Saturday, December 11:
The thing I have always hated most about winter is not the cold. It is the darkness. Early December is always the worst, and this particular December seemed even more sombre than most. The snow had not yet begun to fall in earnest, but the brilliance of autumn had faded to a uniform grey, lit feebly by the weakened sun, as it died its long, wintry death.
Each year there is one bright spot, though -- an antidote to the gloomy days and long nights: the gala Christmas party my friend Carmen Caporicci throws on the second Saturday of December. It is always a brilliant, effervescent affair, full of twinkling lights, sophisticated food and drink, and of course, fascinating gossip. This year, like every other for the past twenty years, was no exception.
Carmen held the event in the reception area above her suite of offices on Sussex Drive, where she founded Ottawa's most exclusive interior design company fifteen years ago. Her work is in high demand among those who can afford to pay someone to tell them to buy five thousand dollar couches, hand-knotted Persian rugs, inlaid desks made of three or four precious woods, and scalloped pelmets. Whatever a pelmet is.
As usual, I arrived late; the party was already in full swing. I slipped into the room more or less unnoticed, which was fine by me. Carmen's parties and I have a love-hate relationship -- I'm drawn like a magpie to the sparkle and flash of it all, but these huge gatherings always intimidate me more than they should. Was I under- or over-dressed? Would I put my foot in my mouth -- again? I blanched inwardly at the remembrance of having blithely informed one of Carmen's most obstreperous clients that she didn't seem nearly as difficult as Carmen had reported. That was three years ago, and Carmen assured me she'd forgotten all about the episode. I hadn't.
I squeezed past several clusters of chattering merrymakers to the bar, where a very nice young man poured me a Heineken. Then I tried my best to mingle in a sociable yet unobtrusive manner. Easier said than done: everyone else, it seemed, had found someone to converse with. The room was a bubbling, tinkling mass of bright, high-pitched voices, and I hovered awkwardly for several minutes, trying to find a place to fit in.
It seemed everyone in Ottawa had been invited to Carmen's party. In the corner, near a huge plant, I glimpsed an elderly senator leering at the burgeoning bosom of a computer mogul's wife, who punctuated each sentence by tossing her teased mane of blonde hair over her bare shoulders. I recognized a couple of city councillors, milling around the bar and slapping the owner of Ottawa's big-league hockey franchise on the back. Ottawa doesn't exactly have a glitterati set, but at Carmen's party, you could fool yourself.
"I can't believe you wore that dress -- you look like some kind of a slut," someone hissed, directly behind me. I whirled around, preparing to defend my honour (and that of the outfit I'd splurged on last week), but the man wasn't addressing me.
The object of his derision, a plump auburn-haired woman in her late twenties, stood frozen, wine suspended midway to her mouth. Her full lower lip had started to tremble, and her huge brown eyes welled with tears. The dress in question was forest-green velvet, and it hugged her curves beautifully, the scooped neck revealing a hint of bosom, the skirt flaring out over ample hips from her tiny waist.
"Actually, I think she looks perfectly lovely," I butted in, forgetting my vow to remain discreet. The man, a tall bearded guy whose knobby wrists extended a good inch beyond the shiny cuffs of his obviously rented tux, narrowed his eyes at me, warning me off. I pretended not to notice, and turned to talk to the woman.
"That colour looks wonderful on you," I said. "It makes your skin glow! Where did you get it?"
The man shot me a foul look, growled something under his breath, then turned on his heel and disappeared toward the bar. The woman ventured a timid smile.
"Thank you," she whispered. "He's not usually so rude in public. I think he might have had a bit too much punch. I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it."
"Well, never mind what he says. You do look great. Are you a friend of Carmen's?"
Her face brightened. "Oh, well, not a friend, exactly, but I like her a lot! She's a lovely lady. We met a few weeks ago, and she's been just wonderful to me. I couldn't believe she'd actually invite me to a party like this..."
Bib-bip-bip-beep... The high-pitched peeping made me jump, but the young woman reached into her velveteen handbag and pulled out a digital watch. With a practised flick, she switched off the alarm.
"Time for my medicine," she explained with a rueful smile. "Sorry. If I miss a dose, my brain fries."
I nodded as she popped an orange and white capsule into her mouth, washing it down with her drink.
"I'm Marion," she said, when she was done.
"Katy Klein. Nice to meet you." I extended my hand, and she took it.
"To tell you the truth, I've never been to a party as big and fancy as this," she confided. "It's a little intimidating, isn't it? I mean, all these famous people..." She gestured toward the crowd.
