John sipped his own champagne, elegant and calm like James Bond only on the wrong side of the good guy/bad guy casting. “Rue the day.” Mara waved a full glass at him, a couple of drops splashing over the rim. “And be really sorry too.” “How much,” John smiled and leaned in closer, “have you had, love?” “I’ve had plenty.” Who did he think he was questioning her state of mind? He took her arm, steered her towards the buffet, murmuring quiet things used for sweet children or feisty cats up trees. The champagne charged through her system and seemed to function a bit like alcohol ear plugs, but she almost caught phrases. Worry about her son, the crying. Her crying she thought. And food. Getting her food came up several times. She heard lobster, lobster, lobster, and pasta. She stopped walking. Past-a? “Did you say past-a? It’s paust-a. How much have you had to drink?” She snorted, stopped herself.
