The Invite by A J McDine

Author:A J McDine [McDine, A J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cherry Tree Publishing
Published: 2022-12-16T16:00:00+00:00

26

CLAIRE

Claire howls with mirth.

‘I can’t believe you didn’t realise he was a strippergram.’

‘How the hell was I supposed to know?’ Tara says, her voice rising.

‘Didn’t you see the Velcro seams all the way up his trousers?’ Megan asks.

‘No.’

‘Should have looked harder. I’m going for a shower. Keep an eye on the lasagne, will you?’

Once Megan’s gone, Claire grabs the half-empty bottle of champagne from the cooler and tips it towards Tara.

She holds a hand over her glass. ‘I’ve had enough, thanks.’

‘Don’t be such a fucking killjoy. It might cheer you up.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You’re not exactly the life and soul, are you? Never were,’ Claire adds under her breath.

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing.’ Claire fills her own glass instead. Inside the pocket of her jeans, her phone vibrates. Not another bloody notification, she thinks. She rang Misha after Megan went upstairs for a lie-down and asked her to monitor the trust’s Facebook account as a matter of priority, taking screenshots of any negative comments before deleting them.

She’ll have to raise the matter with the senior management team on Monday. Not a prospect she relishes. What’s the betting they’ll decide it’s her fault this crazy person has it in for the trust? She probably ought to report it to the police too. Not that they’ll do anything about it. Posting a handful of venomous comments is hardly the crime of the century.

She realises Tara is talking.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘I said, do you think Lizzie’s OK? She’s been very quiet this evening.’

Claire shrugs. ‘She seems fine to me.’

‘And what about Elle?’ Tara continues. ‘Where is she?’

‘You know Elle. She likes to make an entrance.’

‘But it’s almost nine o’clock.’

‘She’ll be here.’ Claire drains her glass and staggers to her feet. ‘Going for more supplies. Need anything?’

‘No, but check on the lasagne while you’re there.’

Claire touches an imaginary cap. It’s not until she stumbles off the path, turning her ankle, that she realises she’s drunk. Clearly not drunk enough, as she’s still fretting about work, but definitely on the road to oblivion.

In the kitchen, she opens the fridge. They’ve finished the fizz, but there are still a couple of bottles of rosé. She takes one, then finds a bag of peanuts, which she tears open with her teeth and pours into a tasteful stoneware bowl.

‘How long have we got?’ Tara asks when she totters outside and plonks herself back down at the table.

‘For what?’

‘The lasagne,’ Tara replies patiently.

‘Ten, maybe fifteen minutes?’ Claire says. She forgot to look, but doesn’t like to admit as much to Tara, who is staring at her with an unreadable expression on her face.

Claire unscrews the bottle and splashes wine into her flute.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Tara says, holding her glass out.

Claire nods her approval and fills Tara’s glass with an unsteady hand. Wine splashes over the rim. ‘Whoops-a-daisy.’

Tara wipes the table with a cotton Cath Kidston napkin. Everything in this house is so fucking twee.

‘There’s something I want to talk to you about while we’re on our own,’ Tara says when she’s finished mopping up.

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