The Last Guest

by Tess Little

  “Earlier,” Tommo mumbled, cornering me on the other side of the octopus tank. “Earlier, darling, I meant to ask…I wanted to see if you were…Because I read about it a few months ago, and I know we’ve never talked about it, but I always wondered whether…”

  At one point I found Sabine and Charlie in the bathtub, clothes sticking to their skin like cresting waves.

  “There’s no swimming pool,” she told me, matter-of-fact, and Charlie giggled like a kid. As I backed out to find another bathroom, he kicked his legs as hard as he could, slopped water everywhere.

  They emerged some time later, lips lilac, and danced across the atrium floor, as if they had never left, as if their clothes were not soaked translucent, their limbs and nipples not prickling with the cold.

  * * *

  —

  “Excellent—we can corroborate that with the security-camera footage,” the male officer was saying.

  I had thought we’d been over the events of that night enough times already. But apparently not. The detectives were spending our final session “cross-checking” facts, things that they’d presumably learned elsewhere in the investigation.

  The male detective was flipping through his papers when the last comment rang through my thoughts.

  “The security cameras, wait.” I sat up, excited. “There was a camera in the atrium corner—facing right where we were sitting. It would have captured everything, the whole night. Richard used it for…Well, it wasn’t specifically a security camera, so perhaps you haven’t yet—”

  I had been gabbling so quickly, I had not noticed the female officer holding up her hand to interrupt.

  “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Ms. Bryant Bell,” she said. “Or perhaps you knew that already.”

  “What do you mean? It’s there, it records every night, I’m sure if you check…”

  Scott adjusted his cuff links with two sharp movements, so I let my words trail off.

  “No usable footage from that camera.” The male cop stretched his neck. I heard the bones crack. “There was a screen blocking the lens.”

  Of course. The projector screen. If they had already questioned me four times in the past couple of weeks, I wondered how many hours they had racked up on this cold table, in this soulless room, with the other guests. I wondered how much the others had revealed. Did the police know about all of the Dominus disagreements? Had they reached my conclusions about Jerry, Miguel, Charlie, Sabine, and Kei? And what did they know about Tommo? I tried to work out the motives behind each probing question they asked, tried to slot them with my own suspicions.

  “Do you recall,” said his colleague, “why the projector screen was lowered?”

  “We watched something early on in the night. I thought Richard raised it back up afterward,” I said. Then: “Wait, yes, sorry—I do remember. Later on, much later in the evening, it was brought back out again. We watched Richard’s movies.”

  I could not piece the memories together, yet I knew it had been some time after the dancing—beyond the point at which the night shattered to fragments.

  However, I did remember wedging myself between Jerry and Kei. I remembered trying to ignore Richard and Jerry’s unrelenting commentary throughout the opening scenes of Anatomy. I remembered licking the warm, yellow, salty powder of microwaved popcorn from my fingers, covering my eyes when my former self appeared. Maybe someone was passing around a joint; maybe someone was smoking a cigar. When I pictured my own face projected large, reciting lines to a jeering, slurring audience, it was dreamy, softened by the haze.

  “Do you remember who suggested the films?”

  I did not, only that they continued rolling in the background. Every so often I would catch glimpses—surreal, displaced, silenced by the return of dance music. They would snatch me away from conversation, pull me back to the story each time.

  * * *

  —

  Sweat behind my knees and swaying alone in the bathroom.

  Swells of movie soundtrack, drowning out all else.

  The lines that I had spoken in another life. You gotta believe me, Officer. He took me to the coat check at the club and put his gun right in my mouth. And I could taste the metal, you gotta believe me. It was cold, Officer. So cold.

  Lines my daughter had spoken only a year ago. And do you love her, Luke?

  The octopus suspended in the water, watching.

  Swigs from the bottle.

  Unstoppable music.

  And through it all, there was one figure my gaze returned to, again and again.

  * * *

  —

  “Okay. And, finally, we have a few follow-up questions on your answers regarding Anton Carlisle—known as Honey,” the male cop said, reading from his notes. “Now, you mentioned that he was the first individual you saw when you woke up….”

  “Apart from Richard,” I said, and tried another disarming smile on him. “Yes.”

  “Would, uh…do you think he was awake before you?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  The female officer, hair slicked into a painful-looking bun, leaned forward and asked, “Can you recall his behavior the night before?”

  “We didn’t talk. We’re not really…I don’t know him.”

  “There were fewer than ten guests that night.”

  “I know, but we—”

  “So you were avoiding him?”

  I sighed. “Yes. You could say that.”

  She scribbled in her notebook.

  “Officers,” Scott said, amicable, calm, “we’ve been here all afternoon. I’m sure my client would appreciate—”

  “Just these last few questions.” The male cop stretched his arms. Added, as though with a wink, to me, “Don’t worry, you’ll be out of here in the next half hour.”

  Scott glanced at me; I gave a small nod. Better to get it finished today.

  He checked his watch and said, “Half an hour.”

