by Tess Little
“No, I haven’t—but tell me, how’s Judy doing these days? Still no divorce?”
“Oh jeez, not for lack of trying,” Jerry said. “But I love her, separation threats and all. She’s great. How about you, anyone special?”
“There have been one or two men in my life, but not currently, no.”
Richard was making his way back across the room, directing staff to fill glasses as he went.
I moved closer to Jerry, whispered, “So Richard’s drinking now?”
Jerry sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve given up on telling the guy what to do. He said it was for his birthday, but come on, I know how he is. You and I both know. I was like, fine, whatever, long as you don’t give me these bullshit excuses. I just figure…I mean, with everyone else here, it’s not my place, you know? Like when you were around. I took a back seat then. Not my place, not my problem.”
Jerry watched Richard for a moment, then added, “He seems to have a handle on it. Just two champagnes, I’ve counted. But it’s—I mean, he’s always in control, until suddenly he isn’t. You know?”
I did.
I let my gaze drift back to the aquarium, to the motion of the fronds, the back and forth…and then I caught it—bright and red—snaking out from the rocks at the bottom of the tank. A tentacle: the ninth guest.
Richard noted my stare, sidled back to us.
“Persephone, Elspeth,” he said. “Elspeth, Persephone.”
Only a sliver of the creature was visible—two limbs and part of the head were now spilling out of the crevice. Nevertheless, there was something about the fluid mass that raised the hairs at the back of my neck. It was mesmerizing. It was grotesque.
Richard watched me, a smirk dancing around the edges of his mouth.
I tried to appear nonchalant as I said, “And we’ll be spending the night with that creature watching over us?”
Richard nudged Jerry. “You see, this is why we divorced—now I can buy all the pretty presents I desire.”
I laughed with the men, but it came out plastic: hard and fake.
“That’s funny,” I said to Jerry. “I thought we had divorced so he could fuck all the things he desired.”
I hadn’t thought it would carry over the chatter.
There was silence until Richard laughed, then a couple of his friends, three seconds behind.
Jerry threw up his hands and cried indignantly, “Am I the only one here who hasn’t slept with Rich?”
* * *
—
Richard stole me from Persephone and Jerry, introduced me to each cluster of guests.
“Charlie, Miguel, this is my ex-wife, Elspeth,” he said, as both rose to their feet to kiss my cheeks. “Charlie you’ll recognize as the star of Dominus. Miguel, my dearest fat cat.” Richard gestured toward the two men as he spoke. They had already resumed their private conversation—Charlie, vacant and gorgeous, reclining on the cushions, fiddling with his hair; Miguel emphasizing each syllable with a thrust of his hand. I didn’t recognize the former from Dominus—I hadn’t seen it yet—but maybe from posters, the trailer; maybe I’d driven past his billboard-stretched face.
Richard added, “I don’t think I was working with Miguel’s studio back when you and I were together, but he’s the man to thank for my last few films. Perfect producer. As you know, Ellie darling”—he flashed me a grin—“a good exec should be seen and not heard.”
I recognized both inhabitants of the next couch, now that I was closer: The woman who’d had her back turned to me was Sabine Selmi, Richard’s latest leading lady, and there, beside her, was Honey, whose bleach-blond hair was shaved close to his head. His shirt was a bright white, crisp against his mahogany skin.
Neither looked up until Richard said their names, choosing Sabine first—“my Gallic muse”—then, without pause, “and this, of course, is Honey.”
I watched Honey tug one sleeve an inch to the left, so the obsidian cuff link lay perfectly over his outer wristbone. The gesture was somehow youthful—discomfort at all the formality—which he certainly was. Younger than me, much younger than Richard.
I knew that Richard was back with Honey—this was why Lillie had asked me to attend the party; she hadn’t wanted to face her father’s boyfriend alone—yet nothing could have prepared me for that moment.
A heat was building in my chest: the need to escape their beautiful stares. Neither Sabine nor Honey stood to greet me; no fake kisses, just a polite pause, nods.