"I know what you mean. Carmen's set is a bit rich for my blood, too. Fun to watch, though."
Marion nodded. "I think Phil -- that's my husband, you know -- is probably feeling the same way. He only gets mean when he's upset about something."
"Is Phil the guy who was putting your dress down? He's your husband?"
She smiled ruefully. "For now, at least, yes. He didn't want to come at first. But then he thought there was a chance I might have fun without him, so he rented the suit this morning."
"Well, if I were you, I'd go ahead and have a blast. Don't let him stop you."
Marion had stopped listening to me, though. She stared past me with an expression I couldn't interpret.
"Oh, dear," she said. "Could you possibly excuse me? There's someone over there...I need to talk to them. Maybe we can chat a bit more later? Nice meeting you!"
She scurried away, and I sipped my Heinekin, leaning against a pillar. The tinkle of glasses, the buzz of conversation and laughter swirled around me, and I scanned the faces near me, looking for a familiar one.
"I hate these things, don't you?" A woman's voice cut through the hubbub, low and husky. "Such a load of hypocritical crap."
The young woman was tall and poker-thin, her nearly black hair cropped short above a fine-boned, angular face. She wore a black silk pantsuit, just this side of severe, but very elegant. She fingered the small silver cross that glinted at her throat, and glared as though expecting me to disagree.
"Well, I --" I started, but she cut me off.
"It's the fakery of it that gets to me," she said, as if I weren't there. "Everyone all lovey-kissy, when underneath it all they're thinking about how to stab each other in the back. Half the people here hate each other, you know. Some way to celebrate Christ's birthday, don't you think?"
I nodded, not sure how to respond.
Suddenly, she shook her head, as though to clear it. An uncertain smile illuminated her stern features, and she looked at me as though she'd only just seen me. "I'm sorry. Where are my manners? Are you a friend of Carmen's?"
"Actually, Carmen and I have known each other since kindergarten," I said. "What about you?"
"We've met a few times. Through my brother, mainly. I really hate these things -- I don't know why I let her talk me into coming."
"I know what you mean," I sympathized. "It took me fifteen minutes just to get to the bar. I'm Katy Klein, by the way."
"Diana Farnsworth. Nice to meet you." She extended her hand, and I shook it. It was cold. "Oh, look, here's Carmen --"
"Katy! When did you get here? I didn't even see you come in!" Carmen pounced on me, gripping my elbow, and I nearly spilled my drink. "Oh, my God, you look just fabulous -- that outfit is so flattering on you! It drapes so well, I'd swear you've been on a diet! Stand back a second. It's perfect! You see, I told you you'd look good in crimson! Diana, doesn't she look great?"
"Terrific," Diana agreed with a tiny smile, already starting to turn away.
"Hey, Carmen." I checked the front of my v-neck swing top to see if I'd managed to dribble anything on myself during her surprise attack. "No fair sneaking up on me like that -- I didn't even see you coming. Great party, though. As usual."
"Isn't it?" she dimpled. "Nearly everyone I invited is here. Not to mention a few I didn't. But that's okay. Just makes it more interesting. What do you think of the hors d'oeuvres? D'you think the pear and gorgonzola bruschetta is a bit much? After all, this isn't Toronto."
"Carmen, settle down. Everything's fine. Your parties are always fine, you know that. I like the string ensemble -- nice touch." I stooped to give my friend a quick hug, but she wriggled away from me.
"Sweetie, I just got my hair done. Oh!" Carmen's eyes widened, and she tugged on my arm again. "Katy, there's someone here you must meet. Diana, honey, your brother is right over here. He was just asking whether you were here yet -- you really should come and say hi."
Diana, who was now moving away from us, looked less than enthusiastic, but Carmen seemed not to notice, steering me instead toward a tall, raven-haired man who stood in the centre of a group of women. Apparently whatever he was telling them was vastly entertaining, for each time he paused, he was rewarded with a chorus of high-pitched giggles.
"Nigel! Nigel, I'd like you to meet my absolute best friend in the whole world, Dr. Katy Klein. Katy, this is Nigel Farnsworth."
I stuck my hand out, but a woman chose that moment to walk between us. Over her head, Nigel raised his drink to me in a mock salute. His deep blue eyes crinkled at the corners, and the warmth of his smile radiated across the space between us.
