Comma twirls her glass some more, the ice clinks louder, it’s rather irritating. She doesn’t say anything and continues looking into her glass. The silence, interspersed with the clinking, is rather awkward.

‘I was trying to—’

‘Yes I heard—you were saving yourself from a rather horny Virat,’ Comma finishes for me.

Does she read minds?

‘Did you notice the twins giving a lap dance to that man—and Neelima being queen slut? And Ridhima and Prakash dry humping each other?’ Comma asks.

She looks at me, clearly waiting for an answer.

‘I don’t know who Ridhima is, or Prakash,’ I reply.

‘That’s not the point, Polly. Why do you always miss the bigger picture? The point is that this party, this house, these people are all fucked up.’ Comma takes a sip, smacks her lips.

I am glad we are standing in the darkest corner because I know I am goggling. I’ve never, ever heard Comma swear. The awkward silence resumes. She starts twirling the ice again.

‘Are you having marital troubles?’ Comma asks. Clink, clink.

‘Pardon me?’ I ask totally flummoxed.

I don’t know why she’s asked me that question but notwithstanding her reasons for asking, I don’t have any intentions of discussing my personal life with Comma.

‘I’m referring to that article of yours, the one published yesterday,’ Comma says. ‘It was well-written given that it’s the only one you’ve ever written. Why haven’t you been writing more?’ she asks. Clink, clink.

There’s no answer I can give her that will not sound as an accusation. She has to know that I haven’t written anything else because she has never let me.

‘Don’t you have answers for me, Polly?’ Comma asks. Clink, clink.

‘I ask you about your work, you keep quiet. I ask you about your marriage, you keep quiet. Cat got your tongue or do you like being a doormat?’ Comma stops twirling the ice and looks into my eyes.

I have half a mind to tell her exactly what I think of her—that she is a bully—but I don’t. I know she is trying to provoke a response from me.

‘I am not a doormat,’ I reply.

‘Why then do you let people push you around?’ Comma asks.

‘I don’t let people push me around,’ I reply, feeling stupid.

Where is this conversation heading and how do I get away from her?

‘I always push you around, Polly—others always push you around,’ Comma says it so softly that I’m not sure she’s said it at all.