by Tess Little
“It’s true,” said Richard. “Vinegar and strawberries are a match made in heaven.”
“Didn’t explain that strawberries work best with balsamic, though, did you, Dicky? For the record, malt vinegar and curdled cream are a terrible, terrible match.”
Richard laughed. “No vinegar this time. And finally we have: some pastries, some asparagus, and Thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings. I’ll let you talk among yourselves to work out which is for whom and the reasons why—it can be a fun little icebreaker, can’t it? Ah yes, I almost forgot the ninth dish! My own.”
So the ninth was not for Lillie. Then it was certain: She wouldn’t be arriving for a while. I checked my phone.
“Hot cross buns,” Richard was saying. “A reminder of my childhood—Elspeth?”
I looked up, tried to recompose my expression as though I’d been listening.
“Is that a phone?” he said.
“I was just checking when—”
“No excuses, Elspeth. Rules are rules. And what’s that bottle doing?” He gestured at the water I had placed on the table.
“Put it away,” Richard scolded. “This is strictly a champagne moment. And if you insist on drinking anything else, we have the waiters for that.”
The others were watching. Their knives and forks hovered. For a moment, I wondered whether this was worth an argument—to show he held no sway over me. But Richard was smiling. He wanted a challenge. I couldn’t be bothered to fight him—there was no response from Lillie anyway. And how would it have looked if Richard was the one to tell me, in front of everyone, where our daughter was? He would love that.
I put away my phone and the bottled water. Tore the donut in two and took a bite. It was dry. It stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“As I was saying,” Richard continued, “a reminder of my childhood. Toasted, with butter. Anyway, I’ll leave it there. Bon appétit, bon appétit. May you feast till your bellies burst. And no phones. Please. It’s for your own good.”
The guests were still eating but had settled down—no more plates traveling across the table. In their wake, the tablecloth was a mess: dollops of cream, the grease of the meaty knives and tongs, and was that a pool of egg yolk or candle wax crusting into the linen?
I sipped at my champagne. I was not hungry. Wondered, lazily, which dish was mine. None of the unclaimed plates was recognizable. Was it the Thanksgiving turkey? It hadn’t been a huge celebration in our house, but the triangular pastries were entirely alien, and I’d never cooked asparagus before.
“Who’s left?” said Tommo.
“These are mine.” Sabine pointed to the pastries. “Brik. My mother’s is best, but these are not so bad. Try, try. But there is soft egg inside, so you must be careful when you bite.”
“Now you tell me,” said Jerry. Yolk had dripped down his shirt.
“And this turkey,” Sabine said, holding her champagne glass out to a waiter for a refill. “Very American. I think I will guess: Is it for Charlie?”
“No, he’s the tiramisu,” said Tommo.
“Then we say…Ah, for Honey? Is it you?”
He nodded.
“You are patriotic?” Sabine said.
His mouth was full; he smiled, bashful. Waited until he had swallowed before saying, “No, it’s—I had this religious upbringing, where we didn’t celebrate any secular holidays. And when Richard found that out, right at the start of our relationship, he surprised me with a Thanksgiving meal the next day. For breakfast.”
“The whole shebang,” said Richard. “And you know what he said? I’d have been happy with turkey sandwiches.”
The group laughed. Richard reached across the table to kiss Honey’s cheek.
“Very romantic, I’m sure,” said Tommo. “But we’ve got a game to win. Who’s the asparagus?”
“The asparagus…” Sabine bit into a strawberry as she looked around the group. “But, no, we have already guessed everyone.”
I had finished my champagne and was having trouble signaling to the waiter facing me. He was enamored with Sabine. I waited for him to break his stare for just one moment, but it was hopeless.
Sabine took another forkful, slid the fruit off the prongs with her teeth. “I know,” she said. “It is a trick.”
Another waiter noticed me, nudged Sabine’s admirer. He jumped to refill my glass.
“No, you’re wrong,” said Tommo. “There’s one more person left.”
He waited for a moment to build the suspense, then turned his head, sharp. Almost an accusation. “Elspeth—are you the asparagus?”
I froze under their stare. “I don’t know,” I stuttered. “I don’t think that—”
“Come on, Ellie,” said Richard. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”
He smiled strangely: with his mouth, not his eyes. The table was silent. The guests were watching.
“Our honeymoon,” he said. “Norfolk asparagus, remember? That picnic?”
That picnic.
“You remember, don’t you, Ellie?”
I hadn’t before, but I did now. I nodded. Tried to smile. Raised my glass to Tommo.
“Congratulations,” I said, “you got me.”
“Well, there we are,” said Tommo. Then to Sabine: “Tough luck.”
* * *
—
Kei was sobbing. “How could we—”
Tommo, eyes wide open, was shaking his head.
“He must have taken more after we went to sleep,” said Jerry. “Did anyone see? What do you remember? He must have done more while we were sleeping, right?”
“When was he—” Kei said. “How could we—how could we—”
“Should we clean up this shit before the cops arrive?” Miguel, lurching toward the table, seemed to be directing this at me—but I could not think, I could not talk.