"Katy, it's wonderful to meet you at last. Carmen has told me so much about you." Though he had to shout to make himself heard above the laughter and clinking of glasses around us, his voice was deep and mellifluous, a natural baritone. Nigel Farnsworth -- the name was familiar. Was he a singer? Maybe with the National Arts Centre...in any case, he was gorgeous, though he seemed entirely unselfconscious about it. No wonder his impromptu groupies were hanging on his every word.
"Nice to meet you." I smiled back, trying to place Nigel. In a town the size of Ottawa, it shouldn't have been hard, but my aging brain was refusing to co-operate.
Nigel eased his way closer to Carmen and me, and rested his long, tapered hand with easy familiarity on my friend's silk-clad shoulder.
"Katy, Nigel is going to be getting his own television show next month," Carmen said. "Isn't that marvellous? I don't think I've ever been this close to a tv star before!" She twinkled up at him, all girlish adoration.
Nigel looked embarrassed, but there was a smile in his voice. "Not exactly a star, Carmen. It's not even a nationally syndicated show. I'm hardly a household name."
"Never mind. You soon will be, we all know that."
"What kind of television show will you have, Nigel?" I asked.
"It's an inspirational show, for the Sunday evening audience. I've had a small early morning program for several years, on the local cable station," he said. "But this is our first crack at commercial television. I'm hoping to really broaden our audience share, maybe even expand to a national base."
"Wow, that sounds interesting," I said, trying to infuse my voice with enthusiasm. I'm not much of an inspirational tv watcher, myself.
Nigel leaned toward me, and the crisp smell of his aftershave tickled my nostrils. "May I ask, Katy -- are you a Christian?" he asked.
"God, no!" I blurted. "I mean, no, I'm not. That is, I'm Jewish."
"Ah! Well, I know the rabbi from Beth Israel here in Ottawa -- we were just at an ecumenical session last week, talking about problems with the justice system. Very fine gentleman. Perhaps you know him? Rafael Tanner. He struck me as highly intelligent, and very dedicated."
"Sorry, I'm not much of a joiner when it comes to religion. I haven't set foot in a shul in years."
"Shul?" Nigel frowned at the unfamiliar word. Then he brightened. "Ah! Synagogue, you mean! Well, we all relate to God differently, don't we?"
I couldn't think of an intelligent response to this, being as how I've been an atheist since I can remember. So I just flashed him my brightest smile, hoping he'd take it for assent. Carmen interrupted, and just in time, too.
"Well! Oh, my dears, I just abandoned poor Diana! Nigel, she's right over there, she said she'd catch up with you as soon as she could. I must go introduce her around. Nigel, why don't you refill Katy's glass? You're drinking beer, aren't you, Katy? Nigel's a teetotaller, but he's very broad-minded, isn't that right, sweetie? You'll never believe it, Katy, but he and Diana have actually had me on the wagon for nearly a month now!"
She was right -- I didn't believe it. But my admiration for Nigel Farnsworth and his sister took an upward leap. I wondered what their technique was?
Without a backward glance, Carmen darted through the crowd. Nigel and I stood awkwardly for a moment, as I scanned frantically through my Conversational Gambits file for something intelligent to say to him. He got there first.
"So, ah, tell me, Katy, what do you do?" he asked. "For a living, that is."
"As it happens, Nigel, I'm an astrologer." I'm not sure what kind of response I expected to this announcement, but it was not the one I got.
"Dear God in heaven!" Nigel exploded. Imported beer sloshed over the brim of my glass, and I held the drink away from me, hoping to spare my outfit.
"What? You don't like astrologers?" I tried not to sound overly defensive, but the words were out before I could stop them. However, Nigel didn't seem to have heard me. His gaze was riveted on something a few feet away, behind the small cluster of women who'd surrounded him earlier. Even at my height, I couldn't quite see what had captured his attention.
Then I heard the scream.
"Oh, my God -- someone help her!" a woman cried, and all conversation in the room suddenly hushed. The musical ensemble stopped playing, right in the middle of Eine Kleine Nachtmuzik.
There was a gurgling, choking sound, and then a man yelled, "Marion! Goddammit, stop this! Get up!"
"Hey! Get him off her!" someone else shouted, and the room erupted into pandemonium.
I elbowed my way mercilessly past Nigel and his fan club, taking unfair advantage of my height and weight to jab and thrust my way toward whatever was happening to Marion. It was the smell that halted me. Sour, acrid -- someone had vomited, all over the polished pine floors. I peered over the head of a tiny, perfectly coiffed woman dressed in a very expensive-looking leopardskin catsuit.
