Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📗

Bloody hell! After all the effort I put in? Running errands, collecting names for the invite list, writing a menu, doing a supermarket shop while Grace has cleaned and polished like crazy. My indignation rises and my face grows warm. I’m about to open my mouth when there’s a light touch on my arm.

‘Let her have her moment of glory,’ Grace says.

‘She didn’t thank you either.’

Grace shrugs. I suppose she thinks she doesn’t deserve special thanks as she’s only done what she was paid to do. She won’t say anything against Lucy anyway. It isn’t her way to say anything against anyone. ‘Your turn will come,’ she says, and, as I watch her gaze tracking Mum around the room, I realise that what she’s really saying is, Don’t start bickering with Lucy now or you’ll ruin your mum’s birthday.

‘You’re right,’ I tell her, feeling a little ashamed of my indignation.

Grace pats my arm then picks up a tray of drinks and begins to circulate, offering them to guests. I’m about to slip out of the room to get changed when Mum catches my hand.

‘Thanks, Jenna. I’m guessing the spa day was a strategy to keep me out of the house. Did you help plan the party too?’

‘A bit. Was it a nice surprise?’

Mum’s smile is valiant but can’t quite hide the strain. ‘It’s lovely to see everyone and I’m flattered you’ve both gone to so much trouble. I won’t forget this birthday.’

‘Grace helped too.’ I nod at her and catch her eye. She walks over to us and offers us glasses of bubbly. ‘Thanks, Grace,’ I say, thinking the alcohol might help me relax.

I take it to my room and drink it while I’m getting changed.

Back downstairs, and feeling more like my old self with my dreadlocks adorned with ribbons to match my floral dress and strappy sandals, I take a deep breath then make my way to the throng of people in the marquee. I don’t know why Lucy insisted on this glorified tent in the garden. There’s plenty of room in the house. Actually, I do know why she insisted on a marquee. It’s to impress people. Other people’s admiration, and even possibly envy, are so important to Lucy. That’s why she needs the flashy car, designer handbag and a bigger house.

My hand hovers over a glass of orange juice. Sod it, why not? I take another glass of Prosecco instead but decide to make this my last because I’m not great with alcohol. Lucy is playing the role of the hostess and flitting from one group to another, soaking up their praise like a lizard under a heat lamp. Her fiancé, Ellis, stands alone in the corner, his head bowed under the low fabric ceiling. I don’t know what she sees in him. He’s a tall, streak of piss whose idea of fun is trying to improve his Mensa score. I suppose Lucy enjoys taking the lead in the relationship, and, as he has the backbone of an invertebrate, he lets her.

I listen as Lucy talks to a couple of middle-aged lecturers about the lack of commitment from students who seem more motivated by parties and alcohol than by learning. I approach them to join in, but Lucy directs them away to introduce them to another couple. I stand still, feeling foolish until Grace appears next to me.

‘You look lovely, Jenna. Your hair’s amazing.’

‘Lucy thinks I’m an embarrassment.’ I gulp down the last mouthful of wine and rub the end of my nose. It’s starting to go numb. A sure sign that the alcohol is hitting my blood stream.

‘You know Lucy loves you really. She just wants you to fit in.’

‘I’m getting another drink. Want one?’

‘Maybe you should eat something first.’

I was going to get an orange juice but fuck it. I’ll have another Prosecco. I watch people pile their plates with food from the buffet and cringe inwardly at the platters of cold beef and ham, thinking of the poor animals that have been sacrificed to provide this feast. The roasted cauliflower bites and spinach pinwheels I made are being overlooked in favour of the mini bacon and egg quiches and chicken skewers. I grudgingly admit that Lucy was right about the food and people’s preferences.

I manage to chat superficially with a few people and nod as they lavish praise on Mum about her work. They ask me how she’s managing without Dad, and I lie and say she’s coping well.

‘What are you doing these days, Gemma?’ an old friend of Mum and Dad’s asks.

He never gets my bloody name right. His permanently raised eyebrows have creased his forehead into furrows and the hairy mole on his nose moves as he speaks. I fight the urge to giggle.

‘I’m planning to travel soon – Cambodia, Thailand and maybe Vietnam.’

‘How wonderful. Are you taking a gap year? Oh no, silly me. You’ll already have finished University. What was it you studied? I can’t recall.’

I bet he knows I didn’t even make it through Sixth Form College, the old bastard. ‘Life studies,’ I say with a sweet smile, then I make my excuses and walk away, giving the uneven floor my full attention. Why do my family and their friends always make me feel such a failure?

After twenty minutes I can’t take any more polite chit chat and the alcohol is making me feel disassociated from everything. I slip outside to stand behind the marquee and watch the sunset instead. I’ve almost emptied my third glass of wine and am marvelling at how the horizon is tilting like a plate on a juggler’s pole when I realise I’m not alone. Ellis is standing next to me eating raspberry cheesecake.

‘Like to try?’ he asks, holding some out on a fork.

It looks rather nice and I do need something to mop up the alcohol. I open my mouth like a baby bird but almost miss the spoon. He lifts a finger and gently wipes a smear of cream from the corner