Surface Tension - Chapter 16 Part 2

She's standing in front of me, smiling, blonde hair framing her face, soft green eyes, a nose that has a kink in it, suggesting some accident, a respectful black sleeveless cocktail dress, set off by a purple wrap, black tights and black shoes with heels, just high enough to make a statement but not enough to cause alarm on this sombre occasion. I'm desperately trying to make a name form in my mouth, I can feel it tantalisingly close yet none forms. And I should say something.

            “It is so good to see you.” I try to make it sound welcoming and expansive, throwing out my arms in a gesture of openness. It fails on two counts. Firstly, the smirk she's wearing shows that she knows full well that I can’t remember her name. And secondly my arm collides with the back of someone nearly sending my drink cascading down his back. He turns and levels a hard stare at me but nothing else, put off by my new companion’s stifled laugh.           I mutter an apology and return to the woman, who's got a hand clasped over her mouth to hide her inappropriate mirth. She's wearing a purple nail varnish. It matches the wrap.

            “I don’t think I’ve met someone with such a propensity to spill drink over someone else. Or maybe it is just the effect I have over you, Tony.”

            The fact that she knows my name makes it worse. Then there's the slow dawning of recognition, which she knowingly pre-empts.

            “I'm being unfair. We met, sort of, in the Fleece a couple nights ago. You created one of the most memorable chain reactions I’ve ever seen.” She gestures towards the glass of wine. “You seem to have a thing about spilling alcohol.”

            “Yes...”

            “Ellen, Ellen Austin, Tony” she sticks out a hand to shake, I respond only to find that I have proffered the hand holding my wine glass. “Are you just trying to get rid of the glass?”

            “No, no quite the opposite. My prime concern is well, in the full article, which I wish to drain not throw on the floor.”

            “An interesting attitude, particularly given the occasion.”

            “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do at a wake?”

            “Get drunk?”

            “Yes.”

            “Yes but,” Ellen cautions, “Tony, there are wakes and then there are wakes,” she places extra emphasis on the second ‘wake’ implying insobriety and excess; And I can assure you this is not the former.”

            I survey the room again and see what she means. This is more like an accountant’s party, sombre, grey and dry.

            “I guarantee more business deals, (most of them suspect) will be done tonight than in the previous weeks and months. As sad as it may seem that in itself is perhaps the most eloquent memorial to Mr Andrew McClelland.”

            “And those that aren’t here wheeling and dealing.”

            “Ah, there here to make sure the sainted Mr McClelland is truly in his grave.”        Ellen leans into me to say this. I can taste the alcohol on her breath. She's as close to me as Bill was a few minutes ago.

Suddenly I resent all this. I’ve had a hell of a day and the last place I need or want to be is here and yet out of some sense of duty, affection, anticipation or hope, whether misplaced or not I am here. And the person, the sole reason for my presence has deserted me.

            “I get the feeling that you want to be here about as much as I do,” says Ellen with a knowing look.

            “If you only knew Ellen, if you only knew.”