“My manager’s going to fucking kill me,” said Charlie, shaking his head. “Why the fuck am I here? There’s no way this won’t get out. No way. Fuck. Fuck. I can’t be here.”
Sabine pulled Kei out to the lawn.
“Fuck,” cried Charlie. “Fuck.”
Needles and spoons clattered back onto the marble as Miguel tried to gather them.
“Hey,” shouted Jerry. “Don’t touch that, don’t fucking touch that. We leave everything as it is. Nobody leaves. Nothing covered up or we’re looking at jail. Hey. Hey!”
He slapped Miguel’s wrist, pulled him up by the collar.
“You want the lead role in San Quentin’s Christmas cabaret?” he spat. “Calm the fuck down.”
The sirens were low in the distance. Jerry dropped Miguel, who crumpled to the floor, trembling.
“A mess, a fucking mess,” he seemed to be saying. “A mess.”
Jerry looked at Charlie, at Miguel. “Okay,” he said slowly. Voice lowered. “Okay. We wait until the cops arrive and then we explain everything. Richard overdosed while we were asleep. Nobody needs to lie about anything, nobody needs to cover up the drugs—we can’t change that now. It’s all here. We’re here. Richard overdosed while we were asleep. Those are the facts.”
Honey returned to the room in silence, perched on the arm of the couch, inches from the body. I was horrified to see it loll, ever so slightly, with this movement. It was too much.
“Fucking look at him,” said Charlie, eyes on Richard.
The sun was coming clean through the window. Sabine, just beyond the glass, was stroking Kei’s hair, whispering into her ear.
We sat in silence till the sirens were upon us. Only then did I think of Lillie—that I would have to reach her before the paparazzi captured the yellow-taped mansion.
“Richard,” said Tommo, dropped his head into his big hands, and wept.
* * *
—
“I’d like to say a f
ew words,” said Richard.
“Speech,” shouted Jerry. “Shut the fuck up, the old man wants to speak.”
Conversation crumbled away as Richard cleared his throat.
“First of all,” he said, “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the chefs and the waitstaff for looking after us so well tonight.”
As we applauded, the chefs trailed into the room in a long line. Stood awkwardly, the four of them, with hands behind their backs—apart from one, who was wiping his palms on his apron.
“I have to say,” continued Richard, “they really have performed feats of magic tonight. Chef Brady even baked authentic hot cross buns from scratch after I discovered that the locals add icing—sacrilege. Thank you again. Thank you to all of you.”
The tallest chef nodded, and they filed out.
“That was…” Jerry patted his belly, exhaled. “That was phenomenal.”
“I don’t think I’ll need to eat again for a week,” said Tommo.
Richard waited until the plates were gone before clearing his throat again. I checked my phone quickly. Nothing from Lillie. I would have to pull Richard aside and ask what was happening. But not now: He was engrossed in his hosting theatrics.
“Well,” he said, beaming, surveying the room, “who can believe we’re here? Half a century, gosh…”
He looked wistfully to the window, as if at a loss for words. I knew this was not the case, knew he would have been rewriting and rehearsing this speech for months—recitations to the bathroom mirror, tears welling as he waited for his espresso to dribble from the machine.
“…what a thing to behold. There are many celebrations that might befit an aging man’s birthday, and I so wanted to make this year’s festivities special. I mulled over the possibilities: Another large party full of characters I can’t even name? A retreat to the other side of the world? Put on a show at Grauman’s?”
Richard stood up. The candlelight flickered his face golden as he picked up his glass, taking his time to drink—to force a pause on the room.
“But then I considered the cast of my entire life.” He wandered to Miguel’s chair. Rested one hand on his shoulder. “The people who had shaped me into the round-bellied, cynical fool that stands here before you. And I thought: The celebration for this milestone should not be a celebration of me. It should be a celebration of each and every one of you.”
A moment of silence for this perfect performance.
“So, dearly beloved”—Richard strolled back to stand behind his own seat—“we are gathered here today to honor the memories of the last fifty years…”
Titters of laughter sprinkled here and there.
“…as tonight I celebrate you and your lives, friends and loves, old and new. Let us begin with a little toast.”
We lifted our glasses from the stained tablecloth.
“To Miguel,” he said, “who fights for my dream every day. The man to whom I owe the last few years of my professional life, whom I’ve entrusted with my most important work. Sometimes, Miguel, I think you’re the only person who truly understands my vision.”
The producer wiped the corner of his eye with a knuckle, as Richard moved on.
“To Tommo—my oldest, dearest friend. My brother.”
Tommo raised his glass to Richard, nodded.
“To Jerry, without whom I’d have no career at all. And to Kei, who weaves my ideas into being.”
I braced myself as he turned to our half of the table.
“To Ellie,” he said, “who raised my wonderful Lillie into a bright young woman.”
I smiled back at Richard, but my foot was tapping under the table. I wanted this lengthy toast to end so I could ask him when our bright young woman would arrive. When we’d discussed arriving separately, Lillie had said nothing about coming this late. She needed to visit a friend beforehand, but she would get to the party at six-thirty, and I’d been careful to arrive half an hour after that. Now the time on my phone had crept past eight-thirty. I could feel the worry encroaching—had something happened to her on the drive?—but Richard seemed not to have noticed, seemed relaxed, which made me think he knew exactly where she was.
