rocker. Yet."
A few incredulous looks were exchanged in the vacuum of silence that ensued, and then a gradual sporadic tittering erupted into hysteria, once everyone had deemed it safe to laugh, as Fanny stood cemented in place, her ears set to ignite.
"I'm so sorry. I was so sure... you were talking about something else," she muttered, miserably.
Helena gave her a tight smile and a quick side hug and in a moving-right-along deliberateness, chirped out her introductions, all the while singing the praises of Jack's winery, extracting the rave reviews befitting an event sponsor. Fanny looked on as Jack played his part skillfully, talking up the wine while glad-handing, and remembering names. He caught her staring and shot her a blasé glance, quickly returning to his duties. She was all set to cut her losses and bolt when she was thwarted by an approaching waiter bearing food. She muscled in and plucked the last meatball from his tray, and had just popped it into her mouth when Jack swung around to face her.
"We should all be outside enjoying this mild weather, don't you think, Fanny?" he asked expectantly, awaiting her reply.
Fanny
swallowed hard as she choked down her meatball. "I wouldn't have missed this reunion for the world," she said, offering Helena a deferential smile, "but I agree, it's been wall to wall sunshine out there today. The precipitation has been below average so far, with very few low pressure fronts. But yes, it's nice to write the obituary on that cool spring; of course the temperatures in southern Ontario were far below normal. They say it was the jet stream from the Arctic with the shrinking ice floes."
"Global warming," someone weighed in, darkly.
"Apathy from the feds," another chimed in.
"And then there's the Great Lakes question," someone else added.
As the debate gained momentum, Jack nudged Fanny's arm and led her away for a sidebar. "You have an enviable command of The Weather Network, Ms. Bower," he said, dryly.
"I'll take that as a compliment. Thank you. I think. It's my one parlour trick."
"Say, I didn't know you took such an interest in feline neurosis. Do you have one at home?"
"No. Not yet. I thought you were only a silent partner in the winery," she said, changing the subject.
"Yes, I thought so too. Katherine encouraged it... Queen's again. But Tish arranged this some time ago to give the winery a boost of good publicity. Marketing."
"Do you like marketing?"
"I have a grudging toleration of it. A necessary evil."
"Killing two birds?"
"Something like that. Fanny, I've noticed you're looking a little green around the gills tonight. Feeling okay?" he asked, standing back and observing her, his eyebrows drawing together.
"I'm starving," she replied, pithily.
"There you are," Helena said, looming in and reaching for Jack's arm. “They're wondering about wine pairings over there, and they want your expert recommendation," she said, gushing breathlessly.
"Right. Good. Thank you. As for you," he said, looking at Fanny soberly, "I'd recommend food."
"I'll get right on that."
Jack gave her a dubious look as Helena whisked him away, and Fanny, left to her own devices, took off in search of the nearest washroom. It didn't seem like an inordinate amount of time she spent leaning against the interior wall of her stall, but it was long enough to cause some concerned chit-chat outside, so she emerged finally to slink past the gawkers and wash her hands whilst silently scolding her reflection. Could we please just try to have a good time? Sheesh... I do look green. Aargh. Feel dizzy. Not the spins? Cripes! She steadied herself against the sink and made a production of fussing with her hair and make-up and then, when the coast was clear, ducked into a stall again, for another dose of quietude.
About a half hour later, after several false starts, Fanny had revived sufficiently to steal out of the washroom, but not nearly enough to run the gauntlet of Helena and co., so she hastened toward the hotel entrance and its idling row of cabs. She spotted Jack conferring with a valet parking attendant and was about to claim her taxi when he caught up with her and clutched her arm lightly.
"You disappeared," he said.
"I know. I was detained. In the washroom," she responded, innocently.
"Was someone holding a summit in there?" he asked, testily.
"Line-ups. That age-old problem. Never enough toilets in the ladies room."
This silenced him, provisionally, until a valet pulled up with his car.
"I have some work to catch up on at the office, but I'll give you a lift home," he said, studying her expression. "I haven't had anything to drink tonight. Designated driver," he added pointedly.
"Shouldn't you wait for Tish?"
"She left earlier," he replied, distantly.
"I should probably just..."
"Here," he said, helping her into the car.
"Alright then. Thank you. I'll get that... my seatbelt," she said, pre-emptively.
"The traffic's backed up getting onto the street so we'll be stuck here for a moment," he said as he slid into his seat. “Hey, you alright?" he asked, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Oh gawd, am I still that unbecoming shade of green? Now that you mention it, I am feeling a little queasy. I think I had a bad meatball," she said, rubbing her belly.
"Drinking on an empty stomach can be touch and go. I doubt you've been waylaid by a meatball," he said, evenly, as he adjusted the power windows downward.
