Connie has drunk several glasses of red wine and cannot prevent herself smiling whenever she looks down at her twinkling shoes – though her plastic teeth must be black by now. Not that the shoes are comfortable, they squeeze her big toe joints and tilt her forward so she has to lean back and that gives her a nag in the lower part of her back. High heels are hell. ‘Do you paint at all, Miss Benson?’ a young man asks, the umpteenth time she’s been asked that tonight. He smiles down at her, head tilted in anticipation. His teeth too are wine-stained, she frowns and runs her tongue around her own. ‘It’s a lovely party,’ she says. ‘I very much admire your work.’ ‘Such a long time ago, dear.’ Someone fills her glass, offers her something from a tray – asparagus on little bits of biscuit. She puts it in her mouth, it’s her least favourite of the circulating tit-bits, can’t understand all the song and dance about asparagus – soggy, wee-wee smelling stuff. Wine good though, tough, puts a fur on the tongue.
