10:42;10:43 P.M.
10:42 P.M.
Milton Jameson the Third, unattached and without offspring, was the first of the party to arrive on the front terrace. He was very drunk. As he slowly approached the big four-oh, his reputation dwindled in importance, and with no family left to wound or disappoint, he would gladly make a monolithic buffoon of himself at such a function if it gave him a good story to tell when he turned fifty. If it weren’t for their already dreary night, he might have walked up to Mayor Deakins and his wife, called them both cunts, and walked home smiling either plus a black eye or minus a tooth – the event was that boring, and not even frequent trips to the bathroom to snort cocaine helped liven it up.
As his name denotes, Milton came from an affluent family and became the sole heir to a significant fortune and a vast enterprise. Everything became his just a few short years ago when, at the still young age of fifty-two, his father had a stroke in the back of his Rolls Royce. Having no love lost for his tyrant of a father, that Rolls was the first thing he sold off. Out of misplaced pride in a name he felt nothing but disdain for, he did attempt to steward his father’s enterprise at first. As the perennial black sheep of the Jameson name, it did not take him more than a year to throw it all at the wall. In over his head, he promptly sold everything off piece by piece until all that remained were the kernel companies. Those companies were what he retained stock options for and though he was on the board for all four of them, he never attended any meetings. As much as he wished to burn his father to the ground and emancipate himself from the burden of his name, he made sure that those companies were in hands more capable than his under the condition their names never change.
Now Milton was exuberantly rich and shorn of any responsibility. He could go anywhere, be anyone, sleep with anyone, buy anything, and yet he was reticently miserable, especially at these social events he loathed so much. If it were not for his oldest friend, Philip Donaghue Junior, he would probably be snorting cocaine off a hooker’s fake tits instead trying to snort cocaine without the short, foreign doorman in a funny outfit noticing.
Politically, he was too disinclined to be partisan or bi-partisan. He simply did not see the value in politics or government growing up, unlike his deceased brothers and his deceased sister, and now that he had everything he could ever need, he saw even less value in politics and government. But by helping his friends through donating money, he also helped himself, according to his broker, Marcel Pascal. Milton may be a financial heretic of sorts though he was still wily enough to hire a wizard to ensure he never went broke. Through donations to tax deductable charity organizations, he both maintained his name with reluctance and kept Uncle Sam from pilfering his pockets completely.
The doorman opened the door. He unscrewed his vial and filled the shallow cap with cocaine. As he’d perfected years back, he snorted the expensive granulate that smelled of a dollar store permanent marker and then immediately coughed to mask his use. A husband and wife walked down the front steps, and between his general horniness and the gram of cocaine he’d sniffed tonight, he was mollified by her toned, tanned legs and tried to see what colour panties she was wearing as she sat in the back of their chauffeured town car. Women like that were the fringe benefits of attending such benefits. High class women took care of themselves and they would not even blink at his comparably meagre account balance. Knowing masturbation was all he had to look forward to before he laid his head on his pillow, he sniffed more cocaine.
At the back of the parking light headlights turned on. A slate grey limousine advanced along the lot’s perimeter at such a crawl he had difficulty verifying it moved at all. It rolled up to the bottom of the steps with an engine so quiet he heard the individual snaps of the pebbles its tires crushed.
The driver’s window rolled down. The only part of the driver’s face that poked out of the shadows was his chin and lower lip. “Mr. Jameson?”
“That’s my name.”
“You are a part of Mr. Donaghue’s party, correct?”
“I am.”
“Mr. Donaghue just informed me that they will be out momentarily.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
There was a patch of disquiet. Though he could not see them, he felt the driver’s eyes size him up.
“You’re welcome to wait in the back.”
Milton pulled out his cigarettes. “Thank you, but I’m going to have a smoke first.”
“As you wish, Mr. Jameson.”
The window rolled up.
10:43 P.M
“All I am saying is that I am getting real sick of this shit, Jeannette.”
“What shit, Marcel? What shit?”
“You get three or four drinks into you and suddenly you’re fraternising with strange men.”
“Strange men? You know exactly who Stavros is.”
“Yeah, I do. And I know he’s a shifty Greek.”
“You want to talk about me? After a few drinks, you become an insanely jealous asshole.”
“And you bring it out in me.”
“How? How do I do that?” Jeannette snatched a glass of champagne off a silver tray as a servant passed.
“Because you attract all kinds of creeps with your incessant flirting.”
“You know I can’t help it. That’s how I am wired, darling. And if I had never flirted with you after I had some bubbly, we wouldn’t be married.” She drank.
“And that’s why I am so worried.”
“Don’t be.”
“That’s what you always say. But it just makes me worry more.”
“Do you not believe I am faithful to you?”
He tried to unlock her mind with his turbid stare.
“Scotch,” Marcel said to the bartender. “Neat.”
She loathed when he became suspicious and jealous. A little jealously now and then she actually appreciated, like a passive-aggressive declaration of undying love, but these days it made his face crimson, impish, ugly, and his every statement became a veiled inquisition and every glance a cross-examination. All the same, she drank champagne, more amused than perturbed – the more he sought to control her the more she wished to be free of his control, and thus they danced with each other. However there was no humour in his jealousy tonight. As she watched him watch her from the corner of his eye, she only saw bubbling rage pushing against its cork.
He took his scotch and spun the taupe fluid in his hand.
“You know, Jeannette, unlike this scotch.” He drank it and politely slammed the glass on the marble bar. “Your faithfulness is getting real difficult to swallow.”
He held up his finger for the bartender.
She had no strategic response to his statement. Jeannette picked up his next scotch. He had not looked at her since she last spoke. She drank his drink with a sorrowful gasp. “Why are you so morose tonight?”
“I don’t think I’m being morose at all.”
“Well, you are.”
“Then I’m being morose. I really don’t fucking care.”
Brigit and Donaghue joined them.
“We’re leaving in a few minutes,” Brigit said.
“We’ll be right behind you,” Jeannette said.
“Another scotch, my good man!” Marcel yelled to the bartender.
Philip aimed his inquisitive expression towards Marcel.
Jeannette shrugged.
It was, after all, a typical day in their marriage.