  “We appreciate your continued cooperation.” The female officer smiled, then turned to me. “Ms. Bryant Bell, is it safe to assume the hostility between yourself and Anton Carlisle stemmed from your recent press statement?”

  My heart drummed. I could hear it pulsing in my ears. I realized I had not blinked, that I was twisting the bracelet around and around my wrist, that my breathing was uneven, that my throat was sticking, that time had passed and I still had not answered the question, that I had not prepared myself to face this subject, not today, not in this interrogation, not as part of an inquiry into the death of my ex-husband, the father of my child, my first love, my—

  When I did not immediately answer, she went on: “Your statement regarding Mr. Carlisle’s allegations of abuse?”

  * * *

  —

  I wanted to stop watching him, to tear myself away. But it was as impossible as shunning a pernicious thought. I couldn’t fail to be drawn to Honey: across the room, through the window, or talking with another group. To analyze the way that he poured himself a drink (timidly, always having first offered one to the nearest person); to note his conversational technique (intimate, intense); to linger over the slope of his high cheekbones and the length of his limbs.

  I kept as much distance between us as I could and yet I could not stop watching as Richard moved toward him, slipped an arm around his waist, whispered in his ear. I saw their smiles and I knew they were genuine. I knew that Honey did believe he was happy in that moment.

  When Lillie had announced that they were back together, I’d known that I would see this at the party. Of course, I had also thought there would be more people—that I would be able to escape it. That Lillie would be by my side, reminding me that I had made the right decision, that there was someone else to protect.

  But Lillie was not with me, and I could not escape the sight of Richard beaming tri
umphantly as he rested his hand upon Honey’s hip. It was more than I could bear. I looked away, left the room, each time Honey smiled. It broke my heart. How many lies had Richard told him? How many had Honey told himself?

  Across the room, through the window, over my conversational partner’s shoulder, my eyes returned to the long-limbed beauty. His shirt never creased; he fiddled with the back of his right ear when bored. He danced like his entire body was laughing. He was so young.

  Did I talk to Honey that night?

  I did not.

  How could I?

  * * *

  —

  “Officer, my client—”

  “Your client’s cooperation is greatly appreciated, sir,” said the female detective. “Now, Ms. Bryant Bell, your statement describes Mr. Bryant’s character—you say he was a wonderful, dependable father to Lillie and the best husband I could have asked for. You do not, however, at any point address rumors discussed in the press—namely, that Mr. Bryant may have acted violently toward you. My question is very simple.”

  (Now lift your head.)

  Her hands lay flat on the table. A glittering engagement ring, bitten nails. “Did he?”

  (Lift your head, look over here.)

  “My client would like to—”

  “As you know, Ms. Bryant Bell, you have the right to refuse to answer our questions,” she interrupted. “But this would not be in your best interest. We do need an answer going forward.”

  (I said, lift your head.)

  Scott’s watch ticked in the silence.

  (Lift your head. Your head.)

  “It’s a very simple question,” she said. “Was your ex-husband or was he not physically or emotionally abusive during or after your marriage?”

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

  The watch ticked.

  “No.”

  (Good girl. Take it from the top.)

  “Could you state that for me in full, Ms. Bryant Bell, for the record?”

  “No, Richard was not abusive during our marriage. He was the best husband I could have asked for and a wonderful father to our daughter.”

  * * *

  —

  “It can’t have been that bad, though. I mean, if they’re back together.”

  I was sitting in the garden, catching some fresh night air, when I heard Charlie enter the kitchen with someone else. I wondered whether to slip away while I had the chance. If the conversation stretched on, there would be no escape, no excuse: I was directly beneath the window.

  But I wanted to stay. I had to. This was what had made the party bearable—enjoyable, even. I was apart, I was removed, I was watching. I knew the others in ways they could not imagine, and that power was intoxicating.

  I would wait for one more second—see who Charlie was talking to.

  Jerry groaned. “Honestly, I didn’t think much of it in the first place.”

  His words were sluggish: He’d drunk more since our last conversation. I heard the pop of a liquor-bottle stopper. Then a clink, a glug. I slowed my breath, held myself still: I needed to hear this.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think about it,” said Jerry. “Unknown model, famous director, new film release…”

  I hugged my arms in tight—the night chill was creeping through my clothes.

  “You think it was Montana? A publicity stunt? Fuck off. If anything, it harmed—”

  “Tha’s not what I mean,” said Jerry. “All I’m saying is, don’t you think it’s a little convenient the allegations came out at that time, when there was already maximum attention on Richard? And I don’t know what the guy wants, maybe it’s the media attention, maybe he was thinking of an out-of-court settlement….”

  I didn’t want to hear this. Not Jerry saying this.

  “Did he ask for money?” said Charlie.

  My knees were aching, legs crossed.

  “No, but listen, pal, the evidence was against him.” Jerry had raised his voice. “Everyone was on Rich’s side. Rich is a nice guy—you know he’s a nice guy. So, okay, he can be demanding sometimes, but come on, he’d never do that. I’ve known him forever. You know him. He wouldn’t. And then, what? Three months later they’re back together.”

