drink flew around at a fierce rate and such was the spirit of fun that people who’d originally apologised that they could only drop in for a moment would have to be decanted drunkenly into taxis at half eleven before the family went to midnight Mass.
It would all be incredible fun, with no pretensions. Her longing to be there overwhelmed Tara and she felt a lump swell in her throat. It was so easy to forget how important family were until you weren’t with them.
She tuned back into the here and now to overhear Serena, Gloria and Liz discussing clothes.
‘I love your dress,’ Gloria was saying warmly to Serena. ‘You can never go wrong with a little black dress and a nice gold necklace.’
Tara glanced over at Serena, who looked quite overshone, despite the LBD, by her flamboyant mother, but who did have a heavy gold necklace hanging from her neck. Tara was not a jewellery person, which was just as well because Finn certainly didn’t have the money to shell out on chunky gold stuff. They just about managed the mortgage and the bills on both their salaries: TV script writing wasn’t the money-spinner everyone thought it was. That was why Tara longed to get into writing for someone like Mike Hammond. She loved working on National Hospital, but if only she could work on a film script or one of the big-budget television adaptations that Mike was involved with, well, she’d be on the road to fame and fortune.
‘…well,’ her mother-in-law was saying, ‘these media types don’t put the same store on dressing up as we do.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They’re really quite casual, which can be inappropriate on occasion.’
Tara knew exactly who Gloria was referring to. Bitch. Double bitch.
She glared across the table at Finn who seemed oblivious to it all.
‘Does Sherry have a boyfriend?’ asked Charles, unable to get his mind off her.
‘No, rumour has it she’s a lesbian,’ snapped Tara, although the lie backfired because Charles drooled even more; no doubt at the notion of being sandwiched in bed between the beauteous Sherry and another stunning woman.
Trust him to be one of those blinkered men who saw gay women as some sort of kinky challenge. She’d have to tell him it was a joke. She gave up on Charles and turned to Pierre, who looked grey in the face and was trying to keep awake.
‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’ she asked brightly.
Pierre fixed her with a glassy stare. ‘No,’ he said and turned back to his wine.
Think of tonight as research, Tara told herself firmly. Writers couldn’t write unless they observed. But despite her good intentions, separated from Finn and stuck in conversational limbo with Charles, the evening crawled past.
Pierre came out of himself enough to keep ordering bottles of wine but remained monosyllabic otherwise.
‘Poor darling Pierre is worn out,’ Liz admitted. ‘The pre-Christmas rush has been so busy. What about you, Tara? Do tell us all about the glamorous jet-set life. Do you get to see many stars?’
‘Sherry, the girl who plays Theodora, is a lesbian,’ interrupted Charles, sounding shocked.
Tara gasped theatrically. ‘Charles, you old tease. You know I was joking! She loves men.’
That shut Charles up. She turned to Liz. ‘I know them all,’ she sighed. ‘All the stars. We’re like one big, happy family.’ Ooops, another lie. The big television stars wouldn’t have any time for lowly script editors like herself.
‘Really.’ Liz leaned big bosoms on the table in her eagerness to hear all. Tara could see the young waiter’s eyes popping out of his head as Liz’s plunging dress front plunged further still. ‘You mean Daniel Anson, from Anson Interviews?’ Liz named one of the country’s biggest chat show hosts. ‘You know him?’
Tara nodded. Well, she had stood behind him in the canteen one day; that was almost meeting.
‘What’s he like?’
Tara thought about the contents of Daniel Anson’s tray that day: burger, chips, diet soft drink. He’d thrown his packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter onto the tray when he was searching for change.
‘Very normal,’ she said.
‘Tell us about Dr McCambridge on National Hospital.’ Serena looked animated for the first time all night.
‘He’s handsome,’ said Tara truthfully. ‘He has that special something that really works on camera…’
‘Animal magnetism,’ growled Serena.
Finn, who knew from Tara that the actor could be hard to work with, smothered a giggle. Tara smiled across at him. She could just about cope with the evening if Finn was with her.
‘Welcome back,’ she mouthed.
Finn raised his glass to her. He was going to have another hangover in the morning, Tara reflected.
It was just after eleven when the taxi deposited the Jeffersons back at Four Winds.
Tara, exhausted after an evening of trying to be polite under difficult circumstances, wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and cuddle up to Finn. But Finn and his father decided that liqueurs were the order of the day.
‘It’s less than an hour till twelve, let’s stay up and toast in Christmas,’ suggested Desmond.
‘Great idea.’ Finn fell onto the big grey armchair and held out his arms for Tara to sit on his lap. Mindful of Gloria seeing this as another breach of decorum, Tara sat on the side of the chair instead and put an arm round Finn’s shoulders.
Gloria disappeared on some errand.
‘What would you like, Tara?’ asked Desmond, poised over the drinks cabinet.
‘Er…’ Tara didn’t know. She generally drank wine and wasn’t fond of spirits apart from the odd gin and tonic. ‘Baileys?’ she hazarded, ‘in honour of the Bailey-Montfords? Maybe not.’ She grinned to herself. Baileys was creamy and smooth, while the B-Ms were hard to swallow.
She heard a shocked gasp and looked up to find Gloria had reappeared and was staring at her grimly.
‘Did I say that out loud?’ laughed Tara. She must have drunk more wine than she’d thought. ‘Sorry, Gloria.’
‘They’re nice people,’ said Desmond, peacemaking, ‘but it’s not easy to be catapulted into a group of people who know each other well. I’m sure you and Finn would have preferred to stay at home.’
He gave Tara a big crystal balloon of Baileys anyway and she took it with a murmured ‘thanks’, humbled by Desmond’s gentle reprimand.
Gloria asked frostily for a crème de menthe, ‘very small, please, Desmond,’ she said, shooting a poisonous look at Tara and her generous glass.
‘I’ll get mine, Dad,’ volunteered Finn. ‘I need to see what you’ve got.’
Desmond took his brandy over to the other big armchair and Tara watched while her husband fiddled around in the
