LITMIR.BIZ

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to me with raised eyebrows. ‘We could always go for a quick bite to eat first?’ he said.

      I glared at him. ‘No. We’re here to support Cassandra.’

      Matthew shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘You know how some people are terrified of clowns?’

      I laughed. ‘Not all divorced women are scary,’ I said. ‘Besides, Cassandra is a friend.’

      He sculpted his quiff in his reflection from the polished knocker. ‘She’s not a friend, she’s a client.’

      ‘She’s going through a rough time.’

      Suddenly raucous laughter bubbled up from the hallway.

      ‘Yes, sounds like it,’ he said, adjusting his shirt collar. ‘What if I’m the only man here? They might slice off my testicles or deep-fry my penis.’

      I knocked again. I could hear Cassandra’s high octave New York drawl approaching the door. ‘Coming!’ she screeched.

      She greeted us with the determined smile of a TV presenter. ‘Oh. My. Gaaaad. It’s Ellie!’ She flung her arms around me, nearly knocking Matthew over. ‘It’s so good to see you! Come in, come in. We have tequila.’

      I grabbed Matthew’s arm and pulled him in behind me.

      Straight away we were thrust into the sitting room and towards the makeshift bar, which seemed sufficiently stocked to survive an apocalypse. Cassandra poured us each tumblers of tequila, then insisted we down them in unison. Afterwards, she leaned in towards me and pointed at Matthew.

      ‘Is that Nick?’ she asked in a stage whisper. ‘Only I remember him being better-looking.’

      Matthew stepped forward. ‘Yes, I am—’

      I blocked him with my arm. ‘This is Matthew,’ I said, interrupting whatever mischievous untruth he was about to present to Cassandra, ‘my friend.’

      Cassandra looked him up and down and then grinned. ‘Not fair,’ she said. ‘I so want a gay buddy.’ She turned to Matthew. ‘Got one for me?’

      Matthew, clearly, sensing an opportunity to avoid the angry divorcees turning on him, suddenly ramped up his camp-o-meter and jutted his hip to one side.

      ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, flicking his wrist. ‘If you can throw a party like this, I’ll get you a gay boy quicker than you can say Liza Minnelli.’ Then he skipped towards her and started stroking her dress. ‘Is this Diane von Furstenberg? It’s am-az-ing.’

      I knocked his hand away after I noticed it edging towards the chest area.

      ‘Let’s mingle,’ I said.

      He poured two more tequilas, before air-kissing Cassandra and squeezing her bottom.

      I rolled my eyes as we walked off. ‘Behave,’ I said.

      He shrugged his shoulders.

      I stopped and glared at him. ‘You’re a married father of two.’

      He threw his arms in the air. ‘I am what I am,’ he shrilled, doing his best gayed-up interpretation of Gloria Gaynor, followed by an intricate sidestep across the dance floor. A pretty redhead laughed and joined in dancing with him.

      I watched for a while and then pulled him to one side. ‘Impersonating a homosexual in order to take advantage of vulnerable women is exploitative and a gross breach of our host’s trust.’

      He downed one of the tequilas. ‘Ellie, a divorce party is hardly the ideal platform to preach moral standards.’

      I snatched the other tequila, thought about putting it on the side, then downed it instead.

      Matthew did a double eyebrow raise. ‘I see you’re drinking again?’

      I nodded, wiping my mouth.

      He stared at me for a moment, looking as though he were about to offer something profound. Then, clearly thinking better of it, he put his arm around me and ruffled my hair.

      ‘Come on, fag hag,’ he said. ‘Let’s dance.’

      A while later, once Cassandra had informed the DJ that we had a ‘gay’ guest, it was as though the playlist donned a pair of leather chaps and dropped an E. And despite Matthew’s sterling efforts, which peaked at a rather gymnastic ‘Vogue’ pose, by the time we heard the intro to a remix of the Village People’s ‘In the Navy’ we both agreed it was time for a tequila top-up. Matthew didn’t bother with glasses this time; instead, he just grabbed the bottle. He took a swig and passed it to me.

      I took a gulp and looked around the room. The furniture had been pushed to the side and the fireplace hidden behind the temporary DJ booth, but even through my now blurry vision, I could see that this was otherwise an elegant family room. I found myself imagining Cassandra and Dr Stud, or Stud-Wheeler, as they’d renamed themselves, snuggling on the sofa together, bottle of red in front of them, the latest HBO TV series on in the background. I held the image in my mind for a moment, before contrasting it with tonight’s frenzied quest for oblivion and wondered when it was that they had stopped loving each other.

      I snuck behind the bar and picked up a photo frame that had been placed face down on a radiator cover. Straight away I recognised the image. It was a photo I’d taken on our singles’ trip to St Anton: the moment they’d jumped off the ski lift together, now freeze-framed forever. I smiled as I recalled the months I’d spent prior trying to persuade them to meet each other.

      ‘No, he’s too short,’ Cassandra had said, when I’d shown her his profile.

      ‘I usually date hotter girls,’ Dr Stud had explained, before selecting the profile of a bikini-clad twenty-three-year-old nursing graduate.

      I’d always known though that if I could just get them together on the ski trip then they would understand. And they did—well, for nine years at least. I glanced back down at the photo and took another swig. I would never forget the way they laughed together. It was as though they were the only two who knew the punchline. That kind of love couldn’t simply fade to nothing. Could it?

      I looked up to see the redhead giggling and then flashing her cleavage at Matthew. I glared at him. Just as I was about to intervene, Cassandra appeared beside me.

      ‘Gimme some of that,’ she slurred, snatching the tequila bottle from my grasp. I’d forgotten I was still holding it. She took a swig and then turned to me. Her mouth was smiling but her eyes looked vacant. She nodded to the photo. ‘What goes up, must come down,’ she said, surprisingly succinctly. Then she laughed. ‘No one can defy Newton’s theory of…’ She rubbed her temples and swayed a little. ‘Or was it Galileo?’

      ‘Newton,’ I said. ‘Gravity. Are you OK?’

      She took another swig and then wiped her chin. ‘Never better,’ she said, handing the bottle back to me. ‘Right. Speech time.’

      I was still gripping the photo frame as I watched Cassandra climbing onto a chair, microphone in hand. I should have intervened. It was clear to everyone that a public and drunken explanation as to why we should celebrate the breakdown of her marriage wasn’t going to end well. However, as much as I wanted to preserve her dignity, part of me was desperate to hear what she had to say. I gripped the photo frame tighter and glanced over at Matthew, who was now cupping the redhead’s breasts through her dress. In the past year the agency’s divorce rate had doubled. Even my own relationship was in distress. I wanted to know why. Because if I knew what was wrong, then I was closer to finding a way to fix it.

      Cassandra wobbled on the chair a little, then steadied herself and tapped the microphone. The DJ turned off the music.

      ‘Hey, everyone!’ Cassandra shouted.

      The crowd cheered.

      ‘It’s great to see you all here tonight,’ she said, looking around the room and holding out her hands. ‘Some of you knew me before…’ she pointed

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