Marion, the woman I'd spoken with earlier, lay on the floor, in a puddle of vomit. Her long, dark auburn hair was a tangled mess, and her handbag had flown out of her hand, landing a few feet away. Her husband, Phil, had grabbed her by the forearm, and was trying to yank her upright, but she kept arching and flopping backward, her head cracking against the floor. A young man, possibly the bartender, had hold of Phil's collar, and was trying to haul him away from the woman. The bearded man paid him no attention.
"Marion! Marion, I've had about enough of this! Enough, do you hear me? Snap out of it and get up, dammit!"
Marion was in no condition to snap out of anything. Her body heaved and buckled, her neck arching and spasming, eyes bulging. The rest of Carmen's guests stood frozen, horror and shock winning out over common sense. I forced my way into middle of this bizarre tableau, and grabbed Phil by the shiny sleeve of his tuxedo.
"What the hell is the matter with you? She's having a seizure, you idiot!" I screamed. "Get away from her! Someone, get this guy out of here! Now!"
Two men obliged, springing forward and helping the bartender. Phil struggled and swore, but they pushed him away from Marion, and eventually he retreated toward the bar, muttering to himself. After that, no one paid him much attention.
"Someone call an ambulance," I commanded. "Back off, people, give the woman some air. Carmen, can you open these windows?"
I wasn't certain that someone having an epileptic seizure actually needed air, but it seemed to make sense at the time.
Carmen hovered near the woman, her mouth opening and closing wordlessly.
"Carmen!" She jumped at my voice. "Carmen, someone has to call 911. Does anyone here have a phone?"
"D-don't know," she gulped, and looked around beseechingly. "No, wait, I have one..."
"Where? Come on, this is an emergency!"
"Purse. In my purse. I'll get it."
The woman on the floor had stopped spasming, and now lay quiet, her eyelids fluttering lightly. Her simple green velour dress was stained and rumpled, and her face was the colour of putty. I stepped closer, repulsed by the foul odour of vomit and something else -- had she emptied her bowels? My stomach heaved, but I knelt beside her and gingerly picked up a limp wrist, feeling for a pulse. There it was, weak and thready.
"Is the ambulance coming? Good." I tried to sound like the voice of calm authority. Then, "Oh, God -- I think she's starting again." Sure enough, the woman's body arched away from the floor, then dropped, only to spasm again. "Someone give me a hand here -- we've got to turn her on her side to keep her from aspirating her own vomit."
The paramedics arrived within five minutes, and by the time they'd strapped her to a board and loaded her into the ambulance, the party had begun to break up. As I left, the musical ensemble was packing their instruments.
###
"So what happened to the lady, Mom?" Dawn, my fifteen-year old daughter, lay sprawled across my bed. I stripped off my vomit-stained outfit, balled it up and stuffed it into a plastic laundry bag.
"Damn -- this thing cost me nearly a week's pay," I complained. "I hope the cleaner can get this guck out of it."
"Mom!"
"Sorry, honey. I don't know. They took her away, and we all just left. There wasn't much more anyone could do. Carmen was in tears, of course -- you know how she makes such a big deal out of these parties every year. I don't know how well she knew the woman, but you'd think the poor thing decided to have a seizure just to spoil Carmen's fun. When I left, Nigel was talking to her, and she was clinging to him like he was the last liferaft on the Titanic. I couldn't catch her eye, so I took off."
"I didn't think Carmen even went to church," Dawn said. "What's with the televangelist? Is he her new boyfriend, or something?"
"Who knows?" I yawned. "She never tells me who she's going out with any more. She thinks I'll judge her, or something."
"Well, she's right!" Dawn laughed. "She's not exactly the queen of good taste in the men department, you know."
"Hey! That's my oldest friend you're talking about, kid!" But I laughed too. Dawn was right -- Carmen had a habit of choosing wildly unsuitable men, then being devastated when it didn't work out.
"Anyway, this is an about-face for her, isn't it? Wasn't she the one who told me religion was the something-or-other of the masses?"
"The opiate? Yeah, she probably did. But you know how she is -- she goes through these cycles. This time she's found religion, that's all."
"Well, I wonder how long this one'll last?"
"Dawn, since when have you started being so judgmental about Carmen? You know she adores you."
"I don't know. There's just something...odd about it. It's like, she says one thing, then does the opposite. What am I supposed to think?"
I sighed. "I don't know. It's really none of our business, though, is it?"
"Maybe not. But I'll tell you one thing, Mom. I'm no astrologer, but even I can see that this relationship is headed for disaster."
