Going the Distance

Book 0: The Milton St John Trilogy

by Christina Jones

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Maddy Beckett lives in the horse-racing village of Milton St John. Recovered from a disastrous love-affair and running her own small business, she?s happy being single until she meets and falls for the gorgeous Drew Fitzgerald. Everything about Drew is perfect ? until his cool and impossibly elegant wife appears on the scene. Maddy loves Drew, but doesn?t know if she loves him enough to become ?the other woman?? Morally, it?s out of the question, but physically ?? Has their relationship got what it takes to go the distance ??

Release date: December 1, 2014

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 400

Sample

Chapter One

She was sure her suspenders were showing. Twisting around, craning her neck to check in the mirror, Maddy grinned. They were covered. Just.

Even with the breath-taking aid of Fran’s second-best basque, Maddy had always known the dress was going to be too tight and far too short. Resignedly tugging the borrowed grey, crepe shift over her head, she gazed dolefully at her wardrobe. She couldn’t wear the green velvet again – which left an exciting choice between the black skirt and the black trousers, either of which would need a suitable party top …

With a sigh, she hurled Fran’s dress on to her bed, where it hovered for a moment before slithering to the floor amidst several discarded newspapers and an empty tub of Slimfast. A week ago she had vowed she would live on nothing but Slimfast. She was going to slink into tonight’s party looking svelte and toned and seductive, and Peter would wonder why he had ever left her for Stacey, the bow-legged stick-insect.

Of course, she hadn’t reckoned on the Slimfast being quite so moreish – especially when mixed with condensed milk and a dollop of Cornish ice cream …Maddy kicked the diet plan under the bed and decided to seek consolation in a chocolate Hobnob. It was only the insistent chirrup of the telephone that prevented her from polishing off the remains of the packet.

‘How was the dress?’ Fran’s voice was that of the eternal optimist. ‘OK with the corset, was it?’

Maddy pulled a face. ‘No. It wouldn’t have been OK with steel girders. The basque helped a lot – but I still looked like a lumpy pillow.’

‘Pity.’ Fran giggled. ‘It always has the desired effect on Richard.’

‘That’s probably because I’m two sizes larger than you – or because Richard is turned on by lumpy pillows. Thanks for trying, Fran, but it looks like it’ll have to be the black skirt again – if I can find a top.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll give the party a miss.’

‘Oh no.’ Fran became school-marmish. ‘Maddy Beckett, you are not a quitter. You’ll shimmy in there tonight – as we planned – and hit Peter right between the eyes.’

‘My chest’ll probably do that,’ Maddy said. ‘Always supposing that the thighs don’t get him first.’

‘Good girl. A man likes a sense of humour, although why you’re attempting to waste it on Peter, God only knows. Especially after the way he –’

‘Fran.’ The word was heavy with dire threat.

‘OK. OK. You loved him – you still love him.’

‘No I don’t,’ Maddy protested. ‘I want to prove that I’ve survived and prospered without him. That there is life in Milton St John without Peter Knightley. And life in Maddy Beckett … It’s just that if he’s got Stacey in tow I’ll feel like a beached whale.’

‘Which, as I recall, was what he likened you to.’ Fran’s voice dripped ice. ‘The bastard.’

‘Well, I am a bit overweight.’

‘Nonsense,’ Fran said briskly. ‘You’re curvy and pretty and sexy. Peter Knightley was a prat.’

‘People always say hurtful things at the end of a relationship.’ Maddy was beginning to shiver inside the basque. She really must remember to ask someone to look at the boiler. It slept soundly all day, conserving its energy for sporadic bursts of tropical heat at about three in the morning. ‘I’m sure I was just as unpleasant. Anyway, it’s all history. I’ll drop your things off tomorrow on my way to work.’

‘Goody.’ Fran’s voice was smiling again. ‘I’ll get the kids out of the way and the kettle on – and open a new packet of chocolate fingers. I shall want to hear every detail, mind. All of it. And Maddy?’

‘Yes?’

‘Borrow a top from Suzy. That white one she wore to the Cat and Fiddle last week should render Peter speechless.’

‘Brilliant! Fran, I love you!’