It was bad enough that he was giving her the side-eye, but she also noted his reluctance to remove his hand from her shoulder, apparently blithely unaware that his fingers were singeing the back of her neck beneath her scarf, his thumb casually entwined in a tendril of hair. She wondered if the oblivion business was just a male thing, or a rude thing.
"As I said, there was the meatball, which could have been tainted," she countered with emphasis, as she fanned herself and felt the hair stiffen on the nape of her neck.
"How many glasses did you have?"
"It's hard to keep a proper tally. Two or three."
"It's the refills that play havoc."
"You're not insinuating I'm sick with drink, are you? It could be E.coli, from the meatball. It's not sitting well..."
"Yes. You mentioned that twice before," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.
Fanny turned away and stared out her window. Evidently it was a worse crime in his books to be repetitive with drink. "I pride myself on knowing my limit, most of the time," she said, primly.
"With alcohol, I'm sure you do, most of the time. The skill's in knowing the precise amount you can tolerate of these sorts of social obligations, before you've reached your breaking point, before it's too late. Before you've exceeded your limit."
"Are you suggesting I might have a best before time?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll never be in Helena's league. That girl can work a room."
"Tell me about it. High energy," he said, stifling a yawn.
"You know, I wasn't dragged here tonight. I attended of my own free will. Did it occur to you that I might have been having a good time, catching up with old friends?"
"To a less discerning eye, it might have. And were you... having a good time?"
"I dunno, trying to have a good time, having a good time, let's not split hairs. But I'll say this; you can't fluff your lines from the inside of a bathroom stall. Cripes! One sec. Just some fresh air. Frwuggh," she groaned, opening her door in a panic.
She felt Jack reflexively shift over and lean into her, carefully pulling back her hair, as she flopped forward and spewed the contents of her stomach onto the sidewalk below, where she found herself face to foot with a man's loafer, causing the flabbergasted owner of which to recoil backward. She lifted her head, taking in the merciless stare of the deeply inconvenienced and knew at once who he was. It was M2.
Time stood still for a brief stinging period as Jack gingerly pulled her upright and started shuffling through the glove box. A moment later, after a delayed reaction, there came a chorus of sympathetic utterances directed her way from the other M's - each of whom was embracing his complimentary case of wine - as their recollection set in. Fanny smiled weakly, closed her door wretchedly and cranked her neck around to Jack, who passed her a packet of tissues.
"Good news. Your colour's come back," he said. “Your scarf may need some attention though," he added.
"Oh, the butterflies," she said, frowning downward, and blotting haphazardly. "They overpromised and underperformed."
"Were those people your old friends?" he asked, eventually, after she'd swabbed her face.
"Michael," she replied faintly.
"Which one?"
"All four," she said, with a hiccup.
"That's it," he said, exhaling noisily. "Let's get you home."
Apart from supplying Jack with her address, Fanny spent the remainder of the drive home rifling through her purse for a breath mint, in vain, and holding her peace, which suited them both; there was little doubt in her mind that in a situation as fraught as this, it must be assumed that silence is
golden.
8
On the morning after, Fanny was overflowing with relief, delirious with gratitude, that she'd been spared the mid-week hangover. The meatball had been the unsung hero, in the end. She reflected on this small miracle on the subway as she sorted and discarded, where appropriate, her memories of the night before.
She knew that now more than ever she should allow no regrets. She'd done her duty and shown up at the reunion, and this was half the battle, won. Additionally, she'd acquired new acquaintances, caused a mild stir, and left a lasting impression. No one was apt to fumble her name in future, so there was a silver lining, after all.
True to form, Jack thought he had her pegged, but she had every intention of proving him wrong. Any discomfort she felt at the party she attributed to being ridiculous with nerves and a need for more groundwork; all her self-imposed mugging would surely increase her tolerance of grander scale gatherings. It simply didn't follow, she reasoned, that social beings had evolved to confine their interactions to intimate get-togethers and dull twosomes. He'd made his point about imbibing on an empty stomach, she'd give him that and the fact he'd resisted the temptation to rub her nose in it or claim the role of the injured party.
After pulling up to her building he'd offered to escort her safely to her door, which she'd duly and politely declined. Never one to dither in his reactions, she was thrown off when he'd opened, then closed his mouth mid-thought and reached for his door handle, then abruptly stopped himself. She'd glimpsed him rubbing his bottom lip and softly shaking his head as he bid her a clipped goodnight. He'd offered to escort her, but he hadn't insisted.
Her voice-mail light was blinking furiously when she slid into her chair at work. It was the reporter, pestering her for an interview, having tracked her down again and choked up her mailbox with drawn out linked messages and hang-ups. Evidently the story hadn't gone stale, as Tish so fervently hoped. When the phone rang again, she girded herself, set to bore him into submission for once and for all.
"Fanny Bower," she answered, coolly. She heard a ragged coughing on the line interspersed with faint traffic noises and a weak signal then finally, a familiar voice.
