by Tess Little
I was a teenager, living in a strange city with no friends, no family. I was inexperienced—professionally, generally. I relied upon Richard for my home, my job, my entire social life.
Now here I was, years later, alone in a house full of his guests, nothing of my own. A white minidress stained with a stranger’s vomit.
Another surge of nausea.
I waited for it to ebb, then stood up from the toilet. Accidentally caught my reflection again. What would Richard say if he saw me like this on his birthday? In front of his friends, his colleagues? I tried to blot away the smudged lipstick. And the vomit: the vomit. I lifted my dress and tried to stretch it to the sink, but it was too short, too tight. Fuck it. I would be upstairs, locked in the safety of my bedroom, soon enough. I could throw the dress away.
* * *
—
The handle rattled as I was washing my hands.
“Ah, so you had the same plan as me—I’d no idea I was so distinctly unoriginal.”
I had answered the door to a beaming Tommo. The memorial jazz, the scent of lilies, floated up the stairs.
“Neither did I,” I said. “Kei and Sabine were here before me. Maybe this should be the rendezvous point for us birthday guests; maybe you’ll have the fortune of bumping into Mig—”
Tommo placed a finger over my lips and ushered me back inside. The sudden movement, his strength, alarmed me.
He locked the door. I watched him carefully.
But then he turned and smiled at me and said, “Sorry, darling, but careless talk costs lives. Now we can chat freely.” And I knew, with that smile, that my skittishness was unfounded. It was the house, my paranoia. There was nothing to fear.
“Want me to turn on the faucets as well, Mr. Bond?”
“Very funny, Elspeth, but that’s actually not a bad idea. There are cops and reporters everywhere, and I wouldn’t put bugging past them. The bastards can’t even leave us to mourn in peace.”
He lowered the lid of the toilet and sat down, rubbing his head.
“Tell me,” he said, “are you enjoying the celebrations?”
“Well,” I said, “I’ve managed to spend my entire time here either listening to speeches or hiding in this bathroom, so I’d say it was going fairly well.”
“I bet you’ve missed all of these Ednas and Tommos.”
“Dearly.”
He looked at me with weary eyes.
“How are you doing, Tommo?” I asked. “Have you been in L.A. all this time?”
He groaned. “It’s been a bloody nightmare, Elspeth. I’ve moved to the New York office so I can still get stuff done, but London’s been up my arse about returning, and the police kept asking me into the station at a moment’s notice. I feel I’ve been in the air more than I’ve been on terra firma. If I don’t have deep-vein thrombosis by now, I’ll eat my next boarding pass.”
“Work troubles?”
“An understatement.” Tommo sighed. “I’ve had a lot on my plate; another client’s left me. I don’t suppose you’re looking to diversify your portfolio?”
“It’s tacky to talk business at a memorial.”
“Of course. Just a joke, dear. And how about you—have you been handcuffed and shaken under a bright lamp as well?”
“I’ve had my fair share of questioning,” I said. “But nothing too serious. I think they mostly wanted to find out about the others.”
Including Tommo.
He said, “You don’t think you were a suspect?”
And maybe he had been asked about me. My concern must have shown on my face, because his voice softened as he added, “Well, no need to worry if the police weren’t interested in you.”
“Were they interested in you?” I asked, curious.
“My god, it was a farce. They were dragging up the most bizarre stories. Our rivalry in school, his becoming head boy. The time Dicky almost got me kicked out of Cambridge. Money I had lent him for his first film equipment, which he never paid back. They even tried to tell me I’d been in love with you.”
My mouth dropped open. I’d been questioned about our closeness—the waitress reporting us “cuddling”—but not love. Nothing as serious as that. Maybe Tommo had been questioned before me, had put the more outlandish suspicions to rest.
“I know, I know, ridiculous. They wanted to construct some kind of Cain and Abel narrative, a continual struggle between us. I was the scholarship boy, I’d worked hard my whole life, whereas it had all come easy to Dicky, and now he was the famous one. I told them to take a look at my bank account if they didn’t believe I was successful enough, but then they pointed to my lack of partner, lack of children, lack of aristocratic ancestry. A bloody farce. What kind of forty-year friendship doesn’t have a history of disagreement?”
I shook my head.
“Apparently Charlie told them he’d overheard Dicky and me arguing, which is fucking ludicrous. I’ll wager that pretty boy pointed his finger to distract from all the illegal substances he consumed—and his own bloody tumultuous relationship with Dicky. Doesn’t have a fucking clue who he’s messing with. Because—I’ll be honest, Elspeth—Dicky and I barely spoke to each other that night. I can’t remember seeing him much at all between about one and three in the morning.”
“Neither can I.”
“Wouldn’t trust that Charlie twatting Pace as far as I could throw him.”
“How awful,” I said, “to lie about something so serious.”
I remembered the young actor’s cold stare. The red-raw eyes.
“Anyway,” Tommo went on, “they couldn’t make any of it stick and then they told me at the end of an interrogation session that they didn’t need any more information; I was free to return to London. Not that I could, because this had been scheduled by then—so I’ve been hiding in my hotel room in back-to-back conference calls for the past few days.”
