The Last Guest

by Tess Little

  I shuddered at the memory of him dropping the octopus into his open mouth…

  (Now lift your head.)

  …and recalled his pained laughter in the barista conversation.

  (Lift your head, look over here.)

  I could see it that night and now with these internet searches too: He was willing to do anything.

  (I said, lift your head.)

  He was hungry.

  (Lift your head. Your head.)

  He was starving.

  (No, your chin, upward. Like this. Can you feel?)

  I could not begrudge him this determination. I had never hired a publicist, but we had all sacrificed something. I rubbed my temples, tried to straighten my posture.

  What Charlie lacked in job opportunities, his publicists had tried to make up for with staged paparazzi shoots. Blogs linked him to several women: pop stars, actresses, and public personalities of unidentifiable occupation. They emerged from restaurants and bars together, in the camera glare—holding hands, beneath baseball caps.

  I clicked through a slideshow detailing his red-carpet looks. And I thought: How fortunate for him—and for Sabine, Kei, and Miguel—that the movie was still showing in theaters at the time of Richard’s passing. How fortunate that he had appeared in the last-ever creation of a much-loved director. How fortunate that he could be photographed leaving the police station. The headlines were writing themselves.

  I closed the tabs of these articles and found Charlie’s Twitter account. It was incredibly dull—more sponsorship, more self-promotion—and I almost immediately left the page. But then the “Likes” section piqued my curiosity, and I found myself scrolling down. It didn’t seem as though he knew that these likes were collected, could be browsed: This section was, more so than his own tweets, a window into his mind.

  And that mind was profoundly egotistical. Most of the likes were for gushing middle-aged women…

  If this was at my gym, wrote one beneath a shot of him working out, it would almost be enough to make me actually go!

  …and for moviegoers, praising his work in Dominus.

  Among the latter, a pattern emerged. Charlie had liked dozens of tweets from one specific account. Its picture was, I guessed, a football-team logo; the handle was @patriotsforbowl.

  Doesn’t know what she’s talking about, read one of their tweets, with a link to a review. The piece was a takedown of Dominus that pinned the film’s problems on the miscasting of the male lead. Too handsome, too blunt, was the critic’s verdict, to nail the emotional complexity Luke Winters’s story required.

  Exactly, said another, in reply to a long thread claiming the issues with Dominus resided with the director. How can a movie succeed with all these problems? Doomed from start.

  I agree it was great. Cried in the theater, another read: a response to a young man who told everyone to Go see dominus NOW!!!

  My suspicions about the account were confirmed when I clicked through to read the rest of their tweets. It wasn’t that every last one was focused on Dominus, but the person hiding behind the account had made only a weak attempt to cover their tracks. Each Dominus tweet would be preceded by something else—a proclamation on sports results, or seasonal greetings—but nothing of any substance, no interactions with anyone else on topics other than the film. The account was a shill. And, yes, it could have been a family member or friend, but there was something in the sharp turns of the tweeter’s opinions that made me think it was Charlie typing. It reminded me of his behavior that night: bored until he was center of attention; best friends with Richard, then sulking when ignored.

  Dominus was supposed to be Charlie’s break. The lead in a serious, artistic film, but one that was expected to pull in big money; co-starring with Sabine, already at the top of her game—Pace was poised for a dream debut. I could imagine the sleepless nights he’d enjoyed in the days after he’d won the role. This was it. This would be it.

  And then, in the end, it wasn’t.

  I could see from the tweets that Charlie didn’t know who to blame—there was no rational campaign behind them. One day they would vilify Richard, the next they would defend him, defend Dominus as an overlooked masterpiece. Charlie was like a kid: kicking his toys, furious at his father after being scolded, but then arguing with other boys in the schoolyard that his daddy was the strongest, the smartest, the richest-most-handsome. I could almost feel the psychological contortion as he tried to reconcile those tearing emotions: How could Daddy be both hero and villain?

  I wondered what that conflict could do to a young person. How it might feel to have your grandest hopes and aspirations puffed up by someone, to feel like you’re there, almost there, only to have that dream—not fail, not collapse, but deflate, maybe; dwindle. A failure caused, in part, by the person who’d given the opportunity in the first place. And then to see that someone celebrating their life in their enormous house, seemingly unfazed by the failure, surrounded by their riches, their wealthy friends, their privilege; how would that make you feel? Bitter, confused. Enough to make Charlie drink more as the night wore on, enough to make him consume drugs, behave erratically. And all the while, Richard continued to jab at him, humiliate him, in front of colleagues, friends, and strangers. I could imagine that pushing Charlie to violence: He wasn’t capable of regulating his emotions; he couldn’t take criticism. He’d been awake with Richard before I fell asleep, hadn’t he? What if Richard had taken it too far?

  I returned to Charlie’s latest Instagram post. There he was on a red carpet, arm wrapped over Richard’s shoulder, head thrown back in laughter. Beneath this image, Charlie told his followers to count their blessings, live every day as though it were the last. He would be taking some time to focus on himself. And he was sending love, and prayers, and thoughts, to all of Richard’s friends and family in this most difficult time. Richard was a great man, he wrote, a genius of a man, and he could only be grateful for the short time they’d shared.

