Dead to Her

by Sarah Pinborough

  “Where’s Julian?”

  “Stirring the eggs,” Elizabeth said. “I should have known he’d take over. That boy always did like to cook.”

  “He’s hell on my waistline,” Pierre added, razor thin as he was.

  “You’re a lucky man.” Elizabeth was dressed down for the weekend: high-waisted, sensibly cut jeans with a comfortable blouse tucked in around her thick middle. “And you know it!”

  “Oh, I do, I do. Just don’t tell him that.”

  Elizabeth’s affection for the men reminded Marcie of what William had said at the club—that Julian had been like family once. It still jarred. Julian and Pierre were so flamboyant she couldn’t imagine William really ever wanting them around.

  “If y’all are set now, I’m going to head home.” Elizabeth grabbed her purse from the hall table and swung it over her shoulder. “I’ve got a pot roast on at home and I don’t want it burning.”

  “Of course, of course.” Marcie felt a flood of relief. She was in no mood for Elizabeth to be clucking around them like a mother hen. Elizabeth probably didn’t want to be here when William and Jason got back because she would no doubt then suddenly have a few more tasks to complete before bed, despite its being a weekend.

  There’d been no mention of Zelda, who must have been back in her apartment or out with her family. It couldn’t have been Zelda whom Keisha had seen the previous night. If it had been, surely she’d be here to gloat or extort money from them or something. Plus, wasn’t she a bit old to be at that type of thing, whatever that thing had been? On the remote chance Zelda had been there, surely she wouldn’t want that known by anyone either?

  “Relatively sedate night,” Pierre said quietly as Elizabeth waved goodbye and left, “. . . my perfectly toned ass.”

  “Okay, okay. Maybe we drank a little more than we should have. But no need for anyone else to know that.”

  “Girl, you don’t have to apologize for partying to a party planner. Speaking of which, while we’re waiting for the new queen to join us, let’s go and see that other queen in the kitchen.”

  They were seated at the kitchen island when Keisha reappeared, looking slightly flustered but at least showered and fresh in a summer dress. She’d been upstairs only ten minutes but looked perfect, leaving Marcie all the more aware of the night’s grime still clinging to her own skin.

  “I’m so sorry!” Keisha said. “I honestly didn’t mean to be late. I’m embarrassed. And William will be so angry.” She was doing a good job of looking like she meant it. Marcie could see how William would have fallen for the little-girl-lost act if it was anything like the one Keisha was putting on now.

  “We’ll keep it just between us,” Pierre said, leaning in and squeezing her hand. “Isn’t that right, Julian?”

  “Secret’s safe with me.” Julian was putting the finishing touches to scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, French toast, and home fries. “It’s not the most elegant brunch, but something tells me you two ladies need this before we start planning your extravaganza.”

  “We’ve only just met, but I think I love you.” Keisha stared hungrily at the food as she pulled up a chair as if she were a guest in her own kitchen while Julian found plates and cutlery and condiments.

  “Sorry girl, but you haven’t got the right equipment to love him.”

  “Pierre stop it,” Julian said, serving up. “Let’s eat and then talk about what we can do for you.”

  “I’m amazed you were free,” Marcie said. “I was sure you’d be booked up this week.”

  “It’s fine, we had a cancellation.” Julian slid a plate toward her. Where Pierre was full camp, Julian turned it on and off when it suited him. Today was a toned-down day. Maybe that was why Pierre was full throttle.

  “Cancellation,” Pierre snorted. A look flashed between the two men.

  “What?” Keisha asked. “God, I hope I haven’t caused a problem asking you to plan for us.”

  “Not you, honey.” Pierre squeezed her hand again. “I’ll do anything for a sister and you are too fabulous to refuse.”

  “It’s honestly not a problem. We just moved a few things around, that’s all.”

  “Which of course we don’t mind,” Pierre cut across his boyfriend. “Because, I’m not going to lie, this is going to be far more fun than our original booking, but if you could remind your new husband that the money his late wife gave us was a gift, not a loan that we have to work to pay off, that would be delightful.”

