The dinner party is, unsurprisingly, awkward for everyone - except for John, his ex wife - and, shockingly, Olivia. He's just that mellow. His ex is a different story. And Olivia? She's having quite a revelational evening, that's for sure.
There are eight people at the table: three couples, and two solo blokes. One of them, Graham Addair, is clearly John's best mate from the new firm, and a uni mate of the host. He's terrifyingly huge and looks perpetually enraged. Olivia won't be surprised if he suddenly decides to bend a fork with the fingers of one hand, with a horrific snarl on his face, just if someone happens to insult his sensitivities. On the other hand, something tells Olivia it's just the exterior. She smiles widely at him, while he's shaking her hand. It's lost in his spade like palm, they might need to send a search party. He has a thick Scottish accent too, so it sounds like he's growling at everyone. She likes him instantly. He seems to return the sentiment.
With the 'I hope his best friend likes me' dance out of way, she turns to the other people taking off their coats in the parlour. The ex wife's shimming out of a very elegant white cashmere coat, the 'new bloke' helping her out. She's indeed of the average height, dark haired, and undeniably pretty. She's bubbly, cheery. Olivia knows many women with the same manners. They're a bit childish, speak in soft lilting voices, gracefully move their hands in the air, and initially it was a precisely calculated pretence, probably drilled into them by their mothers, but now it's just how they are. She's already chatting with the hostess about the flower arrangements at her wedding, and how much of an aggro finding a good decorator is.
The writer's mind is quite a Hell like place, Olivia often thinks. Living in one's mind and occasionally visiting others' is no walk in the park. On the off day, it's exhilaratingly fun, but in general it's the gateway to insomnia, debilitating addictions, and recurring nervous ticks. Thank Rassilon, Olivia isn't actually a proper writer, so she gets a break from time to time.
Except she's also an INFJ in Myers-Briggs typology. Which means she notices everything. Every little excruciating detail. And she reads them like a book, knowing immediately what people around her think and, more so, feel.
So, the theatre of human emotions around her is such: the hostess - a pleasant looking middle aged woman - and her quiet, slightly grumpy looking husband are throwing cowardly looks between the ex wife and Olivia, with the occasional detour to John. The other couple are no less uncomfortable: he's helping her with her coat, and they think they're being discreet exchanging choked whispers, but they are not. The last man standing - a young neurotic looking architect, from John's old firm, named Adam Orison - is so red in the face that Olivia feels like patting him on the shoulder and assuring him 'it's going to be alright.'
Annabelle finally turns to John and smiles at him gleefully.
"Jack!"
Sorry, what?! Olivia feels like doing the classic film move: to look around and ask flabbergasted 'who's Jack?'
Jack?! He is so absolutely not a Jack. In what universe is he a Jack? Anything - even 'honeyboo' or 'sugarplum' - would suit him better than 'Jack.' Even 'babycakes' would. Blimey! Anything would. But not, in the name of sanity, a Jack!
"Evening, Annabelle."
He returns a smile. So, no pet names for her? Annie? Belly? Annie Boo Boo Sweet Belle?
"Nice to see you."
How is he so bloody calm? He hasn't seen the woman in two years, since the nasty divorce.
She sniggers, and turns to Olivia and stretches her hand. "Annabelle, soon to be Stephens."
Former Dowling, Olivia adds in her head.
YOU ARE READING
Blind Carnival
RomanceOlivia Dane is an erotica writer and a widow of 7 years. She isn't at all interested in finding herself a man. When she's forced to go on a blind date, the last thing she expects is to find the perfect man - or to be precise, the perfect guinea pig...