A piece of fiction, told from the wife's perspective...
For some reason we never seem to have much of a New Year; something always crops up to get in the way. For years it was the kids - arranging a babysitter for New Year's Eve was virtually impossible in our village, so we never bothered. Then when they were old enough to look after themselves, they wanted to be involved and so we stayed in and had a mini-party all of our own. Last year it was to be just us and we had booked a smart restaurant, which had cost a small fortune; however Terry had gone down with food poisoning and written off the whole of Christmas and the New Year, so we'd had to cancel. This year it was going to be different. The girls are both grown up and out at their own parties so it was just the two of us. After twenty years of disappointing New Years, this year we were going out.
We had been invited to a party at the Denbys, which was quite an event in itself. The Denbys were part of the in-crowd; in fact they were the core of the in-crowd. We didn't very often get to mix with that particular set and, call it social climbing if you like, I was rather looking forward to the opportunity. Terry had done some legal work for Denby Polymers just before Christmas and got them out of a hole apparently; so this was to be our reward. But regardless of the spurious reason for our invitation, I was going to make the most of it!
I had bought something new to wear: very sexy, very black, very short! It was not the sort of outfit I was used to wearing, but then again this was not the sort of party I was used to attending. I had even bought a new shirt and tie for Terry, which I had given him as a Christmas present, although really it had been with this party in mind. I am not much of a party animal, but I had built this one up - it was a new start with a new crowd to see in a new year: it felt good to be optimistic for a change.
From the moment we started getting ready nothing went according to plan. To begin with Terry didn't want to wear his new shirt. Or to be more accurate, he got ready to go out putting on a totally different shirt. I hadn't actually told him why I had bought it, so it was difficult to make him wear it, but I was determined to try. He thought I was making far too much of this invite and so decided to pick that moment to be awkward. I engineered to spill something on his back so that he had to change, however he decided to be even more awkward and so changed into something else. We argued; he sulked; I went off to get changed. Thirty minutes later I came downstairs dressed up to the nines only to find that he had already started drinking. He didn't even comment on my finery, which annoyed me yet further. I turned to flounce out, only to catch my leg on the side of the wooden door and put a huge ladder in my tights. Now he chose to comment!
It turned out I had no spare tights, so I asked Terry to slip to the Tesco Express to get me another pair - he was already over the limit and so couldn't go; another mini-argument ensued. By now it was nearly half past eight, we were running late and he was half-cut; the New Year gremlin had struck again. However, things took a positive turn: recognising the state I had worked myself up into, Terry decided that he should perhaps change into his new shirt after all. He presented me with a glass of wine and told me he would be five minutes and then we had better set off.
At least he now looked the part and we actually held hands for the eight hundred yard walk to the Denbys' house. However there was a cold wind which served as a reminder that my legs were bare under my shortish dress. When we arrived the party was in full swing, although I was quite surprised to find it was a more select gathering than I had anticipated; there were maybe twenty people, mostly standing around in small groups chatting.
Terry was whisked way by John Denby for what looked suspiciously like a business discussion, but his wife Sarah introduced me to various people and I was made to feel extremely welcome. Drinks and canapés appeared before me and John's brother Peter seemed to take on the role of taking care of me. Peter was around forty, a good ten years younger than Terry and I.
The evening was very informal. I saw little of Terry for the next hour or so, however Peter was very good company, the wine was flowing and I had no complaints. As the evening wore on Peter became very flirty and his hands began wandering a little. At one stage he went to refresh our drinks, reappearing from behind me and somehow kissing my neck as he delivered the drink.
Then John reappeared and took me to one side to tell me that Terry had over-indulged in the champagne and was rather the worse for wear. I apologised profusely and, furious, said I would take him home; however John said not to be so silly and that he would take him outside for some air and not to spoil my party; he just thought I should know.
Embarrassed I explained to Peter that this was typical of Terry and told him how I would get my revenge in the morning. Peter listened sympathetically, then out of the blue asked if I always wore a thong. Whether it was my anger at Terry or the drink I am not sure, but somehow I hadn't noticed that he was now openly fondling my bottom through my dress. I looked around but there were only a handful of others in the room and nobody seemed to have noticed. He chuckled, and then excused himself and disappeared up to the bathroom, much to my relief.
I regained my composure and Sarah came across to chat, asking was I enjoying the party, was Peter looking after me, was there anything she could get me, and so on. I tried to apologise for Terry but she laughed it off, saying it was perfectly alright and not to worry. Then Peter reappeared and Sarah moved on. Peter leaned forward confidentially and told me he had just seen my husband from the window, asleep in the garden. He said to follow him and he would show me what sort of a state he was in.
We went up a few stairs and into a darkened bedroom. I assumed Terry would be passed out on the bed, but the room was empty. Alarm bells were ringing but Peter went straight over to the window and pulled the curtain, pointing outside so I crossed the room and peered out. Sure enough, there was Terry slumped under a tree, dead to the world. I was utterly devastated - we finally get invited to this sort of a party and he gets drunk and passes out.