  A pause. I was shivering but my face was hot. A nasty, acidic heat.

  “I dunno, man,” said Charlie. “I don’t want to say he’s lying. But I agree, I can’t imagine…Maybe it was a misunderstanding? I feel like it was probably an argument. A misunderstanding.”

  Jerry gave a hollow laugh. “I’m jus’ saying what we’re all thinking, pal.” He was fumbling his words. “You’ve got to admit it’s sus-suspicious. And now he’s a fuckin’ household name.”

  “But the stuff people were writing about him…”

  “Gotta break a few to make a few, baby.”

  “It would be fucked up, though.”

  “What?”

  “If it were true,” said Charlie. “That would be—”

  Footsteps.

  “Oh, hey. Hey, man. Great to see you, man. We were just talking about—”

  “Omelets,” slurred Jerry. “We were talking about omelets. You like omelets, Honey?”

  * * *

  —

  The first time I tried to leave it all behind, I was twenty-three years old, pregnant with Lillie, and desperate for freedom. There was no planning. I took only my purse and traveled to LAX in the clothes I was wearing. I had not booked a ticket. If I had planned at all, Richard would have known. Richard kept tabs on every phone call I made, the people who visited the house. Not that I had any friends to help me by that point. And no colleagues either—Richard thought it would be better if I gave up work, from the earliest days of the pregnancy. He earned enough for both of us, and was I really going to continue with these kinds of roles once I had a baby to look after? I didn’t take this rubbish seriously, did I? It wasn’t exactly art, was it? Wasn’t the baby more important?

  The baby, our baby, my baby.

  It would bring us together, he said. Had he not wondered whether it might give me reason to escape?

  I think he’d known I would leave this time, though he could do nothing beyond locking me in, and there were too many people working in the household then, too many witnesses that day. So he apologized. He knew that would not be enough. I had found a syringe in the bathroom the night before. He had broken his only promise to me—and when confronted, his anger took hold. It always did. But this was different: I wasn’t one person then; I wasn’t only myself.

  And so I moved back to New York City in my maternity clothes, to spend the remaining months of pregnancy weighing my fate.

  Richard didn’t cut off the credit cards, I think as an apology. But, also, he knew that without money I would be forced to live with my parents in Queens. And that was too much for him to bear—his wife and unborn child seeking refuge in that borough. I was thankful for the credit cards. Thankful for my husband’s jealousy, snobbishness. I lived at the Pierre. Looked down on everything I had looked up to as a kid across the water.

  During those days, as I watched the crawling cars and blinking lights, I had a recurring urge: to knot each pair of corners of my bedsheet together, hook the ties beneath my armpits, jump from the window, and let the makeshift parachute cradle my fall to the ground—a fall so slow it could be flying. I would daydream the fall again and again, let the AC kiss my cheeks cold.

  I found it hard to discern the outlines of my real life, which, while I was in L.A., had always seemed to lie in New York. But now I found this city was not my own. This city was a constellation. I hopped across destinations in my taxi, drawing lines from dot to dot, stepped out like a visitor from a distant planet: to the doctor’s office, the baby departments of Fifth Avenue, home. I did not walk the streets. I was unto
uched.

  When Richard checked in to rehab, I told myself that this demonstrated his determination—the problem was the addiction, he knew that. And he could fix it. But only with my help. He had apologized one thousand times. He was the father of my unborn child. He loved me, didn’t he? And there was something else, our baby, and things could be different now, couldn’t they? He would change, wouldn’t he? And there was so much—so much—to fight for.

  These were the things I told myself, booking my ticket so I could return to the West Coast before giving birth. But perhaps they were dishonest. Perhaps the essence of it was: I missed him; I missed the life he’d given me.

  * * *

  —

  “Here’s what we’re struggling with, Elspeth.” The officer put down her notebook and laid her hands flat on the table between us. It was the first time she had used my name. “We’ve spoken to everyone who was at Sedgwick on the night of the murder. We’ve spoken to your ex-husband’s other friends as well, his family in Britain, his colleagues and acquaintances, his housekeeper, his landscaper, even his favorite deli owner—and by nearly all accounts he was not a particularly nice man.”

  I looked to Scott, panicked. She bulldozed on.

  “Oh, he was charming, yes, and generous and popular. A talented man.” She enunciated the word talented as one might pronounce paranormal, necromancer, alchemist. “But at the same time, we’re having no trouble at all establishing credible motives. He was a man with a temper—”

  (I said, lift your head.)

  “—a perfectionist—”

  (Lift your head. Your head.)

  “—with high expectations for everyone around him. He was controlling—”

  (No, your chin, upward.)

  “—stubborn—”

  (Like this.)

  “—and selfish. And his struggles with substance abuse, which he grappled with over several decades, only exacerbated these traits. But then you come along and you swear, you are adamant, that he was, and I quote, the best husband I could have asked for. Can you understand why we’re having a hard time believing that?”