The Party

THE PARTY

Dana looked around the backyard. She watched as her guests mingled, laughed, drank, and ate. It looked like another success. She and Eric threw an annual party to celebrate the success of their law practice for friends, family, employees, and clients. Well, if Dana was honest with herself, only certain clients were invited. Eric insisted that not all of the clients were “party-calibre.”

But they all paid the same fees, thought Dana.

Eric loved these get togethers. Dana did not. Eric loved playing the Lord-of-the-Manor, chatting and laughing with all his guests. And because he was Lord-of-the-Manor, he left all of the planning and organizing to Dana, but always took all the congratulations and kudos, as if it were his due.

Dana sighed, but managed to keep the smile on her face.

They were very successful lawyers. And their lifestyle had afforded them the good life—gated community, summer house, winter home in the Caribbean, best schools for the kids, nannies, tutors, private lessons. Memberships at the tennis club, the country club. And they had people—people who would meet their every need—chef, driver, security, pilot for their plane.

Matilda, the party coordinator, found Dana still standing away from the party, watching her guests, not mingling.

“Ms. Garrison, should we continue to circulate with the canapés, or should we lay out the hot buffet?”

She felt like shrugging—she really didn’t care—but she answered. It wasn’t Matilda’s fault that she was feeling apathetic and disinterested. “I think we can do both, Matilda. Keep circulating the canapés and set up the buffet. People will eat both.”

“Very good.”

As the woman turned to go, Dana added, “But make sure that the Champagne servers continue to circulate all night.”

“Very good.” The woman faded away, back into the kitchen.

Serving Champagne was important to Eric. Ordering it was the one thing he did do for the party, which he reminded Dana of every year. He said real Champagne made people feel special. Eric wanted everyone to feel special, especially if they could do something for him, or could feel indebted to him in some way. Their employees felt special to be included on the guest list, their friends we happy to be remembered, the clients felt that such a showy event was a reward for spending so much money on their services. Every year, Eric ordered the Champagne, personally, from an exclusive vintner in France. It made him feel special.

Dana’s sister Violet sidled up beside her, holding her own glass of Champagne. Or so it looked. Violet was a recovering alcoholic, and Dana always made sure that there were a couple of bottles of alcohol-free sparkling drink secreted away in the kitchen, just for her sister. Dana hoped Violet felt special.

“Great party!” gushed Violet.

Dana looked a her and smiled. “Thank you.” She said. And she meant it. She rarely heard that compliment—regardless of the fact that she was the actual architect of the party. Their guests almost always complimented Eric on what a great party it was, not her. Apparently having testicles was necessary for receiving a compliment.

“Yeah,” said Violet, smiling watching the crowd. “It’s interesting. I usually only see these people once a year, but some of them look soooo much younger than they did last year.” Violet looked conspiratorially at her sister. “It must be something in the water.” Violet spied her brother-in-law. “And, unless I’m mistaken, Eric has either availed himself of a little bit of transformative surgery, or he’s stopped eating carbs.”

At that precise moment Eric popped a salmon tart in his mouth.

Violet took a sip of her drink. “Nope, not carbs. Surgery it is,” she said, laughing.

Dana looked at Eric and shrugged. “He trying to outrun his fifties.”

Violet said, “I bet he wants you to join the race,” and looked at her sister. Violet knew that Eric was all about looks and money. There was no place for old or poor in his world.

Another shrug. “He’s mentioned it. I’ve not responded.”

It was true—plastic surgery was deemed almost necessary in the circles she travelled in—for both men and women. In fact, Eric had taken to getting botox shots and had undergone liposuction two months ago to help tame his ever-expanding gut and sagging chin. And, he had, on a number of occasions, expressed his belief that Dana should consider talking to his plastic surgeon, Dr. Milton.

He casually mentioned this to Dana, just last week. “A little nip here, a little tuck there … what’s the harm?” he’d said to her.

She’d smiled at Eric, and said nothing. She didn’t want plastic surgery. She was happy with the way she looked. But, apparently, Eric wasn’t. And the fact that she’d also stopped dying her hair, drove him crazy.

“That grey in your hair makes you look like an old woman!” he’d complained two days ago. “You should dye it for the party.”

“I am an old woman,” she’d said. “And if you don’t want to be seen with an old woman, divorce me.”

Eric had sputtered and snorted. His face had bloomed red, then paled. Dana was certain she had seen sweat pop out on his forehead as he’d fled the room.

