It was going to be the social event of the season, they said: a veritable Glamorama. It had been on everyone's lips for months. More than 300 people were invited. All the A-list people would be there, they said.

Mrs. Stevenson sat at her table like a queen holding court. Her bosom and the fleshy folds of her arms oozed out of the one-size-too-small designer dress; her earrings bobbled and twirled like fishing lures when she shook her greying mane. She tipped her head toward the man beside her, pushed out her chin and wrinkled her nose. Her lips were moving, but she didn't look at him as she spoke.

'She's 20 years younger than him, you know. She's only after him for his money, of course.' Her gaze was fixed on a young woman standing between them and the bar.

The young woman didn't know she was being stared at. She tossed her head and shrieked with delight as a tall, 50-something, extravagant-looking man laughed and spoke into her ear.

The man sitting next to Mrs. Stevenson looked at the young woman. She was pretty and had not yet acquired the dour countenance perfected by Mrs. Stevenson and her ilk. He could think of many men who would want to be with the younger woman.

Mrs. Stevenson was not the man's wife. She was a friend's wife, but he'd known her since high school. Her face had once been the sort of face that men enjoyed looking at and women admired: high cheek bones, a wide, expressive mouth, and eyes too innocent not to be seductive. But now Mrs.Stevenson's face drooped at the sides, her mouth was fixed in a permanent scowl, and her eyes no longer hid her discontent.

The man grinned. He was still looking at the young woman when he spoke. 'Wish she was after me for my money.'

Mrs. Stevenson raised an eyebrow at him and what began as a sneer ended in scorn. She turned to the woman on her other side and, speaking more softly, said, 'She's 20 years younger than him, you know. She's only with him for his money, of course.'

Then before the woman could respond, Mrs. Stevenson went on. 'Everybody knows it. Ever since his wife died, that man has been carrying on like Casanova. When will he come to his senses and find someone his own age?'

The woman sitting next to Mrs. Stevenson said something but Mrs. Stevenson did not hear. She turned to the man again. 'Doesn't he know he's making a fool of himself in front of all his friends? Once she's got what she wants from him, she'll drop him like a hot cake.' She dismissed the pair with an imperious wave.

The music was getting louder, and the guests looser of tongue. Somewhere a middle-age woman let out a contemptuous laugh. In recent years, the man had become depressingly aware of how the women he'd known all his life had changed. They'd become cynical and churlish; they never really laughed anymore.

He stood up and dropped a hand on Mrs. Stevenson's shoulder. 'Good lady, I am taking my leave. Enjoy the rest of the evening.'

Mrs. Stevenson sat back in her chair drumming her interlocked fingers on the table in front of her. She scanned the party for her next victim; her eyes became slits. There was the uptight bank manager whose husband had left her for a lowly teacher (shame on him), and then welcomed him back when he tired of school (shame on her). And there was the high-profile lawyer who, it was said, had got his assistant pregnant and left his wife of 26 years, and what a scandal that was.

'Disgusting,' she said. 'What was he thinking?'

The woman sitting next to her nodded and raised her eyebrows.She started to say, 'You know I heard ...' but Mrs. Stevenson rode across her.

'You see that woman in the blue dress?'

The woman sitting next to Mrs. Stevenson did not.

Mrs. Stevenson would never point - that would be rude. She lowered her head, pursed her lips and thrust her chin in the direction of Blue Dress. And when her good friend Angela walked into her line of vision, Mrs. Stevenson raised her hand and gave her a little wave and mouthed, 'Don't worry, darling. I'm not talking about you.' Then, out the side of her mouth, she said to the woman next to her, 'Do you see her now? She's right behind Angela.'

The woman nodded. With her middle finger she pushed her glasses back into place.

Mrs. Stevenson went on talking about Blue Dress until she could no longer find anything to say. Then she palmed her flat-ironed, curled and hair-sprayed hair, swished her wine in its glass a few times, and quaffed it.

- Corinne Smith