The Last Toast

I counted the relatives by nosiness, a scale of one to ten. Aunt Margaret was a solid eight, hovering near the buffet with the intensity of a private investigator. Cousin Dave was a four, mostly distracted by the open bar. My mother was an eleven, though I didn’t count her twice.

I stood near the punch bowl, holding a glass of white wine I hadn’t touched, pretending to be interested in the floral arrangement. Freddie stood beside me, close enough that the heat of his arm radiated through his suit jacket. He was my colleague from the firm, a man who specialized in structural integrity and currently specialized in playing my boyfriend. I had dragged him out of London and back to this damp, familiar town in Oxfordshire to stop the questions. I had expected him to be stiff, to check his watch, to look at me like a project deadline.