  * * *

  —

  The bathroom was easy enough to find. I unzipped myself and slipped out of the skirt, held it under the faucet. It had been reckless to apply the stain remover without checking the label, but the fabric seemed fine. I rummaged for the hair dryer. It wasn’t in the cabinet, which was empty—secrets buried elsewhere—but in a wicker box, lying on folded towels. Clinical. I put one arm through the loop of the skirt and held the dryer’s nozzle to the wet patch.

  Standing in my hem-less flesh-colored underwear, I felt the drinks settle on me, heavy. I should have left already; it was the only way to avoid talking about Honey—or, worse, to him. I remembered his expression as he caught me watching—it was unreadable, not surprised, not provocative. I wondered whether he’d known I was listening in as he continued to speak. It’s all about forgiveness. And love.

  What did he think of me? I must have seemed unimpressive in person. Old, irrelevant. Did he hate me?

  I would have.

  I accidentally caught my reflection’s eye. She was waning. I imagined Honey standing next to her—how his smooth skin would glow against her dull wrinkles; his crisp shirt against her flouncing blouse. Why I had chosen to wear this, I could not remember. It was not fashionable or seductive—not even elegant, compared with Sabine’s low chignon, her blossoming red lips, the white silk slip gliding over her décolletage. We were all in white: Sabine, Honey, and me. How embarrassing. I had chosen the outfit knowing it was Richard’s favorite color on me. Pathetic bride. I stared blankly at my reflection—hating her, hating everything she had done.

  Detecting the faint whiff of singed fabric, I realized the patch had dried. No stain. I turned off the hair dryer and the abrupt silence brought me back. I pulled the skirt over my hips, checked my lipstick one last time. I would make my excuses to Tommo and Jerry and I would call a cab.

  As I pushed open the bathroom door, voices echoed
up the stairs. I strained to pick out the words.

  “…that Honey is here, that they’re back together. And his ex-wife as well?”

  It was Kei. I felt uneasiness creep up my spine, as I had during my conversation with Sabine. Of course they all knew; of course they were all judging.

  “I know. She’s so dull,” a deep voice—Charlie—replied.

  “I don’t think she’s boring,” said Kei. “I just can’t get a read on her, she’s so quiet. Like she’s been watching us, judging, you know? But that’s not what I was talking about. I meant, like, don’t you find it weird? This party, the guests. And did you even know Honey and Richard were back together? I did not expect to walk in and find him here. He’s nice, but I’ve always found it hard to get to know him properly, because of Richard. You know how it is. And now it’s even more awkward. Like, are we supposed to pretend that nothing happened?”

  “No, he’s…You heard what Richard said. It’s his fiftieth, he wanted to celebrate with us and—”

  “I’m not so sure. Like, why is his ex-wife here?” She gave an empty laugh. “Why would he invite her? Why would she come to this?”

  Charlie did not answer.

  Kei went on: “Why are any of us here? Why do any of us keep coming back?”

  “I know Richard can be difficult, but—”

  “Did you hear what he was like during the museum scene? God, you think he’s a perfectionist—”

  “Come on, he’s a good guy—”

  “It’s his accent,” Kei interrupted. “People think he’s fucking charming and intelligent because he tells you that you’re rubbish instead of garbage.”

  There was a pause. My knees were aching. I’d been standing motionless, desperate not to make the smallest scratch of noise.

  Kei continued, “You don’t have to defend him. I saw the way he treated you and Sabine.”

  “He was fine, he—”

  “Dude, you can think that now, but once you’ve worked on other sets, you’ll realize things don’t have to be this way. You don’t have to treat people like shit to make art.”

  Charlie’s voice grew hostile, accusatory. “And I saw how you guys were. So why do you still work with him?”

  Kei sighed. “I’ve asked myself that question so many times.”

  They fell silent again. I held my breath and closed my eyes, not moving an inch. My fingers were sliding down the bathroom door, sticky with sweat. I wanted to let it swing shut, muffle the whispers downstairs. But if I could hear them, they could hear me.

  “Same reason as you, I guess.” Her voice was quiet, weary. “Before he met me, I was just directing shitty music videos. You know, it’s not like other people are lining up to hire me for big projects at the moment. How many people, hell, women who look like me do you see doing what I— Fuck, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” Her voice changed, became stronger, decisive. “Richard and I, we may not work well together, but I know it’s good—the result. It’s really fucking good. And he knows I’m good too. I think that’s worth something.” Pause. “Although it doesn’t always feel like it is.”

  “Do you think he’s a genius?” asked Charlie.

  Kei snorted. “I know he’s an asshole, that’s for sure.”

  I did not hear them leave, but when Charlie laughed again it was distant. I peered down the empty staircase, then decided to explore Sedgwick before returning, noticing, as I went to switch off the bathroom light, that my moist handprint still lingered on the door.

  The moon peered through the skylight above, but the stars had been erased by the light of the city. It followed me, skylight to window, as I wandered across the darkened rooms.