“You poor thing,” I said, remembering my own computer-filled weeks. “So do you think they have another theory? If they were leaving you alone?”
“Well, I’ve been trying to find out.” Tommo rested one ankle on the other knee. His foot was jiggling up and down. “It seems Honey was initially their main suspect; he was the partner, and lord knows you Americans love to arrest Black men. But apparently he’s been cleared.” He shrugged.
“Well, he couldn’t have done it, could he? He was passed out before Richard—”
“Passed out?” Tommo cocked his head.
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t you remember him lying on the floor? He’d drunk way too much; he was entirely unconscious.”
“I distinctly remember Honey being awake,” he said. “He was arguing with Dicky about the smack.”
“It’s so strange,” I said, shaking my head. “Kei told me exactly the same thing earlier, but I was sure I saw him passed out.”
“Well, maybe that’s why he’s been cleared. I could be wrong; I’d been smoking a little earlier on, so perhaps my timings are confused.”
“Maybe.” I frowned.
“Anyway,” Tommo continued, “my lawyer thinks the whole thing’s going to be dropped. He’s been asking around—old-school L.A., knows people at the DA’s office. They have their doubts about some of us but not a strong enough case on any one account. No evidence of a conspiracy, no murder weapon, so what choice do they have? It would fall apart in court, especially with our pedigree of defense lawyers. They’ll probably write it up as an overdose. Dicky choked, but it could have been on his own vomit.”
“What about the bruises?”
“It could have been anything,” said Tommo. “Who’s to say they weren’t from earlier in the night? Don’t you remember when we passed round the bottle in the paddling pool and people were seeing how deep they could push the neck into their mouths?”
“I don’t quite remember that,�
� I said, “but I can see some of the others doing it after a few drinks. Richard, though?”
“Elspeth, he was wankered.” Tommo laughed. “But, you know, not like when he had his problems. He was having fun. I hadn’t seen him like that since uni.”
“He was, wasn’t he?”
“He had a happy last night.”
We were silent for a few seconds.
“I remembered something odd from that morning,” I said. Tommo looked up, eyes narrowed. “My arm was wet, and I wondered…This will probably sound ridiculous, but it made me think of Persephone.”
(A long, fat tentacle slipping between Richard’s lips.)
“The octopus?” Tommo looked horrified—not at the disturbing nature of my theory, it seemed, but at my stupidity. I regretted saying a thing.
“I keep thinking of those videos, the escape,” I spoke quickly, “how Richard had passed out right next to the filter flap. You don’t think she could have…?”
“Darling.” Tommo had decided to smile. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
“I know, I know.” I shut my eyes, pinched my sinuses. “I’ve already told myself it’s nonsense, but—if she had put her tentacles down Richard’s—then maybe…”
Strong arms cradled my body. Tommo pulled me in close, stroked my hair. Warmed me with his clean-linen scent.
“Darling, I understand. It’s easier to imagine that creature killing Richard than to face any of the alternatives.”
The alternatives: Had Tommo also considered whether Richard deliberately overdosed? What did he think of the other guests? And could I even trust him?
His chest was hard; I counted its rises and falls. I would not cry. I would not cry now.
I took a deep breath and pulled away.
“I should get back,” I said. “I ought to find Lillie.”
“Will you be returning to New York after this? Maybe we can talk about your investments.”
“I’ll hang around for as long as Lillie needs me.”
“Of course.”
“But let me know when you’re next in town for work. I’m sure I’ll be back in Manhattan soon.”
“Let me give you my business card,” he said. “The number’s changed, but you can reach me by email. And do sing my praises to any interested friends—as I said, taking on new clients.”
I brushed his arm, and said as I left, “Look after yourself, Tommo.”
“I always do.” He grinned, then locked the door.
* * *
—
Two men were cackling outside the bathroom. One had stuffed birthday candles into his nostrils, ears, and mouth, and his friend was lighting them one by one. Anger flared in my chest, some maternal reaction to misbehavior, but it subsided as I realized there was nothing to fear. Let them singe their facial hair. Let them melt the smiles from their faces. Let the house burn down to the ground.
Soon I would sleep; soon Richard’s party would end. I picked my way across the crowd in my bare feet, hid the dress stain with a hand.
Through oiled limbs and sequins, Judy appeared. She clouded me in a fragrant embrace.
“…must come over for dinner sometime—Jerry and I are dying to host you in the new house,” she said, kissing my cheeks. “Well, I am—Jerry’s a lousy host, but I don’t need to tell you that. So, forty, can you believe it? Getting old. And this party, quite the occasion.”
The one redeeming feature of conversation with Judy was the entire lack of effort needed on my part. She was a verbal riptide, and I was happy to be dragged away.
“But you’ve got to tell me, where have you been hiding? What’ve you been doing? It’s been a million years, hon, a million.”