A toe-amputating draught was screaming under the front door as Maddy replaced the receiver. Having had to become energy conscious since the last heating bill, she tugged at the mat which had got caught between the door frame and the step, but it held fast. Irritably, she opened the front door, kicked the mat back into place, and smiled at Mr Pugh from the Village Stores who was wobbling past on his bicycle. She was closing the door when Suzy came tearing up the path.

Maddy dragged her sister inside. ‘Oh, good. You’re just in time. Fran’s dress was hopeless. I want that white top thing of yours, Suzy. The one that drapes…’

‘Holy hell!’ Suzy’s heavily kohled eyes blinked in astonishment. ‘You didn’t, did you, Mad? You opened the door – like that? I wondered why Bernie Pugh’s bike was more shaky than usual. And for heaven’s sake come away from the window. You’ll frighten the horses. Why,’ Suzy sniffed with all the superiority of a seventeen-year-old sister over one ten years her senior, ‘are you dressed like a tart?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Maddy sighed. ‘And can I have that white blouse for tonight?’

‘Nah, it’s in the wash.’ Suzy was tugging off her mud-caked boots. ‘You can have the pink one.’

‘I can’t wear pink!’ Maddy wailed. ‘I’ve got red hair!’

‘So have I – sometimes. Of course you can wear pink. Where are you going, anyway?’

‘Diana and Gareth’s drinks party.’

Suzy arched an eyebrow. ‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought you had the right number of hyphens in your surname for one of Diana’s parties. What’s the catch?’

‘No catch. Diana thought I’d enjoy it.’

‘Can’t imagine why.’ Suzy had removed most of her riding clothes and was striding through to the kitchen. Maddy watched her waif-like figure without envy. Although it was thoroughly sickening to be faced with a pert size eight – especially when it was related and lived in the same house – there were compensations. Suzy favoured voluminous jumpers and stretchy tops. Maddy borrowed them at every opportunity.

She sucked in her breath. ‘Because Peter is going to be there.’

There. She’d said it. She waited for the explosion. It wasn’t long coming.

‘Holy hell, Mad!’ Suzy paused in the middle of slapping golden syrup on to a chunk of bread. ‘Have you got a death wish? Are you going to let Peter the Perv perform another public execution?’

‘Don’t call him that – and no. I’m not. I’m going because I want him to see how well I’ve done without him. He’s thinking of coming back to Milton St John, Diana says, and she thought –’

‘She thought she’d make you look a complete fool. Diana James-Jordan is a cow. Look what she did to Richard and Fran. I thought they were your friends?’

‘They are. Fran knows I’m going. I’ve promised not to say anything about Richard being jocked off in favour of Newmarket’s golden wonder. And, after all, Diana does put work my way.’

‘And loyalty to your friends takes a nosedive because she’s invited Pete to snuffle in her trough!’

Maddy groaned. Sometimes she despaired at Suzy’s coarseness. It was mixing with all those stable lads that did it, her mother had said. Maddy was pretty sure that Suzy could teach the lads a thing or two about colourful epithets. She really didn’t want to get dragged into a discussion on the ethics of race riding – or Peter Knightley. Suzy was very strident in her views on both.

‘Look, I’m freezing here and I’m going to be late. Where’s your pink blouse?’

‘Under the bed,’ Suzy mumbled through a mouthful of

golden syrup. ‘On the left – the clothes side, not the shoes …’

Suzy’s bedroom made Maddy’s clutter look pristine. Ignoring conventional furniture, Suzy kept her entire life beneath her bed. Maddy fished around with trepidation, and eventually emerged triumphant with a handful of pink lace.

Suzy had descended on Milton St John in general, and Maddy in particular, the previous May. Maddy, at that time still smarting from Peter’s rejection, had welcomed her younger sister with motherly delight. It hadn’t taken long to discover that Suzy didn’t need mothering. Suzy, Mr and Mrs Beckett’s menopausal mistake, had been given her head and it showed.

Maddy, planned for, cosseted and protected, had still been in ankle socks at twelve. Suzy had been fierce and fearless, Maddy timid and unsure. A late developer, Maddy reckoned she’d gone through puberty at about nineteen. And then there was the question of a career …

Suzy had always known she would be a jockey. This was not a childish dream engendered by pony clubs and gymkhanas, but an obsession with horse racing bordering on the unhealthy. At the age of seven, Suzy could work out odds, read form, and pick winners. Maddy, struggling with A-levels, had been highly in awe of this talent. She was even more in awe of the fact that Suzy knew at primary school exactly what she was going to do with her life. Maddy had a vague notion of going to university if her results were good enough, but after that she didn’t have a clue.