  It was only the next day, switching on the television, that I truly understood the architectural achievement of Sedgwick—when I caught the paparazzi footage, the helicopter panning from above. Only then could I see the structure as a whole, how it perched on the hillside among the trees; a glittering cubic growth. Only then could I appreciate that the glass surfaces, too, were a disguise. With the sun shining fierce, the camera caught nothing but angled façades, throwing back a broken sky.

  * * *

  —

  Charlie’s social-media accounts had kept me distracted all morning. At some point I’d stopped learning anything new about him—realized I’d been sucked into a rabbit warren of links and comments sections and slideshow arrows.

  Of all the guests who had worked on Dominus, Charlie Pace seemed the most sinister, the most desperate, the most likely to kill. Yet he wasn’t the only one to have benefited from Richard’s death. And so I followed the link trail to gossip blogs that had covered other stories surrounding Dominus.

  They didn’t tell me much more than Tommo had recounted at the party: Richard had screwed over the studio; there were questions about whether the project would be dropped. It hadn’t been, and Miguel was to thank for that, but it was a bet that hadn’t paid off, and Richard was to blame. The box-office failure must have been a disaster for Miguel. Financially, yes, but also personally: Tommo had told me that Miguel was in some kind of power struggle with his brothers. Wouldn’t Richard’s death have removed the issue? Wouldn’t the media attention improve the film’s reception?

  The situation must have been dire for Richard to have invited Miguel to his intimate birthday—to have flattered and charmed the producer all night. And—was I remembering correctly?—hadn’t Miguel pulled Richard away for a private conversation at one point? Maybe he had, in fact, broken the news to Richard: The studio was dropping him. I knew Richard wouldn’t have taken that lightly. Could he have retaliated? Threatened Miguel in some way? It was only speculation but—knowing Richard—I could see how it might have played out.

  Yet there were three other guests who, I was certain, had recently clashed with Richard: Charlie, Sabine, and Kei. I couldn’t know the extent of it—there were no mentions of this online—but I’d heard the acidity in Kei’s voice as she whispered with Charlie at the foot of the stairs.

  Things don’t have to be this way. Wasn’t that what Kei had said? You don’t have to treat people like shit to make art.

  Why would Kei have attended the party if she hated Richard so much? I couldn’t see her taking revenge: Throughout the night, Kei had looked out for the others, had tried to include me. She seemed kind, genuine. But I didn’t know her, not truly. And I didn’t know how far Richard had pushed her during the filming of Dominus.

  Or the two leading actors.

  I had wondered, that night, why Sabine was there. I couldn’t see her in the same category as Miguel or Charlie: She was probably less invested in the success of Dominus. She had fame, money—what was one dud on her long list of credits? None of the reviews chalked the failure up to her performance, and unlike Charlie, Sabine seemed to still be garnering accolades: two magazine covers, I noted, in the last month alone. So she wouldn’t have needed to eliminate Richard for her career, like the men. For a personal vendetta, then, like Kei? Had she attended Richard’s party with the intention to kill?

  I didn’t know. This was flimsy conjecture.

  I absentmindedly clicked my way through a slideshow of the Dominus red carpet. There were Kei and Richard, smiling together. Then Charlie and his date. Sabine posing alone in an emerald-green dress. Hand on hip, chin over the shoulder; sultry, eyebrow raised. I’d never mastered that look myself.

  I closed the webpage and found the last article I had opened, waiting behind. I had not noticed when reading it earlier, but beneath the story of Richard’s dispute with Montana Entertainment, other clickbait headlines were listed. My own name nestled within.

  I told myself not to click on it. I knew what it contained. There was no need to read what people had written.

  My right finger pressed down. I should not have clicked on it—

  A door slammed. Lillie’s footsteps a
pproached the kitchen. I snapped the laptop shut and stood up as fast as possible. Opened the fridge and pretended to browse.

  When I closed it again, Lillie was standing in the middle of the room, staring at me, as though she knew there was something strange in my behavior but could not quite put her finger on it.

  “Are you heading out?” I asked, a little too rushed. She was already dressed—unusual for midday.

  “Yep,” she said. Went to the sink to fill a bottle with water. “Another interrogation today?”

  “This afternoon.”

  Lillie screwed the cap back on. “I’m going to the station tomorrow. They want to question me too.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said. “You shouldn’t be going by yourself.”

  “Why not?” she said.

  “You might need support, in case…you’re too young.”

  “I’m not a minor.”

  “Don’t roll your eyes, Lillie. I’m serious, you’re barely an adult.”

  She zipped up her backpack. “I think the police would probably rather I went alone. Considering, you know.”

  She left it unsaid: that I might be on their list of suspects.

  “Okay.” I decided to stay away from that topic too. “But maybe Scott should go with you.”

  “I’m not a suspect,” she said. “Why would I need a lawyer?”

  “You never know what they’re going to ask.”

  “I do,” Lillie said. “The cops told me. They just want to ask some questions about Dad and about the filming. Unless you’re worried about something else?”