Fit to Die by Joan Boswell Page B

fit.” She glanced at me. “Barbara, have you started that diet I gave you?”
    â€œNo chance. We’ve had company all week.” To tell the truth, I’d ripped it up and tossed it in the fire as soon as I came home from our last bridge session.
    â€œYou’ll never reach your ideal weight if you allow yourself to be distracted, Barbara. It’s like playing bridge. You must concentrate on your goal.”
    â€œI’ve always thought of bridge as a game,” Emily said. “A challenging game, to be sure, but fun to play. I’m afraid I don’t wish to regard it with the same seriousness as conducting a war.”
    Laurene reached for another brownie. “Barbara, these are quite good, but they do need a little something. Perhaps each one topped with a maraschino cherry?”
    I have always hated maraschino cherries, but not as much as I hated Laurene at that moment. “I’ll try that next time.”
    Laurene demolished the rest of the brownie without dropping so much as a crumb. “The goal in bridge is to win the most points. If you don’t play to win, why bother playing?”
    â€œI do play to win,” I said, “but I make mistakes, like everyone else.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t if you dismissed every thought from your mind except the hand being played.” Laurene returned her serviette to its original folds and put it on her plate. “Barbara, when I have time, I’ll show you how to fold serviettes into marvellous shapes. Such touches add so much elegance to formal dinners.”
    â€œThank you,” I said, gritting my teeth. Elegance in my house consists of using serviettes rather than paper towels. In Marion’s house it means sitting at the table to eat rather than in front of the television. In Emily’s, a three-course meal rather than a sandwich.
    â€œYou played that grand slam very well,” Emily said. Conversation about anything other than bridge, books or bird-watching usually bores her, but I was surprised at her giving Laurene another chance to show off.
    â€œThank you. By focusing on the hand, I realized I could make it by doing a squeeze play, thus avoiding the need to finesse for the diamond queen. All three of you would play so much better if you focussed properly.”
    â€œWell, of course, we’re not perfect,” Marion said with a straight face, kicking her shoes off and curling her jeans-clad legs under her in the corner armchair.
    â€œBut you could be,” Laurene went on. “You could learn to bid and play as well as I do. Why don’t you come to my bridge classes at the church hall on Tuesday evenings?”
    â€œMy book club meets on Tuesdays.” Emily crumpled her serviette. “I couldn’t possibly miss that.”
    â€œYou could get the day changed if you learned to use psychology,” Laurene said. “That’s what is needed for bridge, too. With practice, you can train yourself to interpret facial expression, tone of voice and even hesitations in bidding and play.”
    Laurene rose and paced the room as though she were lecturing her class. “Now, Emily, try to get your book club to change its meeting night. Next week I’ll be teaching strategy. Playing the right card at the right time is essential to winning.”
    I was itching to toss my cold coffee in her face and wreck her flawless makeup, but Emily and Marion were being such exemplars of politeness and forbearance that I felt ashamed of my impulse.
    Laurene glanced at her watch and gave a tidy little shriek. “Oh, dear, I must be going. I’m teaching a class on cake decorating at four.” She buttoned and belted her rain coat and added, “I just love living in little towns like this. There’s so much one can do to improve life in them.”
    After the front door closed behind her, the three of us looked at each other. “I’ll go get the coffee pot,” Marion