There had been loudly voiced reservations from her parents about this wild child of their middle-age pursuing such an unladylike vocation – especially as Maddy had been something of a disappointment – but Suzy had taken no notice. As soon as Maddy moved to Milton St John, she wrote begging letters to every trainer. As Maddy was well known in the village, there had been some speculation about Suzy’s ability to achieve riding weight, and Maddy had been forced to admit that Suzy took after the bone-thin side of the family. So far, it had worked out very well. It was like having a whole second wardrobe.

Maddy hurried across the hall to her bedroom. As it was too late to have a bath, and there would only be half an inch of hot water at this time of the evening anyway, she squirted herself liberally with Body Mist. Deciding to make the most of the basque and stockings, she pulled her black skirt over the top of them, and struggled into the pink blouse.

The result was less disappointing than she’d expected. Peter was hardly likely to fall panting at her feet – not that she wanted him to, of course – but neither would he recoil in horror. With make-up on, she squinted into the mirror. She might even pass as glamorous …

Suzy wandered into the bedroom eating a pork pie as Maddy applied haphazard blusher. ‘What shall I do with my hair?’

‘Put it up.’ Suzy perched on the bed. ‘It sort of tightens your face.’

‘Cheers.’ Maddy wrenched her abundant auburn curls on top of her head and anchored them with several clips. ‘So? How do I look?’

‘Surprised.’ Suzy slid from the bed in search of more food. ‘No, really Mad, you look super. Very pretty. Everyone will fancy you rotten. Oh, and guess what I heard today? Someone has bought Peapods at last.’

Not Peter, Maddy thought in panic. She had only just got used to the idea that Peter was back in Milton St John. She really couldn’t cope with him living in the massive house just across the road.

‘Who?’ She tugged on her black suede boots.

‘Oh, some foreign geezer. Well. Welsh, or something. He’s going to use it as a stables again. He’s been training flat horses somewhere or other and he wants to move on to a mixed yard. I think his name’s Dermot – Dermot MacAndrew.’

‘That is neither foreign nor Welsh.’ Maddy applied scarlet lipstick and wished she had time for matching nail varnish. ‘It sounds like a fairly good Celtic cocktail. Still, it will be nice to have Peapods running as a stables again – the health farm was a disaster.’

‘Yeah.’ Suzy poked her head round the door. ‘Especially when it employed people like Stacey …’ She managed to duck the lipstick as Maddy lobbed it towards the doorway. ‘And take the car tonight, Mad. Don’t rely on Pete giving you a lift home. It looks so tacky to be hanging around hopefully at the end.’

‘Won’t you need it?’

‘Nah. I’m walking down to the pub with Jason and Oily. It’s karaoke tonight.’

‘OK. Fine.’ Maddy scooped up the car keys from the dressing table. ‘I’m off. Wish me luck.’

‘I’ll wish you whatever you wish yourself.’ Suzy looked at her sister fondly. ‘Just don’t go breaking your heart – again.’

But of course, she hadn’t, Maddy thought, as she drove towards the white curve that passed as a main road in Milton St John. Broken her heart, that is. Peter had. Peter with his golden hair and his golden skin and his honeyed voice. Peter Knightley, who had left her fifteen months, three weeks, and two days ago – not that she was counting – for Stacey the bimbo stick-insect. And he hadn’t even told her. He’d just gone – and written a letter two weeks later.

She supposed Fran and Suzy were right to be anguished about his equally abrupt return, but then they hadn’t known him like she had. It had taken Maddy only moments to fall in love with Peter, to fall in love for the first time in her life. It had been an intense and all-consuming passion. For nearly four years Peter Knightley had been her life. More important than her work, more important than Suzy or her parents, more important, God help her, than her friends. When Peter had ended their relationship and left Milton St John he had not only taken her heart, he had practically taken her entire existence. That was why it was vital that she should make a survival statement tonight.