  Marcie’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. That was quite the irritated reveal.

  “Enough, P,” Julian snapped, and then forced a smile. “Ignore him, he’s just being a bitch. Now, come on, eat before it gets cold.”

  “Don’t worry,” Keisha said. “You’ll get paid. I want this to be fun for all of us. Aside from anything,” she added shyly, “I think you two are people I could really be friends with.”

  “Why, aren’t you quite the doll! And Julian’s right, don’t pay any attention to me. I think I got out of bed on the wrong side today. But this looks delicious.” He raised his fork over a tiny portion of smoked salmon and salad, no eggs or French toast. “And I’m famished.”

  “If I ate like that, I’d have your figure,” Keisha said, tucking into her full plate.

  Marcie let their banter flow over her as she watched Julian, questions buzzing in her brain. Eleanor had given them money? Had that been to start the business? When had Julian and Pierre burst onto the scene anyway? They’d just sort of appeared and she’d never given any thought to who they were or where they came from. Were they accepted simply because they’d been introduced by Eleanor and so were immediately acceptable? They were smart too—quiet homosexuality might still be silently disapproved of here, but Pierre and Julian made such a show of it, being every stereotype expected from a pair of gay party planners, that they had become an objet d’art to be admired.

  “Are your parents French, Pierre?” she asked eventually, once she’d pushed enough food into her mouth to stop her stomach growling and drunk half her fresh orange juice. Pierre laughed. “Oh, how I wish they were. I’m a Louisiana boy, born and raised. My mama was a nurse. My dad the school janitor.” He glanced at Julian. “No silver spoon private education for me.”

  “I got financial aid,” Julian cut in.

  “You must have French heritage though? With a name like Pierre?”

  This time both men laughed.

  “What?”

  For a second, Pierre’s theatrical persona slid away. Even the way he sat changed, more upright, broader across the chest, a flash of a handsome, serious young man. “You try being a gay black man in Hicksville, Louisiana,” he said. “I was born Peter. I became Pierre.”

  “A reinvention.” Marcie smiled. “I get that.”

  “We all have to be whatever it takes to survive,” Keisha said quietly.

  “And they will always try to screw us over,” Pierre added, before flourishing a hand. “My glamour is my armor.”

  “And what fabulous armor it is.”

  The mood lifted again as Pierre and Keisha continued their bonding. Jacquie had flown the two men to Atlanta to help organize her second wedding, and so Marcie had never used their services for any soirees of her own on principle. She hadn’t disliked them, but she’d taken them at face value; now she felt a quiet kinship with these three people around her. All who struggled in life. All trying to be something else in order to get ahead in the world and leave the muck behind. Maybe not Julian so much—sounded like he’d gone to County Day. One of Lyle’s classmates perhaps? She couldn’t see that going down well with William. A gay kid on financial aid hanging around the house. But Eleanor had obviously liked him. How much money had she given him?

  It was so odd, Marcie thought. You arrive in people’s lives and forget that so much went before. She couldn’t imagine Eleanor and William young. Or even with a child. Lyle was barely a ghost of a whisper spoken. Jason rarely mentioned him. No one did. “Too painful�
� was always the explanation. She’d never questioned it—she’d never really cared enough—but thinking about it now it was odd. He’d died a while back. Didn’t most people like to talk about those they’d lost after a while? Wasn’t that the natural way?

  “A masked ball!” Keisha clapped her hands together, an excited child. “Let’s make everyone else hide who they really are for once!”

  “Isn’t that a little Shades of Grey?” Julian said.

  “We’re short on time to organize something like that,” Marcie said. A masked ball. It was like the fantasy of a teenager. “And remember, most people will already have plans that weekend. Maybe think smaller?”

  “Are you crazy?” Pierre said. “The great William Radford the Fourth holding a masked ball with his indecently young new English wife? I don’t care what people had planned, if they’re invited, they’ll come. We’ll invite enough to make it sensational and leave off enough to create an envious buzz. The perfect way to organize a party.” He glared at Julian. “And there will be nothing Fifty Shades about it.”

