Melancholia.

{ O n e ; parties and casualties. }

                 { 1920s, England.}
The brunette picked up the red cup; it felt slimy an crinkled in her grasp. She brought the glass to her lips, indulging in it's sweet flavor. Over the brim of the cup she watched the adults converse diligently. ". . . And that's why you should never use too much mulch in your garden!" The conversation was dull, she thought, her hues lulling back heavenwise. "Mrs. Brookingham?" A raspy voice inquired, snapping her out of her thoughts. "Yes, Mr. Dunley?" The female mentally groaned at the use of her last name. "Come in any money, recently?" His lips twitched upwards into a smirk. All these people care about is money. She thought. Makes me sick.
Meredith gulped. "It's been hard to come by, you know that better than anyone." She snapped. It was all in the life of a socialite.

* * *
"Theresa, get us some more drinks." Dunley snapped, harsher than before. "It's Tamara—;" The blonde muttered, "But you're getting closer." She bounded up the stairs, carefully fixing up the various drink orders. The unthinkable happened: she tripped and spilled the drinks on the guests. "TABATHA!" Dunley screeched, arising from his seat.
She shrank back in fear. How horrid, the events to follow. Tamara knew she would be in much trouble. Dunley dragged her by the pale elbows into the hall.
"What are you thinking, Tangerine?" He scoffed, rising a hand to the shorter blonde's face.
Tamara gasped, brushing against the spot he'd stricken. "I want you to go out there and clean up the mess you made."
Edward sent another glare her way before exiting.
She sighed in exile, grabbing a mop and making her way towards the main hall.
"I'm not Cinderella." She muttered aloud, not noticing the brunette that ran into her.
"I'm so sorry!" Tamara looked down in shame.
"It's okay." A woman's voice spoke, softly.
"I'm Meredith. Are you okay? I heard Edward Dunley yell at you."
She gulped.
"I'm o-okay, really."
"So," Meredith began, "How do you know Edward?"
Oh, boy.