She drove slowly as she always did, as every resident of the village did, knowing its horsy population and being aware that each rounded bend might reveal a glossy string of racehorses worth a king’s ransom. Not a confident driver, Maddy used the car only for sorties such as these within the village, where a safe thirty miles an hour was speed of Schumacher proportions. For journeys farther afield she relied on the good local minibus service, or caught the train at Didcot.

Peter had laughed at her when she’d tried to explain to him how flustered she got by incomprehensible road signs and the aggressive roar of the motorway. ‘You’re an anachronism, Maddy. You don’t like fast traffic, you don’t know how to work the video – you don’t even completely understand the microwave, for goodness sake.’ His caressing voice had taken the barb from the words. He’d made it sound like a compliment rather than a criticism. ‘You’d have been much happier in the fifties than the noughties. You really will have to drag yourself into the present, love. You’ll never survive waging a one-lady war against progress.’

She turned the car into the tunnel of lilac trees that heralded Diana and Gareth James-Jordan’s training stables, remembering with painful clarity how she had tried to protest that she was really quite content with the present, merely finding technology rather difficult to understand, and Peter had smothered the explanation with his lips and his arms, and told her that he loved her anyway – and always would. And she, gullible fool that she was, had melted in delight. Then he left her.

And now he was back.

‘Maddy! Angel! You look gorgeous.’ Diana opened the door herself, which was encouraging. It signified that this really might be “just a little get-together before the season takes hold and we’re all too busy, darling”, as Diana had said when she’d issued her invitation.

As she clashed cheeks with her hostess Maddy was overcome by a waft of Chanel’s finest. ‘Diana …’ The greeting ritual was complete.

She followed Diana into the hall, where walnut and rosewood gleamed, and parquet flooring looked as though it was about to hold a skating spectacular.

‘You do look lovely, Maddy,’ Diana cooed over her shoulder. ‘New top?’

‘Yes.’ Well, it was. To her. And Suzy had only had it a month or so.

Diana, of course, was groomed and curry-combed to parade ring perfection. Everything sleek and stark and shining. Was there really no other woman in the whole of Milton St John, Maddy wondered, who battled with plump thighs and a chest that always threatened to explode from its confines? Just because it was a racing community where the horses were slender and tight muscled, and the majority of the men were, by necessity, the same, surely not every woman had to be honed to near-anorexia? Even Kimberley Weston, Milton St John’s token female trainer, who had to be at least a size eighteen, managed to look as though it was all solid flesh with not a wobble or wrinkle in sight.

‘Gareth is seeing to the drinks – and of course, you know everybody, I think.’ Diana continued to chat over her shoulder.

Maddy smiled. ‘Yes, of course.’

There was no way on earth that she was going to ask about Peter. If he was there, she would know. Without even seeing him, she was sure she would know.

‘Hello, Maddy. Pretty as a picture as always,’ Gareth James-Jordan boomed from his great height just inside the door, sounding like the kind of children’s entertainer who would send even the bravest playground thug scuttling behind his mother’s skirts. ‘What are we drinking?’ Whatever it was, Maddy thought, it appeared that Gareth had had quite a lot of it already.

‘Just a mineral water, please.’ Maddy kept her back to the crowd she could hear humming. ‘I’m driving, but I’ll maybe have something alcoholic later.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Gareth roared, peering at the non- alcoholic selection on the sideboard. ‘Er, which ones are minerals, Maddy? My eyes only focus on brandy.’

Laughing, Maddy helped herself. She liked Gareth. Despite his loudness he was a nice man and a good trainer. The brains and the money came from Diana. And Diana never hesitated to trample all over people to achieve her ends. Hence the fall-out with Fran and Richard.

She moved away from the sideboard, anchoring herself between an elm bookcase and a table she had always admired with claw feet that were the very devil to dust. He wasn’t in the room.

‘How’s tricks?’ John Hastings, the trainer who employed Suzy, paused on his way to refill his glass, his eyes skimming over Maddy’s cleavage. She wasn’t insulted. John Hastings always cast a professional eye over horses and women with the same detachment. Horses excited him more. ‘Your Suzy tell you about that thing of Sir Neville’s, did she? Smashing little filly.’

Maddy wasn’t sure whether John was referring to her sister or the horse, but chanced it was the latter. ‘No. We didn’t have much time to talk about work this evening. It’s very kind of you to promise her some good rides this season, John. I know she appreciates it.’

