Packing a Punch

Well, there’s a first time for everything, thought Isobel Dewar. She had just turned 40 (and no, of course it was no big deal, and she wasn’t going to get silly about it) and so far as she could remember, she had never been asked to a housewarming party. Oh, she had been asked round to people’s houses, when other people were also asked round, soon after the residents had moved in, but it had never been directly called a Housewarming Party. There had been a spell when she hadn’t been keen on parties or gatherings of any kind, but she had got over that long since.

     And so far, it couldn’t have been going better. Helen and Theo had stressed that NOBODY was expected to bring any kind of gift, and though an odd bottle of wine might well be appreciated, it certainly wasn’t compulsory. Their new home already looked comfortable and they were at ease in it, after living there for a couple of weeks, but the placing of the furniture still had a vaguely random and undecided air to it, as if the sofa might yet be placed on the other side of the room, and the dresser relocated to the kitchen. Helen and Theo were the kind of hosts who were attentive, but didn’t hover, the background music was pleasant and atmospheric, but not over-intrusive, and the nibbles were thoroughly acceptable, though I would say that, wouldn’t I, thought Isobel, as she loved everything cheese-related as much as they apparently did. 

     “Isobel, you don’t know my cousin Lauren, do you?” Helen asked, “And would you like to try one of these cheese scones? She made them, and they’re glorious!”

     It would have been against Isobel’s religion to refuse a cheese scone, and they were, indeed, glorious, but just as she bit into one, the wonderful creamy, tangy taste turned into something that would have made ashes positively tasty in comparison in her mouth. She did know her cousin Lauren. At one point she had known Lauren Hardcastle very well. It would have been inaccurate and flattering to say that neither of them had changed, but they had not changed sufficiently for recognition not to be more or less instant – quite apart from the names!

     They shook hands. Isobel thought she heard herself saying something about either the cheese scones or the weather, or both, but she wasn’t quite sure. Lauren replied in kind.

     Oh, my God, thought Isobel. She supposed there were people she would less like to run into at a party, but Helen and Theo weren’t likely to invite serial killers or populist politicians. 

     They had both been students, but postgraduate ones, supposedly sensible and more mature ones, not the kind who got drunk at parties and led to letters from irate neighbours or lectures from concerned lecturers. Or both. It had been a wholly civilised party – one, she would never forget, to celebrate an engagement between two fellow students. Bob and Karen were more friends of Lauren, but it was still accepted that Isobel would be invited as an “at one remove”. She hadn’t felt like accepting at first, especially not an engagement party. It was only three weeks since she and Luke had, as she put it now, decoupled. With hindsight she thought she might well have had a lucky escape, and he quite possibly thought the same thing too, but at the time she was more heart broken than she had been since Samuel Flint told her that he thought her homemade cupcakes tasted yucky and he would rather eat dead snails when they were both eleven. 

     Of course she wished Bob and Karen well, but didn’t know if she could quite take extremes of lovey-doveyness. Still, in the end she decided to go. It might cheer me up, she thought, though she supposed what she really meant was, at least there’ll be free booze. 

     She didn’t, she reminded herself, go to the party with the sole intention of a bit of alcohol induced oblivion at others’ expense. And anyway, that punch just tasted fruity and sweet but not too sweet, and it slipped down incredibly easily. The warm glow stage was reached incredibly quickly, considering it was so innocuous – wasn’t it? She felt well disposed to all the world, even to Samuel, though that fluctuated. 

     She would have been hard pushed to say at which state mellow intoxication turned maudlin, and at which point that maudlin started blending with an excess of candour. In the same sentence, and she wasn’t exactly quiet, she proclaimed her undying love for him and that they would get back together and all would be well, and that no torture devised by man or beast was too bad for him. She started singing – for some illogical reason, though she had no Irish blood, Danny Boy was one of the songs, though she changed Danny to Sammy and some of the word would have been best expurgated.

     And then she threw up over Lauren’s shoes.

     Lauren did the minimum that she could have done, and did it efficiently but that very efficiency was a reproach. She ordered a cab. She steered Isobel towards it, brusquely checked that she had enough to pay the fare, and said, “You do know if you throw up again, you’ll have to pay for it.”

     To her relief, she didn’t. She managed to get home and collapse on the bed, and wake up the next morning with a throat that felt as if a knife thrower had been using it for practice and a head that felt as if every marching band in the known universe had been practising in it.

     She and Lauren did see each other again, but the meetings were brief and awkward.

     She made it plain she didn’t want to have much to do with me again, and I don’t blame her, thought Isobel.

I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory that night, at Bob and Karen’s engagement party, thought Lauren. I knew that Isobel was in an incredibly fragile state, and I knew that punch was pretty lethal. Karen had warned me. I should have kept more of an eye on her. After all, we were supposed to be friends. She was embarrassing me so much that I didn’t care about the fact that she was hurting badly. Being at an engagement party must have been torture, and it was no wonder she was tempted to drown her sorrows. I might have done the same. Okay, it wasn’t nice her chucking up on my shoes, but they were leather, and it was on the lino, not the carpet, and it was easy enough to clean up both, and it’s not as if I’m squeamish. Hardly! That would have been ironic, as she was now a pathologist! 

     Karen and Bob were remarkably good about it. They asked how Isobel was – and the truth was, the next day Lauren didn’t know, because she had no especial wish to talk to her. Lauren hadn’t confronted her with accusations of being a shameful drunk, but it might almost have been better if she had, instead of this haughty, cold shoulder, I wouldn’t do that kind of thing and don’t wish to associate with those who do attitude.

     Because actually, I would do that kind of thing, thought Lauren, with an uncomfortable memory of the last night of that holiday in Rimini. She had hardly acted with exemplary dignity, to put it mildly. That hadn’t been punch, it had been Grappa, and she couldn’t even claim that she didn’t know how strong it was. To this day she couldn’t even see the distinctive shaped bottle without a nasty taste coming into her mouth both literally and figuratively! She did still drink, despite resolutions to the contrary, but (like Isobel, if she did but know it!) kept to wine, and knew exactly when to stop, if not before!

     Isobel probably thought I was a snooty and cold-hearted bitch, thought Lauren, and I don’t blame her.

     It may or may not be true that a dying person sees their whole life flash before them, but Lauren and Isobel certainly saw a particular evening of their lives flash before them, as a memory sprouted up like a plant filmed in time-lapse on a wildlife documentary.

     Their eyes met, and then they both smiled, and, in perfect unison, said, “Sorry!” 

     Happy to see her guests getting on so well, Helen asked, “Would you two care to try some of the punch I’ve made?”

     And in that same perfect unison they replied, as fervently as they could without offending Helen, “No, thank you!”