Kristin was the kind of independent home cook who didn’t much tolerate company in the kitchen, and Sheryl usually spent time in her office or downstairs. But that day Kristin had involved her in the cooking, and only raised an eyebrow when Sheryl hadn’t diced the carrots the way she had wanted her to do.
It had been an enjoyable day. It could have been an ordinary one, if it weren’t for the nerves running through Sheryl at the prospect of entertaining without the support of alcohol. She had somehow forgotten to hold court like that, even though well into the first years of their relationship, Sheryl did it all the time. She had never needed alcohol. She had despised and stayed away from it and doing so hadn’t had any adverse impact on her life.
Martha was the first to arrive, a bunch of tulips in her hand. She was soon followed by Micky and Robin, who offered her, upon opening the door, a bouquet of roses.
Sheryl refrained from making a snide comment—something along the lines of “do they come with a commiseration card, saying how sorry you are for my loss of alcohol?”—and dutifully put them in a vase.
Kristin had—of course—researched virgin cocktail recipes and while Kristin plated the hors d'oeuvres in the kitchen, Sheryl served their guests kumquat spritzers with pomegranate seeds in cocktail glasses. As she did, she couldn’t help but wonder who was secretly wishing for a shot of something stronger on the side.
“When is Amber coming back?” Martha asked Micky.
“I’m not entirely sure,” Micky said. “She keeps extending her stay.”
“She must have a lot to think about.” Robin sipped from her drink and, Sheryl could swear, pulled one of those disgusted faces that are entirely involuntary.
“She’d be much better off thinking less about almost everything,” Micky said. “But it’s who she is.” She gave Martha a look that bordered on pity—one, Sheryl knew, Martha would not take well.
“We can only wait patiently for the return of our great yogi.” Sheryl stood around awkwardly with a carafe of what was basically funny-colored juice in her hands.
It was that exact moment that she needed a drink the most. Just a little something to take the edge off. To lubricate her tongue and steer the conversation the way she was used to doing, without qualms or hesitation. She cleared her throat, sensing that the subject of an alcohol-free dinner should be addressed properly, but just then Kristin walked into the lounge with a platter of miniature quiches, and all three guests cooed.
“You’re not asking them to give up a limb or ignore a vital part of their personality,” Kristin had assured her the day before, “just by requesting them not to drink. It really isn’t such a big deal.”
Perhaps it wasn’t. In theory, Kristin was right. But why did everything feel so off? Why did Sheryl feel like she was depriving her friends of the required relaxation a Saturday night merited, as though it all depended on how strong the booze was? If anything, Sheryl thought, as she headed into the kitchen to put the carafe in the fridge—Kristin had suggested an ice bucket, but Sheryl had believed that to look too ridiculous—she should be happy she had friends who were willing to consider a night like this. Awful though it sounded, she knew for a fact that proposing an alcohol-free Saturday evening wouldn’t go down well in most groups of friends in Australia. Everyone had their own excuse to drink, perhaps not as much as she did, and not with the same consequences, but all the same, Australians liked their booze. And, thank goodness for their blooming business, their coffee the morning after.
She remembered the oft-spoken words, like a chant the morning after, amongst her college friends, back in the LAUS days. “A coffee, a painkiller, and no whining allowed. Hangovers are for wimps.” Back then, they’d barely felt the negative effects, and Sheryl had missed her body’s prime time for drinking excessively.
At any other previous dinner party, Sheryl was always firmly planted in her seat, while Kristin did all the running around. Kristin had never minded because it was the natural flow of events that matched their respective personalities. She’d much rather hear Sheryl challenge Micky on visibility as an out lesbian, or cause Martha to shuffle nervously in her chair while she tried to come up with a reply that matched Sheryl’s quick wit, than have her serve the fish course. Kristin was the cook; Sheryl the entertainer. Except tonight.
Rather clumsily, Sheryl insisted on carrying out the starters of seafood terrine, even though Kristin had spent a long time plating them and they required a steady hand to transport them from kitchen to dining table. Sheryl’s hands looked anything but steady. She was twitchy, stroking her chin nonstop, even curling a strand of hair around her finger once in a while—a gesture Kristin had never witnessed before.