Dancing in a Distant Place [antikvár]

The M i s s i e A crowded bar in Glasgow, a shiny place, chrome and glass and very noisy, a constant thrum and babble, conversations and laughter. Too noisy for Iris, really, though she loves the city, the movement, the bustle. It's raining outside, a thin soaking drizzle, streaming endlessly. Cars hiss past on the road. She watches the world through the window, slightly steamed, and glowing reflections. She can see herself, though tries not to. Her face always surprises her these days. How did that happen to it? Not the lines and wrinkles, she knows how they got there. Time and worry have done that. Like they have to all the familiar faces round the table tonight. No, it's the slightly mournful look that seeps into her eyes, a deepening sadness. She remembers times past, and always, always she thinks, I could have done better. She is hard on herself. All her life she has found it difficult to forgive herself her mistakes, or thinks, when considering a past situation or problem, that she could have done more, pushed herself further. 'Bloody weather,' she says. Everyone agrees. But there is something lovely about the rain. Especially when you are looking at it from the warmth inside. Rivers of water run down the pane, lights gleam, reflected in pools on the pavement. An alluring glimmer. A chill November night. Iris sits with her friends, and her daughter, Sophy. She drinks champagne, though she claims she does not like it. 'It's fizzy. And proper drink isn't fizzy.' She laughs. Her laughter is a song, loud, rhythmic. Her face wreathes into mirth. Tonight she wears a purple silk ankle-length skirt, a matching purple shirt, black velvet jacket. Round her neck, to cover time's cruelties, a pink silk scarf. In her small crowd, all well dressed but