“Oh, not much. Just looking after Lillie,” I slurred. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Hon, come on. This is why we hire the waiters.” She flapped her hand at me. “You just relax and enjoy yourself, you deserve a night off.” Judy was gabbling faster than usual; I was having a hard time keeping up. “God, yes, so how old is she now anyway—what was her name, Milly? You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you since—”
“Lillie’s nine years old n—”
“Nine? Oh, my, god, time absolutely flies. Because you didn’t come to the housewarming barbecue, did you? I know Jerry’s been missing you, he was asking Rich where you were, but I was like, leave the poor man alone, we all know you’ve harbored a little crush on Elsie for a while, and it’s getting embarrassing for everyone. Speaking of which…”
The angel-winged man bustled past us. Feathers in my face again.
Judy was tapping the manicured nails of one hand against the wall. I had missed the question she had presumably just asked.
“Sorry?” I said.
“Jerry. Have you seen him around?” Judy looked like she was about to cry. I tried to pat her on the arm and missed. She tossed her hair. “It’s not—it’s nothing, hon. It’s just…He’s such a big kid sometimes. I give him my opinion and he thinks I want to start a fight, but…”
I could see Jerry over her shoulder, bustling past my broken table onto the dance floor with his slinky new friend. He took her by the hand and spun her around, shaking his head out of sync with the beat.
Judy cleared her throat.
“Well, the problem with the contractor, let me tell you, is a nightmare—don’t approach Jimmy Lint and his lousy-ass sons within a ten-mile radius…”
My gaze darted from face to face, searching for my husband, returning every now and then to Judy, to keep up the illusion of concentration. This was unnecessary: She had found her reflection in the window behind me and was slicking on lipstick—somehow nevertheless able to maintain her verbal stream.
“…not that Jerry understands at all. For once, I wish he’d help me out. But you know what Jerry’s like…”
My eyes swept the crowd, halting on each brown-haired man. They were never Richard. And if he was nowhere to be found, then he was also not here to see me leaving. He was probably lazing in the pool with models or drinking with studio execs. Richard was not thinking of me at all.
I steadied myself on the banister.
“…so I told him,” Judy went on, “I told him, if you want me to get the attorneys involved, I can and I will…”
I had taken Lillie to New York while Richard was filming One Hundred Years; he had barely noticed. He had been staying at home less and less frequently, no longer calling each day to check in. He had not spoken to me once since the guests arrived. He would not notice if I disappeared upstairs.
And yet he was there, lodged in my head—chastising me for letting him down, embarrassing him.
“…and would you believe it, Jimmy Lint’s got the balls to call me a—”
“Judy, I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “I’m going to have to catch up later—I…”
I walked away without finishing my sentence.
* * *
—
I returned to the memorial the long way, retracing my steps from that night—up and over the staggered floors, touching statues and vases as I went. Perhaps Lillie would inherit some of the artwork. I wanted nothing. I had taken my fair share of memories in the divorce settlement.
And then the darkened hallway again, this time a little lighter, this time without the dancing water. I wondered whether Honey would remain at Sedgwick. I wondered where Persephone had ended up. Maybe the ocean, maybe a lab or aquarium. Perhaps I would find her again in an online video. A burst of sunlight illuminated the tank—an invisible exhibition—and I smiled, remembering Tommo’s stories.
The mezzanine was empty; I could survey the crowds in peace. There was Richard’s nanny, Edith, wheeled along by a nurse. Miguel, swirling cognac and talking with two smug-looking clones who I assumed were his brothers. Honey, collecting a glass of champagne from a waitress, han
ding it to Yola. And there was Lillie, swanning across the room in her floor-length Versace. Nobody mourns quite like the Italians.
I tried to visualize how Kei would frame the scene. A close-up of a tear beneath a black gossamer veil? Wide-angled shot to catch the waltz of mingling mourners? Or the view beyond the crowds: the slopes and the city, so distant one could imagine them clean of human interaction?
It was a strange materialization of the party I had imagined over one month ago, as I stood in the shadow of Sedgwick, nerves thrumming. The crowds I had thought I would find. Ex-colleagues, Richard’s cronies. Only one person was absent.
(And what a fabulous present you are.)
Although Lillie’s speech had been a success, it saddened me that Richard had forced his way into her words. A chance to hear what a daughter thought of her father, and we were treated instead to one final bout of egomania. He had always enjoyed speaking through other people.
At least she had spun Richard’s notes into something more beautiful. She was an intelligent girl, self-possessed. The very opposite of me. Lillie was fluent in that other language: literature and history, philosophy and film. Laughed when I missed the reference, misunderstood a joke. Not meaning it to hurt—she was not her father—but laughing because it was unimaginable to her that someone might not know who Miss Havisham was. Laughing because I had mistakenly tried to correct her use of nauseous or you and me.
It was frustrating that she had decided to shun college.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Lillie had said, after slipping it into conversation. We’d just returned from her high-school production of Macbeth; she had played the Lady. “I never said I wanted to go to college.”
“You never said it,” I began, “but I assumed—”
“That I’d do what everyone else is doing? I thought you hated that.”
She was still wearing her stage makeup—a heavy, draconian look; clownish on a teenager, in our living-room light.