‘So do I.’ His leer was practised. ‘I’ve always had an eye for a decent apprentice. I hope to get her on the racecourse by the end of the month.’

He continued talking about horses and entries, about viruses and weights, and Maddy nodded and said ‘oh, yes’ and ‘of course’ and ‘no, really?’ in what she hoped were all the right places, and all the time her eyes were fixed on the door.

Diana was right. She knew everyone in the Small Room – a drastic misnomer as it stretched into infinity between linen fold panels and beneath carved ceilings, and would have swallowed up Maddy’s entire cottage in one gulp. Trainers, jockeys, villagers, jockey’s wives, trainers’ secretaries; all friends or at least nodding acquaintances from Milton St John; all gathered to discuss the ending of the jump season and the start of the flat. The same as dozens of other gatherings she had attended in the time that Milton St John had been her home. With one exception. Peter wasn’t there.

Maddy joined groups that splintered off into other groups, and talked about The Derby and the new Chinese in Newbury and The Oaks and the price of the bungalows in the next village and The Guineas and about Richard being jocked off.

‘Not really Diana’s fault, eh?’ Barty Small piped through the general murmur of sympathy. ‘If the owner wanted the golden boy from Newmarket to ride, then what could Diana do?’

‘But Richard is her stable jockey. It’s his first season with her. He’d been banking on it.’ Maddy was fiercely loyal, even though she had promised Fran she wouldn’t get involved. ‘And Fran is your secretary. And –’

‘And the owners pay everyone’s wages. The owners call the shots, Maddy, as your Suzy will tell you. Of course,’ he moved closer so that his nose was almost lodged on her bosom, ‘you wouldn’t really be affected, would you? After all, racing isn’t in your blood.’

Maddy resisted the urge to flick his nose away from her chest. Barty Small had a weasel’s face and piggy eyes and straw-coloured hair with a permanent indent around the crown where his trilby lived. ‘Maybe not, but it’s in my heart,’ she said doggedly. ‘And it was a slur on Richard’s ability.’

‘Not at all.’ Barty was bristling. ‘It all comes down to money in the end.’

‘What about friendship and loyalty? What about repaying good service? What about –’

‘All dead and gone.’ Kimberley Weston smoothed down her well-boned frock. ‘Sadly, Barty’s right, Maddy. Racing is an industry and is as fragile as any other in these mercenary days.’

Maddy was irritated. Not just because she couldn’t give full vent to her feelings for fear of insulting her hostess, not just because Peter wasn’t coming and she’d rehearsed being cool and uninterested until her teeth ached, but also because the basque was cutting into her, and she was starving.

‘Oh, scrummy!’ Kimberley’s brown eyes zoomed towards the doorway. ‘This must be who we’ve been waiting for. Diana said she had a surprise up her sleeve.’

Maddy froze. Her hands were sweating. She wished she’d rubbed Body Mist into her palms. She wished her third glass of mineral water contained a pint of gin. She wished she was a stone lighter.

She arranged her face in careful anticipation. She would turn and smile, a pleasant ‘Oh, lovely to see you again. How long has it been?’ smile, and her legs wouldn’t wobble at the golden hair and the golden skin and the big blue eyes that looked like a hurt child’s but masked a business brain as sharp as a laser. She turned round.

‘Maddy, Kimberley, Barty. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to meet –’ There was a crash and an oath from the far side of the room, followed by Gareth’s braying giggle. Diana frowned. ‘Excuse me a moment …’ and she left her charge at their mercy.

Maddy felt as though she’d walked into the wrong film at the cinema. All geared up for the heart-stopping delights of Peter Knightley, the man standing beside her was something of a disappointment. Not, of course, that he wasn’t attractive. He just wasn’t Peter.

Kimberley, who must have been the archetypal head girl, made neat and brief introductions. He nodded at each one, spending just the right length of time meeting eyes and shaking hands. His face was nice, Maddy decided as he released her hand after a firm squeeze, it looked like it laughed a lot. With you, not at you. His hair was dark and his eyes weren’t. He was somewhere between thirty and forty, and a complete stranger.

‘As Diana seems to be otherwise occupied, I’ll have to make my own introductions.’ He had the sort of voice that would soothe without boredom, and command without being abrasive. ‘I’m Drew Fitzgerald.’

