"Oh there you are sweetheart, where have you been? Never mind that now, there's someone I want you to meet, Charles? You remember Connie, my daughter…"

The man turns and is met by smiles; both false although you wouldn't know it, or necessarily believe it if it happened to cross your mind. Hands are shaken and the usual pleasantries tossed around, the comments about my age, our last meeting, how wonderfully I've grown up, all the while gripping my petite hand tightly in his sweaty palms, and I dislike him instantly. I swallow the poisonous exclamation as his gaze falls along my curves appreciatively, and smile sweetly instead; butter truly wouldn't melt in the mouth of Trevor Barton's daughter.

Not wanting to be out done, my newly-acquired hand-holder turns and waves over another man; one I don't recognise. Dropping my hand grudgingly, he smiles at my father nauseatingly, and then my hand's been shaken by someone else, softly, with care, as his eyes pierce my mind at an instant.

"This is my son, Michael."

The rest of his words wash over me, none remaining long enough to stick in my mind as I eye the face looking down at me in such amusement, with curiosity, and as Charles' attention turns to the next unsuspecting daughter, I smile, enjoying at once the company of the latest stranger.

--------------------

"You play it well" He remarks, ordering two glasses of wine from the bar despite my protests of being under-age and having no desire to drink myself under the table when in the company of my father's work colleagues.

I frown, my naturally suspicious mind quick to question him. "What?"

"The dutiful daughter"

Laughter rings out at the term, despite my uncertainty about whether it was spoken unwittingly "It comes with practise."

"He brings you to a lot of these then?"

A nod, validating his assumption. "I'm a much younger and prettier ornament to hang from his arm than his wife. It does the business good apparently.."

"It bores you" He states with a smirk which irritates me immediately.

"Why would it?" comes my opposition, my temper flaring not for the first time tonight, and then a softer, more light hearted answer to my own question follows. "An evening of long dresses and compliments, sugary smiles and sparkling conversation, who would pass it up in favour of a night in front of the telly?"

"Someone who looks like she wants to cut of the testicles of every man she's shaken hands with tonight."

The bitterness is evident in my voice as I reply. "If they didn't insist on groping me every time they think my father's back is turned, then I wouldn't have a problem with them."

His laugh isn't accusing, or justifying, it simply highlights his amusement at my fiery temperament, and causes my face to soften considerably. "And anyway, I didn't look like that every time…"

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"Are all the rooms here like this?" is the question that shows my naivety of such places, and he nods, an eyebrow raised at my chosen topic.

"Drink?"

I shake my head once more, rolling my eyes as I turn away from him, casting my gaze around the room with intrigue.

"You don't mind if I have one?" A gentleman's question, met with the obligatory response..

"So you're interested in art?" He remarks, moving from behind the bar and stepping towards me as I continue to study the paintings. Grinning, I turn and shake my head. "Not in the slightest."

Amusement flashes across his face once more as he downs his drink, setting the glass down on the side behind him. "So why are you here?"

My silence speaks volumes, and he steps towards me.

"What would you say, if I told you I was married?"

I raise my eyebrow suggestively, the equivalent of a coy shrug of the shoulders, and step towards him.

No words are spoken from then on, but I knew the second his lips reach mine, that he was going to break my heart. Silent whispers with the caress of his tongue promise me the world, his fingertips assuring that he'll be careful. His smile isn't triumphant when we fit together perfectly, his sighs reflecting my feelings entirely as we overstep the line between the polite children of two colleagues.

--------------------

"How old was he?"

Her words bring her companion back to the present, her face now etched with sadness, where pure happiness had once laid its head.

"Old enough to know better" Comes the over-used reply, shortly followed by the actual answer. "Twenty… Married less than a year…"

"Who was she?" Once certain that the soft desire for clarification was void of any accusations, the woman decides to reply, years of living with her secret having taken away the sheepishness with which she tells the sorry tale. "Her name was Fiona… Why am I telling you all of this?"

The second woman shrugs, increasingly aware of the questioning which is about to follow now that her partner has put an indefinite lid on her revelations.

"Did he say he loved you?"

Her response is made with blatant discomfort. "I've changed my mind, where's that bottle?"