“To Charlie, a talented young man at the very start of a dazzling career. To Sabine—a star, an artist, an icon. And to Honey, to Honey…” Richard paused. “To Honey, my love, beside whom I know, I know, I want to spend every day of the rest of my life.”
Honey kissed two fingers, held them up to Richard, in some kind of secret gesture. Richard took the hand and squeezed it. Turned back to his audience.
“To each and every one of you.” His voice was booming now. “To each and every year. To all days of glory, joy, and happiness.”
Had his eyes deliberately fallen upon me with those words?
But no, of course not: They were sweeping back across the room again, to rest on Honey, sitting by his side.
They held each other’s gaze. I knew that look of love. How Richard could kiss you with his eyes, adorn you with his words, lift you up before a crowd and say: This is special, this one is mine. I held my breath, felt the air press down upon me, averted my eyes to the aquarium in case anyone looked on.
And then the moment passed.
“To love,” Richard croaked.
“To love!” the guests cheered, each raising a glass.
We sipped, some applauded; Jerry slapped his thigh. Richard took Honey’s chin in one hand and pulled him close for a kiss.
As toasting slid back into talk, I pushed my chair from the table. Approached my ex-husband. Leaned in discreetly, taking in the familiar aftershave—a familiar look of guilt.
“Earlier,” I whispered, “you said we were all here. But where’s Lillie? Isn’t she supposed to have arrived by now? Has something happened?”
To my alarm, Richard grabbed my hand.
“Apologies, Miguel,” he said to the producer. And then, to me, “Let’s talk in the hallway.”
* * *
—
As Sedgwick was taped off and the uniforms swarmed, we were each taken aside and asked some basic questions: when the body had been found, whether anybody else had been in the house, whether we would remain in the city and pass on our contact details. Tommo canceled his flight back to London, and Sabine hers to Paris. There would be a routine inquest; the death was not being treated as suspicious.
I was only supposed to be staying with Lillie for a couple of nights, to spend some time together and attend Richard’s party. With his death, I postponed my return to New York indefinitely. The police needed me present, yes, but my daughter needed me more. To keep her company, hold her tight, tell her it would all be okay. She hadn’t asked, we hadn’t discussed it. I had, simply, not left.
I was making Lillie a breakfast I knew she would not eat when the phone call came three days later—I was required at the station. The scrambled eggs, still half raw, were scraped straight from pan to trash can. But I knocked on her door lightly, set a steaming coffee and some water on the bedside table.
“I have to leave,” I told Lillie, sitting down on her quilt.
She was lying on her side, facing the wall. The sun seeped through her curtains.
“They want me at the station,” I said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Will you be okay by yourself?”
I tucked her hair behind an ear.
Lillie blinked, glassy. “What did you say?”
“The police called—I need to answer some questions for them. Are you going to be okay staying here alone?”
She nodded, just.
“Did you get some sleep? How are you doing today?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
There was a humming and a tapping at the window—an insect hurtling into the pane. I could make out its shadow every now and then, a smudge behind the curtain.
“Do you need me to get you anything while I’m out?”
“I don’t know,” she said. I put a hand on her forehead: hot.
“Have you been drinking water?” I asked, but Lillie seemed not to hear me.
She murmured, “It keeps going through my mind.”
“What does?”
“The sentence. It’s only words and nothing else.”
The insect paused for a moment—maybe resting, maybe crawling on the glass.
“He’s dead,” she said. “That’s the sentence: He’s dead. It’s only words and they’re not stopping and I can’t figure out what they mean so I just keep saying them to myself. He’s dead.”
The window-tapping resumed.
“Sometimes,” she said, staring at the wall, “I’ll think about something else. Like maybe I taste my breath and I think: I should brush my teeth. Then it hits me again: He’s dead. And I can’t move.” Her voice was flat; her lips were white. She mouthed the phrase slowly. “He’s dead,” she said. “He’s dead.”
Lillie closed her eyes, wrinkled her forehead. “But it’s not—it isn’t making sense to me.”
The air conditioner woke up. Its airy white noise, the click as the slats angled up and down, made the room quieter, emptier somehow.
Each time I’d slipped into her room over the past couple of days, to check how she was doing, I had expected to find chaos: soccer gear and socks strewn, books spilling from strange corners, maybe crumb-scattered plates and at least fifteen mugs. That chaos had been the source of many arguments back home—there were months when I could barely wedge open her door, the floor was so buried in junk.
When she had shown me around her pristine house that first afternoon, I’d smugly told myself that the polished surfaces wouldn’t last. Lillie had obviously set the stage for my arrival, and I almost laughed: I knew my nineteen-year-old daughter didn’t live like this. She didn’t regularly refill the dish-soap dispenser; she didn’t have a closet of spare towels; she certainly didn’t sift utility bills from the mail, slip each stack into a different drawer.
