Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough by Isabel Sharpe Page A

out to find the bar, and she wasn't coming back until she was too drunk to stay conscious. What's more, she was in enough of a mean/bitchy/nuts mood that she was going to dress up— hi I'm Vivian I'll be your town's slutty murderess —and have herself a ball. These people needed waking up. And she needed to piss people off.
      Upstairs to the de -knickknacked bedroom, though she left the dollhouse and Jesus clock alone for now, she yanked off the New York Giants T-shirt that had belonged to Ed. Got out of the seamless ivory bra, too, and put on her laciest black push -'em-together model. Over that, a red ribbed knit top, cut low enough to make the bra worthwhile. People would get what they expected, what they didn't realize they secretly needed her to be, so they could disapprove, feel moral, righteous, superior. They got what they wanted; so did she.
      If Ed were here, he'd stop her going out. He knew her moods, knew when she was on a manic high of self -destruction. But he wasn't here. And she wasn't about to deny herself the pleasure-pain of imploding.
      She stepped out of her panties, pulled on a thong and a pair of tight black stretch pants. Then her Manolo Blahnik black high-heeled pumps and the full makeup and jewelry treatment and a nice press -on-nails restoration of her manicure.
      Okay. Ready.
      She stared at herself in the fussy, gilt -framed mirror between the windows facing the street. She looked tired. And old. But the people in Kettle would have plenty to talk about regardless.
      Downstairs, outside, not bothering with a coat, she glanced at Mike's house and hesitated, wondering if she should knock on his door instead and see if he wanted to have a drink. Or come out with her.
      A car drove past her driveway and into his. A young, attractive blond, with a chin -length blunt bob and a headband, for God's sake—had no one a clue here?—carefully outfi tted in pleated khaki pants and a perfectly wrinkle -free forest green shirt, got out, reached into the backseat, and pulled out a covered dish.
      Car door closed, she started to Mike's front door as if down the aisle to her beaming groom. Halfway, she glanced over, met Vivian's stare, and nearly dropped the dish.
      "Oh . . . hi." She turned bright red and looked back over her shoulder, clearly craving the safety of her car.
      Vivian smiled, open and friendly. Even she wasn't messed up enough to pick on Virgin Nelly here. "Big date tonight?"
      "Oh." She erupted in nervous laughter. "I just thought Mike might like . . . this."
      She lifted the casserole dish like an offering to the gods, and stared at it uncertainly.
      "I'm sure he'll love it."
      "I hope so." She giggled again and hurried to his door.
      Vivian rolled her eyes and got into her car. Mike probably had a regular parade of hot dishes offering themselves. What had his wife been like? Virginal and sweet like little Nelly?
      Undoubtedly.
      She shot the car in reverse and peeled down the street, just to crank off the neighbors. Oh that horrible Vivian Harcourt. Whole town went to hell when she moved here.
      News flash, neighbors. It's hell here already.
      Up to Spring Street, turn right, up to Main Street, turn
    left. That was about as complicated as Kettle got. She cruised down Main and finally spotted a likely looking place on the left, just past the pharmacy. Harris's Tavern.
      She parked—there was even parking here—locked her car, and walked up to the brown -shingled exterior with frosted windows and a Budweiser sign glowing red. A few pedestrians passed, glancing curiously. Her nerves buzzed with anticipation; she was spoiling for a scene, a fight, anything but the bleakness of pain.
       Hey, Kettle. Here comes your worst nightmare. She pushed open the door.
      Her first reaction when she walked into the smoky gloom was intense relief. She half expected the place to be neon bright, squeaky clean, and decorated like a Girl Scout den.