The party had actually been not-horrifying when John finally got into the swing of it. Two glasses of wine and half a dozen dances with a giggling, fawning Sam had helped with that. The conversation with Graham’s wife, wherein she’d jumped to John’s defence the moment her husband had started getting catty with words, had been rather enjoyable as well.
“Don’t listen to him,” the woman had said, glaring daggers through Graham. “He wouldn’t know decent literature if it hit him over the head. The only stories he’s capable of reading start with the phrase ‘Dear Penthouse’.”
It shouldn’t have amused John as much as it did. But it did. And with his mood elevated by not one supportive fan, but two, John was able to smile and make a decent show of talking through most of the night.
Regardless of