Then they looked away, unimpressed. Sabine continued talking; Honey ran a hand over his golden hair. I turned to find Richard already moving on to the final pair.
“Now, this scoundrel you know all too well,” he said.
Tommo, an old school friend of Richard’s, squeezed my shoulder as he kissed my cheeks. “Elspeth, what a delightful surprise.”
“And Kei,” Richard continued, “you might remember, is my favorite cinematographer.”
I could recall neither the face nor the name. She was small but well built; tattoos studded up her arms, down her neck. Her hair was cropped short and sharp at the sides, a little longer on top. She ruffled her fingers through it—a thick silver watch on her arm caught the light.
We locked eyes, she smiled, as Richard went on: “You’ve been my DP for how long, Kei?”
“One Hundred Years was our first real project together,” she said.
“So that must have been…”
I remembered exactly when it was released: as our divorce was finalized. The making of the movie was carved into my past: how the filming trip had lengthened the distance between us; how the wrap party had exposed our lies and our apathy; how, finally, I had left with Lillie and Richard had let me. I’d never managed to sit through the film—Richard’s third studio-backed feature, a surreal, anthological exploration of the Battle of Agincourt. But I had idly wondered whether our divorce’s boosting of the box-office figures, with all the TMZ articles and E! segments, should have factored into the final settlement.
“A decade?” said Kei.
Yes, a decade. The film had been released eight years, nine months, two weeks ago. Give or take.
“Thereabouts,” said Richard. “Anyway, I’ll leave you in these capable hands, while I check everything backstage.”
“Where on earth does he keep dashing off to?” asked Tommo.
He was taller than I remembered, with an Adam’s apple that bobbed as he spoke and that hearty British look. I could picture him with a newspaper rolled under his long arm, striding in his Monday-morning work suit—though he was dressed that night in a cream shirt unbuttoned at the neck and pants too bright a blue for finance.
“I heard something about caterers,” I said.
“Caterers? Bloody hell. Is this a dinner party now? I did wonder about the numbers. A little unconventional for Dicky.” Tommo looked at Kei. “Did you hear anything about this?”
“I’m as clueless as you, dude,” she said. Kei held herself awkwardly, one hand in pocket—the stem of her glass in a fist. “So, uh, Elspeth. Did you have far to travel? Or are you local?”
Tommo scoffed before I could answer. “Oh no, look at her. She’s far too pale for California. No offense intended, darling. You’re the purest porcelain.”
“None taken,” I said. And then to Kei: “New York City.”
“Cool,” she said. “Whereabouts?”
“Manhattan. Upper East Side.”
Kei nodded and nodded, like she was searching for something to say. I looked to the aquarium—I was curious to see what the others thought of Persephone—but she had disappeared again, and I couldn’t quite phrase the question.
Tommo stepped in. “And how’s Lillie?”
“She’s great, yes, she’ll be arriving any minute now, so you can ask her yourself.”
My words had come out
too cheery and my facial expression, I was certain, was verging on sarcastic. I was happy to see Tommo again, really, and the cinematographer seemed nice enough, but I felt too aware of myself in this three-way conversation, too preoccupied with my daughter’s absence.
I tried to relax my shoulders. Put down my champagne glass and found a bottle of water I had thrown into my purse on my way out of Lillie’s house. Acqua Panna—still cold, condensation on the glass.
“I didn’t know Lillie was coming.” Kei seemed genuinely pleased. “Are you staying with her? When we were working on Dominus, she was telling me about all of that shit with the realtors, and I was like: Welcome to the real world, my friend. From here on out everything is admin, your hangovers are gonna suck ass, and everyone will let you down. Especially L.A. realtors. Especially.”
“Oh she moved, did she?” Tommo said. “Where to?”
I opened my mouth to answer but was interrupted by the silver-sounding ring of metal on glass.
“Now that we are all, at last, gathered together,” called Richard, “I’d like you to join me in the dining area. Our dinner is served. This way.”
