Pippa was determined to go to Esmerelda’s party, even if it meant postponing her discussion with Theo. There were pros and cons to this approach, Pippa reasoned, while glugging a large G&T as she threw on a dress and tried to fake tan her legs at the same time.
One part of the procedure was going well – the G&T drinking – the others, less so. Going out would give her the chance to put the incident with Theo into perspective and give her time to think. It might also make Theo worry about what her reaction would be when they finally spoke.
On the other hand, she might lose the moment, and give Theo time to come up with an alibi.
What swung the decision in the end, was the fact that there were always problems with Theo, while there were not always parties, at least not glamorous ones that she was invited to.
Pippa didn’t need a degree in philosophy to be able to work out that fewer problems, and more parties would potentially result in greater happiness. Whether that was for the greatest number, or just for her, remained to be seen.
A flick of eyeliner later, Pippa was ready. She did a quick turn in the full length ornate framed mirror and was quite happy with the reflection. The eau-de-nil slip would have looked insipid on her in winter, but her summer skin in full freckle, boosted with fake tan, and golden red hair set it off beautifully.
She channelled the Pre-Raphaelite model vibe all the way down the stairs. Serenity reigned in St Saviours. Until she reached the front door and tripped over Bob, who was lying, rather inconveniently on the doormat.
Had Bob been a cat, or even a dog, this sort of position may have been expected. As Bob was, however, Pippa’s husband, it was not.
Bob groaned as a sandal bashed his knee, grateful his wife didn’t like stilettoes. Pippa shrieked as she felt herself flying forwards, the stained-glass window centimetres from her nose. She grabbed the brass doorknob to steady herself, recoiling in shock as it came off in her hands.
When Theo walked into the room a moment later, curious about the noise, he found his father, prostrate on the floor. His mother lying on top of him.
“Seriously, parents. Get a room!” He sniffed indignantly at the ignominy of a parental PDA. At their age!
Pippa and Bob watched as six feet of hormones sauntered out the hallway. Then burst into laughter.
“Oh God, Bob. What are you doing here?” Pippa groaned. “I nearly killed myself going through the glass plate.”
Bob rolled out from under Pippa’s elbow so he could breath. He now understood why women didn’t generally play sports against men. With elbows like that it would be far too dangerous for the blokes.
“What? You can’t seriously have been trying to do yoga on the door mat.”
“It was either that or the bathmat. But the bathmat was wet.”
“Why yoga? Why now?”
Yoga was such a departure from Bob’s usual homecoming repertoire of sofa, beer, and shed, that Pippa may as well have been asking Bob why he had become a Mormon, or decided to become an astronaut. Yoga and Bob were worlds apart. That happened to collide with her on the door mat.
“You don’t do yoga.”
Bob looked evasive. It bore the hallmarks of the expression she had seen on Theo earlier that day, the ‘I’m not telling a lie. But I’m not telling the truth’ sort of look. Pippa had a nose for funny looks, she could sniff them out a bit like when she did a fridge forage and managed to separate the items that had gone off from the ones that were still perfectly fine for supper.
There was something very peculiar going on with the menfolk in the house. However, there was also still a party to go to.
Bob’s car keys were lying on the floor. It was too late now to get the bus.
Pippa pocketed the keys. “Okay. I’ll leave you to yoga. Perhaps you can practise with the doorknob and work on your downward DIY position.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.” Pippa replied with a flounce, heading for the back door. She might have to climb over a fence to escape, but she was jolly well going to go to the party and enjoy it.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, or actual events is purely coincidental.