1985
"My dear, it's time" Freddie's whispered encouragement cuts through the dim atmosphere like deaths scythe. The girl sighs, soothing the creases of her billowing white dress as she stands, not needing the obligatory tap of the champagne glass to command the rooms attention. The index cards, scattered and battered as they are, hold her speech; somehow, they have found there way into her shaking hands, though, they do not reflect what she wishes to say, that which she can not articulate.
She inhales a deep breath, her eyes fluttering closed to drown out the endless sea of faces.
Relax, she can hear Roger commanding her, in that soft-spoken way of his. You've been writing for weeks. It's going to be perfect; you've read our diaries a thousand times over. Just picture the good times, the ones you were most at ease, and pretend you're there. Just me and you, no one else. United, as one, forever.
"Let me tell you about our birthday" she starts, her voice shaking, feeling her lovers smile on her from the head of the table.
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