“What shall we toast to?”
The table fell silent, glasses hanging awkwardly from half-raised hands.
“To- to good health!” slurred Naomi, Michael’s bride-to-be. He put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. For a moment silence resumed, followed by a bout of sympathetic tittering, and then at last the belaboured chorus.
“To good health.”
Glasses clinked and were knocked back. Michael motioned to the waiters to begin refilling them.
He was about to stand and deliver his own lines, memorised at length the night before, when from the other end of the table there was a sharp clatter of plates hitting the floor.
Chris stood there, reeling with drink, banging on his glass with a dirtied fork. The gathered turned to face him.
“I would like to make a second toast.”
Michael made to get up and interrupt him, then turned to Naomi. The pinkness in her cheeks had drained to chalky white, her gaze averted. He sat back down. Chris smirked and hacked to clear his throat, then continued.
“To the happy couple! I’m sure we were all just thrilled to hear the news. Thrilled! And surprised. But thrilled, absolutely. None of you more than me-”
He stopped to take a swig from the glass jittering in this hand.
“I mean, how often do you get to be the best man at your brother’s wedding? Thank you, Michael. What a privilege. And Naomi...”
Her eyes snapped up from the floor and fixed him with a piercing, pleading look.
“It was good while it lasted, huh?”
He finished his drink.