  “Well, we can’t speak for what happens after the party,” Julian said, with a wink.

  “Did Eleanor ever host something like this?” Keisha asked.

  “No,” Julian said. “Or if she did, it was longer ago than I remember.”

  “Good.” Keisha sat back, satisfied. “If people are going to compare me to her all the time, let’s give them something to really see. A night to remember. Fire eaters, contortionists, mimes, all dotted around the garden. Give it a theme. I know! The beautiful and the damned! I went to a club night with that theme in London last year. It was crazy! Let’s make it sexy. What do you think, Marcie?” A loaded glance.

  “Sounds amazing.” Marcie nodded, indulgently amused, even though her stomach was knotted again. Keisha was wild and there was no caging that. If she could just be a little more contained, then perhaps this delicious thing between them could continue for a while, but how could Keisha be trusted not to let it show? To understand the danger?

  “We’ll be the belles of this ball.” Keisha leaned forward and whispered loudly, “Let them see what second wives can do!”

  Even Marcie had to laugh at that. “Okay, where do we start?”

  “We start with a Bloody Mary,” Pierre said, pulling his iPad Pro and notebook and pen out of his sleek Dolce & Gabbana bag. “And then we make the magic happen.”

  “What he means is,” Julian cut in while collecting plates, “we’ll look at my spreadsheet of who’s currently in and who’s out.”

  “But first, handsome man, you make the drinks.” Pierre shuffled closer to Keisha. “Now, my English slash African Queen, let’s talk color schemes. We want something bold, right?”

  They were still talking when William got back at four, and when he swept through the room all smiles and kisses, Marcie took it as her cue to leave. Jason would be home and she didn’t want him to get pissed at her when he’d sounded in such a good mood in his text. Seemed like the men had had fun. Probably not as much fun as the girls, she thought wryly, but fun all the same.

  “We’ll be right behind you,” Julian said as she gathered her stuff to leave. “Give the honeymooners some space.”

  Marcie wasn’t surprised. For all the gushing welcomes and William pawing all over Keisha on his return, there had definitely been tension between him and the two party planners, and even though they’d been polite there was no sense that Julian had once been anything like family. Still, why did she care? This wasn’t her circus.

  “I’ll see you out.” Keisha slid from her bar stool and followed. When they reached the front door, she leaned in and kissed Marcie chastely on each cheek, but there was nothing chaste about the hazy look in her eyes or, in fact, the sudden warmth between Marcie’s thighs. “I’ll text you tomorrow,” Keisha said with a mischievous grin. “I think I’m going to need your help with this party. Hands-on help.”

  “I’ll do my best to oblige,” Marcie replied. It was so tempting. This desire. This passion. Maybe they could do this if they were careful. Just once more. She was trembling with anticipation already.

  28.

  “What’s the matter?” Keisha asked eventually. How could Billy’s moods change so fast? He’d been fine when he’d gotten home, but since coming downstairs from his shower he’d been in a shitty mood and didn’t seem at all interested in or impressed by her party plans. He was the one who’d wanted her to do all this stuff—he could at least pretend to care. An hour ago, he’d been all over her with kisses, his hand grabbing at her ass, but now she was walking on eggshells as they picked at the pasta she’d made.

  “Is my cooking so bad? I thought you’d like it. I made it from scratch.” She’d actually been quite proud. A proper Italian carbonara from a recipe, not a cheap sauce from a packet like she’d use back in London.

  “The food’s great,” he answered, with little enthusiasm.

  “Well, something’s not.”

  He put his fork down and looked at her and for the briefest moment she thought he’d seen into her soul and knew she wished he’d just hurry up and die.

  “Your dress was on the floor in the bathroom and I went to hang it up so it wouldn’t get wet or damaged. Seems I was too late. From the state of it, I’d say you had quite a night.”

  “I fell over.” Keisha’s skin was getting hotter and hotter. It sounded so lame. “I was with Marcie.”

  “Who else?”

  “No one! We went to a bar, had some food and drinks, danced a bit. I just fell over, that’s all.”

