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By eight-thirty it’s getting quite crowded.
Jacq, who at seven-thirty was pacing the empty verandahs and smoking a lot, now has champagne in one hand, wine in the other and several conversations going at once. Naomi is working on a spur-of-the- moment punch in the kitchen. Burns is gripping a beer as though it’s a mother’s hand, and looking even more out of place than me.
Phil Borthwick turns up in a tie and Burns gives me a look that suggests he feels a little better about himself. Phil (and I admire this) seems to have no idea that he’s the only person in a tie, and says, with some glee, Great, dancing, when he works out what’s going on in the loungeroom, and why the furniture is all outside.
At least he hasn’t tried anything silly with food. He’s brought a carton of full-strength beer, and there will be plenty of people here who think this more than makes up for the tie.
I don’t actually drink it myself, he says sheepishly to Jacq and me. I’ve got an enzyme thing, so I can’t really touch alcohol. But I thought I’d bring it for the party.
Thanks, Phil, Jacq says, already touching alcohol as though she and it are at least close friends, and with a smile that I haven’t seen before. A lazy, uncomplicated smile, a drinking smile, buckling under the weight of its own bonhomie. But you’d have just the one, wouldn’t you? It’s a party.
