RIP HER TO SHREDS
Maggie took two fluorescent drinks, served in hollowed out pineapples by a girl in a hula outfit, and sucked on all eight protruding straws at once. She could see, from where she stood, behind a large waxed plant at the end of the bar, that no one else had taken the dress code literally.
Maggie cursed herself in language too foul to repeat. It was the sort of mistake she was making a lot, just lately, and she did not know why.
‘Oh dear, you’ve taken things a little far, haven’t you?’ said a woman in a little black cocktail dress, a zebra mask over her eyes.
Maggie turned and sighed. ‘How was I to know, when told to dress as my favourite beast, for a party at the zoo, that no one else would dress up properly? I suppose I’ll just have to drink my way through the embarrassment.’
‘I shouldn’t if I were you,’ said the zebra, lowering her voice, conspiratorially. ‘You know what you’re like when you’re drunk. You’d mount anything. You tart.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Maggie, all of a sudden struggling to breathe. But the zebra woman sprang off and disappeared into the crowd.
So her reputation had preceded her, Maggie thought: nothing wrong with that, not necessarily, for it had taken many years to build. But she did wonder briefly what she had done to upset the zebra before abandoning the thought as unnecessarily reckless. She finished her drink and started to search for someone she knew.
It was a rare event, escaping the office at such a reasonable hour. It was important to enjoy herself. Lately, her life had been no fun at all. For four evenings in five she sat at her desk as the night slid away from her, because she had reached such a position that they expected her to do