  He stared at her, his granite eyes cold. She knew that look too well. It was Uncle Yahuba’s expression when she’d held money back for herself, a look that wouldn’t be argued with, not without consequences. She’d never expected to see it on Billy’s face. Had she run full circle? Still, her story didn’t add up and she knew it. The dress was filthy and had mud in places it shouldn’t. And it was torn, as if she’d been running from someone or something through a forest.

  She bristled. Attack was always the best form of defense. “So what are you suggesting? That I went out with your friend’s wife and rolled around in the dirt with some random guy I met in a bar? What was Marcie doing at the time? Watching? Taking a piss?” She glared at him. “Or are you taking the piss?”

  He flinched as if her crudeness were a bullet. “Keisha, don’t talk like that.”

  “Well, if you’re going to speak to me like I’m a tramp, I may as well talk like one.”

  “I don’t think you were out screwing other men, and if you don’t want to tell me how your dress got in that state that’s your business, but don’t expect me to be overjoyed about it. Maybe you were too drunk to remember. Maybe you both were. It’s not as if Marcie’s an angel, however she likes to dress herself up now. Jacquie was the one with class. I knew everything I needed to know about Marcie when she set up that godawful tacky boutique that ended up costing Jason upward of a quarter of a million. It’s good that you’ve made a friend, and sure, for now, she’ll do. But there are better friends to have. The tennis girls. The other club wives. Jason’s a good man, but he was a slave to his dick when he married Marcie.”

  Keisha listened, stunned, to his rant. This was a revelation, this meanness. At least Marcie had tried to work, which seemed more than most of the other women she’d encountered. Maybe their men were all like Billy. Maybe they wanted them to simply stay at home and make sure they looked pretty. No job, no escape route. All this wealth, both inherited and earned. What did it do to people? Entitled, judgmental, devious. Is that what they were behind the smiles and laughter? In that moment she hated him and all of them, but she needed to placate him. To think like Dolly or her family and look out for herself whatever it took. Billy was the key to her future, and she wasn’t losing that.

  “I made an effort to be friends with her because she’s Jason’s wife.” Smooth, charming, handsome Jason. Did Billy love him as much as he professed or was there too much competitiv
e edge for that? “I thought you’d be pleased.” She paused. “But you’re right. There were more drinks than there should have been. I don’t know if we were trying to impress each other or feel more relaxed or whatever but we definitely drank too much and ate too little. I tripped in the garden at her house by the sprinklers, that’s why there’s grass and mud on my dress. I was so embarrassed I didn’t want to tell you.”

  The relief flooded his face. Whatever he’d said about not thinking she’d been fucking someone else, the need for those little blue pills hung heavy over him, and there was no kind of paranoid jealousy like an old rich man’s. Rich men didn’t like to share their things.

  “I feel like I’m always messing up,” she continued. “Everything here is so different. I’m not used to worrying about what people think of me.”

  “Maybe I’m overreacting,” he said. “Eleanor understood privilege. How to behave and what was expected of her. It was in her heritage. She didn’t have to learn it all. I forget what a big change you’re having to go through. I’m not an idiot, I know all about your life in London.” He paused to sip his wine. “Even the bits you tried to hide from me.”

  Keisha’s skin prickled. Was that a veiled threat? What did he know about? Dolly? Her family’s scams? Her chest tightened with horror. The boy? No, he couldn’t know about that. The boy was a ghost. No one knew about the boy, her made-up boy, the boy who was never there, but always there, the vanishing boy. The cause of her curse.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t get you checked out? Trust me, I know there’s grime on you but grime can be washed away. You’re my Cinderella. I wanted to save you from all that.”

  “You did save me.” Her voice was small, diminished in her body as she was in this enormous house. He’d had someone dig around in her life? Her skin crawled, violated. When? While he’d been romancing her, all puppy-dog eyes and expensive gifts?

  “You just need to forget that life now. How you were then. That’s not you, I can see it. You’re better than that. You’re not Cinderella anymore, you’re the princess.”