* * *
—
My gaze followed the shaft of light down to the couch. I could have been a young woman in morning sun, slowly opening my eyes to the face of my lover. I might have discovered something beautiful in his lazy posture. I might have seen something fragile in his exposed neck.
But the spell of sleep could not last.
Stale cigarette smoke lingered in the air. Empty bottles, concrete floor. I was awake. My arm was cold and wet. My body ached.
And his elbow was bent. And his fingers were splayed. And his head was thrown back.
I pushed myself up from the floor, shaking, wiped the hairs caught in my saliva, smeared across my cheek. I sat down beside him. I looked. My breath caught, my heart clenched—
The wet “O” of the mouth, the stare of the eyes, the stench of vomit.
I did not think; I reached forward.
The flesh was cold to the touch.
* * *
—
As I rounded the aquarium to find the dining area, the bursting detail that met me felt like a reflection of the tank, with its colorful weeds and rockery—a contained chaos. The table, at first glance, was beautifully laid: pink, blue, yellow candles, wax dribbling down their sticks; lilac wisteria tumbling from bowls; blue glass plates; dishes piled heavy with food. It was busy and bright, vivid against the stark room.
At second glance, the dishes were anarchy. Sugared donuts battling lobster; strawberries and cream almost escaping to the sushi platter below; a whole roast turkey kicking tiramisu. The other guests laughed, exclaimed with delight.
“Yes, yes,” Richard called, “it’s eccentric, I know. Take your seats and I’ll explain.”
I was silent. We were not all gathered. Not yet.
But there were only nine places—no chair for Lillie. I circled the table, reading the little hand-painted cards on each plate, hoping I had miscounted. I had not: My daughter’s name was absent. So Lillie would not arrive until after the meal. Could I survive another hour or so without her?
I slipped my cell from my purse to text her, but Tommo held my arm. Murmured, “Didn’t you get the lecture on the way in? Dicky said no phones tonight. I mean, he didn’t go so far as to confiscate them at the door, but I got the impression he’d try if we pushed it.”
Another ridiculous demand. I would have to text Lillie when attention was directed elsewhere.
I found my own name last, between Charlie on one side and an empty end at the foot of the table. Why hadn’t the chairs been pulled around? Maybe the space beside me had been saved in case Lillie arrived in time—or maybe Richard, at the head of the table, wanted all attention on him.
The waiters stood behind us. White-gloved now. I took my seat, placed my bottled water on the table, and turned to Charlie. He was talking with Sabine, and so I picked up my place card. Stared at my name until the cursive gold letters became almost unrecognizable. It was surrounded by a burst of dark-blue lines. I turned over the card, found one word: Soul.
Charlie was inspecting his card as well. It was bordered with yellow and gold constellations.
“Ether?” he read from the reverse. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Aren’t they gorgeous?” said Richard. “It’s all Honey’s work. The flowers and the candles too. But those place cards I absolutely adore.”
“Did you paint them?” Charlie asked. “Why does mine say Ether?”
Honey smiled to himself. “It’s not— I just kind of got carried away.”
“Don’t be modest,” said Richard. “It’s unbecoming.”
Honey mock scowled at him, then turned back to the table to explain. “I wanted a theme,” he said, “so I decided that each of us would be an element. In one branch of Hindu philosophy, there are nine—”
“I’m Time,” said Jerry. “Why am I Time? You think I’m getting old? Shouldn’t that be Rich?”
“Richard is Space,” said Honey. “I’m Earth.” He pointed at each of us in turn. “Sabine, Water. Elspeth, Soul or Self. Kei is Fire, Tommo is Mind, and Miguel is…”
“I’m Air,” declared Miguel.
“Air, yeah, that’s it.” Honey cleared his throat. “But it’s not like it’s significant or anything, I just—I was interested in the concepts, so I thought—”
“But, like, what does it mean?” said Charlie. “I still don’t understand why I’m Ether.”
