Spectre at the feast
Hercule Poirot slumped in an armchair, open can of Red Stripe tipping perilously close to his crotch. Nearby Marilyn Monroe leaned against the wall, fag in hand, left tit edging ever closer to freedom and talking either to Charlie Chaplin or Hitler; with neither bowler hat nor nazi insignia it was difficult to tell. Vincent Vega wandered vaguely from room to room
In short, it was carnage. The kind of party I loathed; Tsar Nicholas II was being sick in the sink. You could hear the lumps and I didn’t envy my sister having to clear up that little treat tomorrow.
For now though Joanna was in her element, surrounded by admirers and looking every inch the belle of the ball because, as always, the whole thing was all about her. You’d have thought it was her birthday, not mine.
I stood in my corner sipping gin, waiting till Joanna decided I could go to bed. You see this party was for me; an act of sisterly love. Never mind that I hated costumes and parties and drunk people and vomiting Russian oligarchs - this was my night and I had better damn well enjoy it.
Suddenly a voice tinged with cockney spoke into my ear.
“I’m sorry - you’re on my foot. I mean, you’ve been there a while, so it’s not necessarily a problem, only it’s starting to hurt, so if you could, maybe...move?”
I panicked, stumbled, fell. We crashed backwards through the concertina doors, landing in a pile of dust and MDF.
“Oh God. I’m sorry!” I was lying on a thin man in a white suit, striped shirt and tie. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Nice costume” I offered apologetically, hauling myself off him, straightening my dress.
“Michael Caine. Italian Job?” he waved a plastic rifle feebly. The doors were in bits, but nobody had noticed.
“Look, don’t think I’m a complete muppet, but I’ve been watching you - not in a creepy way - and you don’t seem to be having a great time. Why don’t you go home?”
“That’s my sister”. Joanna’s face was now wrapped around Vincent Vega’s, they swayed passionately, narrowly missing the heaving Tsar.
“Yes. To be honest, you don’t seem that happy either. Or drunk. Why are you still here?”
“Vincent Vega is my brother.”
We stood silently for a bit.
“And this is your…”
“So you have to stay and watch your sister…?”
“Even though you…?”
“I’d leave, but she’d give me the ‘hard-done-by sister’ routine forever. Not worth it.”
“She actually looks pretty busy with Alfie. He made me come so he could dress up like a twat and swan around impressing girls without feeling like a loner. Let’s blow this popsicle stand while they’re not looking. I know a great Italian place?”
“Trains will have stopped by now. It’s gone 10.”
Michael Caine pulled car keys from his pocket;
“Hang on a minute, lads, I’ve got a great idea...”