Bad Parts

It is a truth universally acknowledged, at least within select social circles, that Benjamin Taylor and Beatrice Malone loath each other.

Neither can tell you why, exactly, outside of a sweeping statement about her holier-than-thou-attitude and his stupid, smug face and there is no specific event that sparked this decade long feud. As far as Beatrice or Ben know, their hatred is as much a constant as reruns of Law & Order  in the early afternoon, or telephone scams involving seniors.

They dislike each other the way some people dislike the word "moist"– something about it is just bad.

And this is what makes this particular New Years Eve so irritating.

Imagine, if you will, taking an 8 hour flight with your mortal enemy.  You're way to attend a week of wedding festivities, and you're both part of the wedding party. This flight, this was the last chance to relax before having to play nice with them for a whole week. And you've been sworn to niceness - not just by the bride and groom, but by the mother of the bride and Chad, the groomsman.

Now, imagine that you're flying on New Year Eve, through one of the worst predicated blizzards of the decade. It was probably a bad sign when the flight attendants seemed nervous when boarding. 

 And imagine still that, by some stroke of misfortune, your plane is forced to land in a small town in Northern Quebec – a town, that's worth noting, speaks limited English and has limited hotel space. 

The cherry on top of all this?

There's exactly one room left. 

In the hallway of the hotel, Beatrice is on the phone.

"Anna," she says, pacing up and down the carpeted hallway, "I know it's your wedding and and you're the bride and I want you to be happy." She pauses then, to take in the uninspired landscape portraits on the wall.  

"But if I kill Ben, do you think Claude will forgive me?"

Ben flops down onto a creaking hotel bed, phone tucked into the crook of his neck. The concierge has promised to bring a cot in the room, and Ben is hoping to claim the bed now. "If I don't make it to this wedding, Claude, I promise it's because Beatrice did me in."

In a modest bed and breakfast in London England, Anna and Claude laugh. For years they had contemplated locking Bea and Ben in a room and letting the pair sort things out; they'd never imagined fate would do it for them. 

There is nothing to do at the hotel. No bars. No pool. Only a 23-year-old concierge who looks overwhelmed by the arrival of around 60 guests from a rerouted United Airlines flight. In an effort to avoid speaking with Ben, Bea stalks the halls of the hotel for some time, but soon even that grows tiresome, and with irritation she returns to her room.

A cot has been delivered, propped lazily against the closet door. 

"Ah!" Ben says, reclined on the bed in a way Bea would describe as dickish.  "The witch has returned." His grin is smug and humorless. 

"I mean this in the worst way possible, Ben, but you're marginally more interesting than a painting of the St. Lawrence River." Bea's tone is acidic, dripping with an amount of disdain that could only come from 5 hours on a plane with nothing but a bag of peanuts and a complimentary wine.