It was probably the anti-climax of him not being Peter that pushed Maddy’s mouth into gear before her brain had time to put on the brakes.

‘Goodness, what a coincidence. It must be the time of year for Celtic cross-breeds …’ She was aware of Kimberley and Barty holding their collective breath, but didn’t heed the warning.

‘I beg your pardon?’ The tawny eyes flashed slightly.

‘Your name …’ Maddy tripped on. ‘My sister was telling me earlier about a Welsh-Scottish-Irishman who has bought the stables opposite our cottage. He’s some sort of trainer from out of town. I don’t suppose he’ll make a go of things.’

‘Why not?’ He sounded interested.

‘Oh, the place is really run down. It needs a professional to lick it into shape if it’s going to be a successful yard again.’ Maddy was beginning to lose her thread. Why didn’t Kimberley or Barty join in the conversation and let her off the hook? ‘It’s been empty for over a year, and according to my sister, the new owner wants to turn it into a mixed yard. Far too ambitious for a new starter … Are you in racing, Mr, um, Fitzgerald?’

‘Darlings, I am so sorry.’ Diana appeared at Maddy’s other elbow. ‘Gareth got a bit carried away with the Glenfiddich. Nearly drowned poor Mrs Pugh. Now, have we all introduced ourselves?’

They all nodded dutifully.

Diana beamed. ‘Good-o. You will probably be seeing loads of Drew, Maddy darling, as he’s going to be a close neighbour of yours. Drew has just bought Peapods.’

Chapter Two

It would have been easier to laugh, blush, die at his feet. But Maddy had never been one to take an easy option.

‘Oh, so you must be Dermot MacAndrew? That is, you’re not. I mean, you’re the person I was just telling you about. Only I’m sure you’ll make a success of Peapods, of course. You obviously know exactly what you’re doing and –’

‘Maddy,’ Diana spoke quietly, ‘I think perhaps Drew would like to engage in horsy talk with Kimberley and Barty. Maybe you’d like to chat to Mrs Pugh, she’s looking a bit lost, poor love.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Maddy’s tongue seemed to have glued itself to the roof of her mouth. She gave Drew Fitzgerald a scant smile of apology. ‘I’m sure we’ll see more of each other, as we’re going to be neighbours.’

‘I’m sure we will.’ Drew Fitzgerald made it sound like a hanging offence.

Bronwyn Pugh, co-owner of the Village Stores, was mopping the remains of Gareth’s Glenfiddich slick from her paisley frock. Maddy approached her with a smile of sympathy. ‘Diana told me. How’s it drying out?’

‘Nicely, thank you,’ Mrs Pugh hissed. ‘Although I’ll smell like a distillery.’

‘Not a bad thing to smell like.’ Maddy’s smile had stretched to manic. ‘Mr Pugh not with you tonight?’

‘No.’

Trawling around for scintillating party chat, Maddy said, ‘I hope he’s not ill. I saw him earlier and –’

‘Maddy,’ Bronwyn Pugh stopped mopping, ‘Bernie isn’t here this evening because he had a little accident. It left him very shaken.’

‘No! Oh, poor Bernie. What happened?’

‘I think you know very well, Maddy Beckett. You were dressed up like one of them stripperamas, Bernie said. It shocked him. He fell off his bicycle. Now, I’m not one to gossip – as you well know – and what you gets up to in the privacy of your own home is your affair. But,’ Bronwyn Pugh took a deep breath, ‘I do not want you enticing my husband, you understand?’

Maddy was stricken. ‘I wasn’t! The door mat had got caught up and I just –’

Bronwyn frowned fiercely. ‘That’s as maybe. But my Bernie is spoken for.’

Maddy bit her lip. ‘Oh, but I’m not after him, I can assure you. I wouldn’t want your husband if he was the last man in Milton St John. No, well, I don’t mean …’

But it was too late. With a sniff and a glower, Mrs Pugh marched away towards the door. She’d been right. She smelled exactly like a distillery. It didn’t go well with tweed. Maddy closed her eyes. It was one of those days.

‘Grub’s up!’ Gareth yelled. ‘Form an orderly queue! No shoving at the back!’

Maddy’s stomach rumbled. Not even an evening of un mitigated social disasters could di. . .