“What do you mean?” Abby whispered.
“I mean you and Hunky International Spy Chaser, that’s what I mean,” Jenny whispered back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abby was still playing dumb and still whispering, not wanting anyone to hear.
Jenny’s fingers tightened on Abby’s arm. “Bickering on the front step like an old married couple. The finger action on the couch. Snuggling,” she hissed, “in company,” she went on. “You’re supposed to be his girlfriend but this is…” she hesitated. “I don’t know what it is!” she finished.
“Jenny –” Abby started but Mrs. Truman was getting cross at the delay.
“What are you two ninnies whispering about? Come on, share with the group,” she called.
Abby turned toward the table, thankful for once at Mrs. Truman’s interference, and answered, “Nothing, Mrs. Truman.”
“Women problems,” Jenny, for some momentarily-possessed-by-Satan reason, explained.
“Oh dear, you aren’t pregnant are you?” Mrs. Truman asked Jenny as Abby took her seat next to Kieran and Jenny slid into hers next to Cash.
“Um, no,” Jenny answered and her eyes moved to Kieran.
It was an insensitive question even though Mrs. Truman didn’t know that (and probably wouldn’t care). They’d been trying now for three years with no luck.
Mrs. Truman speared Abby with her eyes, “Please tell me you aren’t.”
Abby was taking a sip of her wine when the question was asked and she choked in horror and disbelief before saying, “Me? Pregnant?”
Mrs. Truman rolled her eyes to the ceiling and for some ungodly reason started talking to Abby’s grandmother, “I tell you, Meg, children these days. There’s no controlling them.” Mrs. Truman looked back to Abby but jutted a thumb at Cash. “I don’t care how handsome and charming he is; don’t let him get you into trouble.”
Kieran burst out laughing, Cash turned a devastating smile in Abby’s direction and Jenny stared at her speculatively.
Abby hoped the floor would form a mouth, open up and swallow her whole.
“Mrs. Truman, why don’t you stab me with your butter knife?” Abby requested.
“And why would I do a fool thing like that?” Mrs. Truman shot back but even as she did so her lips were twitching.
“Because it’d be less painful,” Abby returned blandly and for the first time ever Abby saw Mrs. Truman laugh.
Although she was trying to be funny, and she was weirdly pleased with herself for making Mrs. Truman laugh, Abby didn’t think anything was amusing.
Instead, she thought, with everything that had happened over the past six years, and everything that had happened recently, and everything that was going to happen, it was high time to get drunk.
* * * * *
“Abigail, you’re inebriated,” Mrs. Truman remarked jovially – yes, jovially!
“Am not,” Abby returned cheerfully, but this was a lie, because she was.
It was after their delicious, four-course meal (not including the cheese tray), served by the silent Marco, they were having after dinner drinks in the living room.
Jenny had gotten over her freak out at Abby and Cash’s behaviour and also conquered her fear of Mrs. Truman. Once she entered the conversation, drawing Cash out more, familiarly teasing Kieran and amusingly going head-to-head with Mrs. Truman, the evening became fun.
Abby joined in and through it all she had more wine than was prudent.
But she didn’t give a good God damn.
She didn’t like what had happened to her life but she weirdly did like what was currently happening to it, even though she knew shouldn’t, it wasn’t sensible.
Further, she was scared silly at what was about to happen at the same time she couldn’t wait.
If all that didn’t make you want to get drunk indeed deserve to get drunk, Abby didn’t know what did.
“I hope you can handle sick. Men, it’s my experience, can’t handle sick. Or poo.” Mrs. Truman, who likely was also a little intoxicated if her new conversational gambit was anything to go by, said to Cash. “Sick and poo and men do not mix,” she declared. “If you need me later, call me. I can handle sick. My dogs get sick all the time.” She paused and added as an informational afterthought, “They also poo.”
“Where are your dogs?” Jenny asked, leaning toward Mrs. Truman as if her answer would cure world hunger, proving it was highly likely she too was less than sober.
“They’re locked in my room. Probably pooing on my bed,” Mrs. Truman answered then cackled loudly as if this comment was the height of comedy.
Abby and Jenny apparently agreed because they giggled right along with her.
“Why are we talking about poo?” Kieran muttered to Cash and Cash’s response was to shake his head. This caused more gales of laughter from the women.
At that Cash got to his feet. He did so with his hands on Abby’s waist, pushing her up in front of him.
Once she was standing, Abby gazed up at him and asked, “Are we leaving?”
“Yes, darling, before you get any more wine in you and pass out on Mrs. Truman’s floor, we’re leaving,” Cash replied.
“Ooo, he called you ‘darling’,” Jenny burst out, drunkenly forgetting that Abby’s place in Cash’s life didn’t exactly garner endearments then in a colossal mood swing she turned a glare at Kieran. “Why don’t you call me ‘darling’, darling?”
“Because you’re not my darling,” Kieran replied on a grin, “you’re my pumpkin.”
Jenny’s glare darkened ominously. “I don’t want to be a pumpkin. A pumpkin is a vegetable. A darling is…” she faltered then declared, “a darling!”
“How about ‘sweetheart’?” Kieran suggested.
Jenny appeared to be considering this then she grumbled, “Darling’s better.”
Kieran’s grin didn’t waver as he explained, “I’m not a darling type of guy, pumpkin.”
“Well, I’m not a pumpkin type of girl, darling,” Jenny shot back.
“Time to call it a night,” Mrs. Truman decreed, slowly getting to her feet, “marital tiffs always herald time to call it a night.”
At this Abby burst out laughing.
Cash started to manoeuvre her laughing form from the room but Mrs. Truman interceded.
“You men, get the coats. We’ll wait here where it’s comfortable,” she ordered bossily.