“It’s not important,” said Richard. “They’re just place cards. A pretty bit of fun. Please. The food is getting cold.”
Honey looked down at his plate, straightened his knife and fork.
“Well, I think they’re thoughtful,” said Kei. “And I like mine. Fire. I’m gonna keep it.”
Richard tapped his glass again, though no one else was talking. The head of the table was near the towering window, and so he was silhouetted against the sky, which blushed with the setting sun. “I’m sure you’re all wondering about this eclectic feast before you. I do hope you can forgive an old man his whims. Please, start tucking in while I explain.”
The guests passed the dishes back and forth, ladling cream, drizzling sauce, dipping fries in tiramisu. Tommo waved a waiter away so he could carve the turkey himself. He draped slices on the others’ plates, over cream and sushi and coffee-soaked ladyfingers. Kei was passing out steaks with a pair of tongs. I declined. Took one small donut instead. Placed it on my plate, licked the powdered sugar from my fingertips.
“When I was a young boy,” Richard began, raising his voice over the clatters and the scrapes, “I had a sweet tooth and a very old-fashioned nanny—an unfortunate combination. She’d engineer the most foul concoctions for supper. Dry mutton, glutinous kidneys, and I’d only be allowed the saving grace of custard for pudding if I finished every last mouthful.”
I watched as Jerry held a lobster’s head in one hand and its tail in the other—twisted and tore them apart with a crunch. Each claw was snapped off; he split the shell of the tail, freed the meat with his bare fingers, and ripped it apart. Dipped each piece into a bowl of butter, sucked each finger. Then Jerry paused, wiped his hands, picked up his cutlery, and sliced into his steak. He groaned as he removed the knife, as the flesh settled into shape. Pink and red and glistening.
“Well,” Richard continued, “I swore that when I was old enough to decide for myself, I’d start with pudding every night. And although we don’t quite do that every night—do we, baby?” He looked to Honey. “I nonetheless wanted to give it a go for this special occasion. And who can deny the delicious taste of salty with sweet? Perhaps we’ll discover a new culinary combination tonight.”
“Turkey and tiramisu?” said Jerry, still working his way through the pile of meat. “I don’t t
hink so.”
“But,” Richard went on, “I didn’t want this to just be a treat for me. The staff have been working incredibly hard tonight to create dishes that I know you’ll all enjoy. They’ve had to suffer some quite strange requests. Now, what do we have? Nine dishes, one indulgence for each of my guests.”
If there were nine, then maybe one had been created for Lillie. I could only hope. I brought my purse to my lap so I could compose my text to her while pretending to look for something.
“Ah yes,” said Richard. “Here’s the surf and turf for Jerry, which we have a long tradition of ordering when we have something to celebrate.”
I waited till I could see that the message had been delivered.
“Been getting it for years,” said Jerry through a mouthful. “Decades! But somehow I’m the only one who piles on the pounds.”
“It’s not from our usual place—a little Scottish tavern in Atwater Village. My chef has made his own version. Then what else? Tiramisu for Charlie because I know how much you love coffee.”
“Yes, sir, I do,” said Charlie. He laughed, like it was a private joke, though I noticed he hadn’t spooned any onto his plate.
“Miguel,” Richard continued, “yours is particularly special.”
“Rich”—the producer grinned—“don’t tell me this is actually from Nozawa.”
“It is, it is. Nozawa Bar created these sushi items just for you—jellyfish, I think, maybe eel too. They’re not even on the menu at the restaurant tonight. Let me tell you, that was no mean feat.”
“Unbelievable. You know me too well, buddy.”
“I won’t reveal which organ I had to sell on the black market to pay for that. What else? Donuts for Kei, who always brings a colossal batch for the cast and crew on the last day of shooting. Strawberries and cream for Tommo, his childhood favorite—”
“Will I find vinegar in this one?” asked Tommo. He addressed the rest of us: “Dicky pranked me with this dish in school. Said I was a philistine for never having tried strawberries with vinegar, and after much, much provoking, I finally gave in.”