Of course he didn’t want a divorce. The money was her money, and the practice was also Dana’s—Garrison and Associates, Attorneys-at-Law, not Garrison and Williamson, Attorneys-at-law—Dana had not taken Eric’s last name, Williamson. And, strictly speaking, Eric was a partner—but a minority partner, to be sure. And, they had an extremely robust prenup—one that definitely favoured Dana, not Eric. Dana had drafted it herself, and she was a world-class marital law expert.

Violet side-hugged her sister. “You don’t need plastic surgery. You look fantastic!” She paused, a wicked look in her eyes. “For an oldie!”

Violet and Dana were twins. Dana had been born first, eight minutes ahead of her sister. Dana smiled. It was Violets usual jibe.

The sisters together looking at the undulating crowd of people, walking, schmoozing, glad-handing—some laughing, others looking earnestly at the people they were talking to, some with their heads close together plotting.

Violet looked at her sister. “Why aren’t you out there, circulating—meeting and greeting your guests?”

“No one seems to be missing me,” she said. “Besides, I like standing here, out of the fray.” Dana knew almost all of the people attending the party. The names of a few of the spouses and a couple of plus-ones escaped her, but overall, of the one-hundred-plus people in attendance, she figured she knew over ninety percent of them. That didn’t mean she wanted to spend time with them.

“Well, I wish you’d come down and join the party.

Dana looked at Violet. “Can you keep a secret?”

Violet smiled. “You know I can!”

She looked back at her guests “I hate this party. I hate planning it. I hate that Eric does nothing to help. I hate that half these people don’t want to be here, but only show up to be seen, or to ensure that they don’t piss Eric off on his big night.”

Violet looked a bit taken aback. “Wow, Dana, I never knew. Why do you do it every year?”

“Because it’s expected. Because Eric wants to ingratiate himself to the people who matter--” she fanned her hand out in front of herself to encompass the crowd. “—and these are, in Eric’s opinion, the people who matter.” She let her hand drop back to her side. “See the man in the grey pants with the sweater tied around his neck? He’s talking with the woman wearing the red shirt?” Dana nodded in their direction.

“Yes.”

“Well, he wants to be build an exclusive resort on the lake, and the woman is the head of the local planning commission. Eric set up the meeting because we represent the man. The man’s a big deal in development circles, and his firm pays our firm millions of dollars a year.” She paused, turning her glance towards the crowd. “See the two men over by the bar? The older gentleman is making a movie and he wants the younger man to star in it. You may recognize the younger man—he recently starred in a very successful series on one of the streaming platforms. Our firm represents both men. If this meetup is successful, then we are successful.” She turned to look at Violet. “All of these people are here because they can help the firm—in particular, Eric.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “Everything Eric does has an ulterior motive.” She turned back to scan the group.

“But I’m not a client, I don’t give you any money, but I get invited every year. Why am I here?” Violet asked her sister.

Dana smiled, and hugged her. “Because you make me happy.”

The two women continued to watch the crowd.

“Hey, Violet!” called her husband, Jeff. “Come here. I want you to meet someone.”

Violet smiled at her sister. “Duty calls,” she said as she walked away from her sister, towards her husband, and disappeared into the crowd.

Dana sighed, and looked at her watch. The party had been going on for well over an hour. She smiled. Soon.

Then it started. A woman—Dana remembered she was the owner of a brokerage firm that Eric did business with. Janice … something. Dana paused, visualizing the woman at work. Yes, Janice Carrington. Janice Carrington all of a sudden looked very uncomfortable. Her hand flew to her mouth. She turned and started bolting for the house. But before she could get ten steps, she vomited—violently—into the grass. Her partner rushed to her side. As he stooped to help, he too began to vomit.

Then a man on the other side of the lawn had a similar attack. And then another guest. And another guest. And another, and another. Until most of the guests were vomiting. All over her lawn, all over the patio, and she suspected, all over the washrooms.

She scanned the crowd. And there was Eric, hunched over some bushes, heaving and spewing. Abstractedly, Dana thought it looked like he was suffering quite a bit. She smiled again.

Dana put her hand into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and called nine-one-one, explaining to the operator that there seemed to be a mass poisoning at her address. After she disconnected the call she looked at the scene in front of her. Every person who was affected had partaken in the Champagne.

She hoped they all felt special now.