Chapter 32
We mill about on the terrace in little packs, still slightly unsure of the others in our party. It is clear who has met before; they laugh loudly at the other’s jokes, place hands on each other’s shoulders and waists for a little too long.
I am allowed to skirt the edges, occasionally being included in a conversation.
I learn that Debbie has been married three times before she met her Frederic who is actually a year younger than me.
They met at the ballet which Crispy later informs me is a load of bollocks unless ‘ballet’ was a new name for a dating site for younger men who want to be bankrolled through their thirties in exchange for a few nights of passion a year.
Rupert with the red chinos seems to be the only semi-normal person here. He was a theatre agent in a past life and now spends his retirement selling art.
The American flows through the crowd effortlessly.
She looks younger, like she has spent her life in a constant state of rehearsal for these things.
I think about the story she told me, the life she must have lived, how in many ways this was the one thing a marriage to a man she never really loved allowed her.
I think of how sad it is then, that the one person she probably wants to be here more than anyone, isn’t.
I feel that familiar sadness seek me out again, but it’s sharper than it has been, with frayed raw edges because I’m not thinking about Etienne.
‘Do you approve?’ The American asks when it’s my turn. She places her arm around my waist pulling me into her. She smells of lavender and gin, a delicious combination.
‘It’s beautiful and you’ve been very generous, some would say too generous.’ I gesture to the dress.
‘No such thing. You look beautiful. It’s important for young women to feel beautiful or they end up becoming all sad and boring and settle for sad and boring men.’
‘I get your point.’
‘And you’re feeling okay?’
‘Yes. I’m feeling better. I’m happy I’m here.’ I kiss her cheeks again and she holds me so close to her I think for a second that she won’t let me go.
In a clearly well-rehearsed routine, some young men in suits push the tables away from the floor, leaving space for the band who have begun to play something more upbeat.
The guests begin to congregate on the dancefloor whilst I stay back, a happy observer.
That is until there is a tap on my shoulder and Crispy, wearing a silver suit and the same red cravat, stands there holding his hand out expectantly.
‘Is there any point in me saying no right now?’
‘Not one bit.’ He winks and pulls me into the middle where he immediately starts to pirouette me until I squeal for him to stop and threaten to vomit.
‘That’s better,’ Crispy shouts over the music.
‘What is?’ I ask, my face screwing up in confusion.
‘You’re smiling.’
Crispy has the guy at the bar at his beck and call, delivering large gin and tonics directly into our hands.
‘Do you smoke?’ Crispy slurs after our third goldfish ball of Tanqueray.
‘Occasionally,’ I nod, expecting Crispy to present a little packet of cigarettes but instead he nudges me in the direction of some stairs. I take our drinks and follow him down to a hidden patio where some expensive-looking loungers are scattered around the swimming pool.
He collapses into one with a groaning thump and rifles in his jacket pocket for a little silver cigarette case.
‘That looks expensive.’
‘Was my grandfather’s, you can see the dent a bullet made over in Ypres.’ He opens it up to reveal eight rather suspicious-looking cigarettes. ‘I rather like the fact I’m using it for nothing but debauchery now.’ He takes one out and the smell hits me.
‘When you asked if I smoked, I thought you meant cigarettes.’
‘Oh no.’ He curls up his lip in disgust. ‘This is purely medicinal.’ He shrugs as if it is some consolation, lights the spliff and then immediately passes it to me.
I think about saying no. I haven’t done this since university and even then, I distinctly remember throwing up almost immediately.
‘Fuck it.’ I grab the spliff and take a short, half-hearted drag before spluttering most of it out immediately.
Crispy takes it back off me with a slightly incredulous look and lies back in his deckchair staring up at the sky.
‘Fucking lovely, isn’t it?’ he says. I look up too, take in the splattering of stars, the heavy moon, the glow and laughter emanating from the house.
‘Yeah. It’s pretty nice.’
‘She’s happy you’re here.’ He takes a long breath. ‘You know the past few months, it’s like I’ve got the old girl back again.’
I turn to him, his eyes still lost in the sky. ‘How do you mean?’
‘She’s not been the same since…’ He pauses, looks at me to see if I know, if I look blankly at him he won’t finish his sentence because he doesn’t want to give The American’s biggest secret away.
I admire that protectiveness, can see the depth of the friendship that The American builds with those she lets in.
‘Since Bluette?’
His shoulders relax. ‘You know?’
‘I have the synopsis, you know, the major plot points,’ I add.
‘I met them the first day I moved here. They were at the same bar and they sniffed me out. We were inseparable from then on. They made it all easier in those blurry months when you’re just trying to find your feet.’
‘What were they like? As a couple?’
I watch as his face glows a little at the memory.
‘As happy as clams.’ He nods. ‘Yes, you know, it sounds a bit saccharine, but it made me truly believe that there was such a thing as soulmates because when you saw them together, how easy it was for them to be in each other’s company after all that time, everything sort of made sense. ’
The sentimentality hovers over us. I allow myself to imagine them, drinking in cafés for breakfast, reading extracts of books to each other, Bluette painting whilst The American put together another mad outfit, just the mundane moments of complete happiness that made the sadness of losing it all worth it.
‘And Bluette?’ I add. ‘What was she like?’
‘Doris’s total opposite,’ he smirks. ‘But lovely all the same. Blu was kind, soft, almost shy, she liked to sit back and watch people, but there was a gentleness to her – no judgement, just… peace.’ He gulps back a lump in his throat which seems to bring him out of the memories, back to the here and now.
‘God, we shouldn’t be crying this early into the weekend, it’s not even the big day yet. ’
I squeeze his spare hand in agreement.
‘Well, anyway.’ Crispy takes another drag. ‘You’re a good friend to her, Ava, she appreciates good friends.’
I feel myself blush, the heat spreads down my chest. But this is my chance. Crispy is my chance to finally figure this out. ‘Crispy…’ I start. He looks up. ‘This is going to sound really stupid but I don’t think I can be considered a very good friend because… Well, I don’t actually know her name.’
Crispy grins, his whole face ruching up, and then he starts laughing. It’s silent at first until the air catches on his breath and he starts to honk.
‘You still haven’t figured it out yet? Good God, Ava, I thought you were meant to be smart; I mean there are enough clues in that sodding apartment.’
‘There are?’
‘I hope you figure it out by tomorrow otherwise I’ll owe her a hundred!’
‘She knows? You’ve placed bets on it?’
‘Oh my dear, Doris thinks it’s the funniest thing that’s happened to her in a long time!’
I feel the heat in my face subside. ‘And she doesn’t hate me?’
‘Hate you? Darling, she adores you. You just remember that. She just wants you to be happy.’
I let the reality sink in, how one of my biggest embarrassments has actually been something that The American has been revelling in, all this time.
I sigh, pull a hand through my hair and prop myself up on the lounger looking at him properly with a grin. ‘You’re going to tell me now that your name isn’t actually Crispy, aren’t you?’
‘Well, aren’t you clever,’ he smirks. ‘Unfortunately, I wasn’t as lucky in the nickname department. I was a dancer in my youth – ballet,’ he adds and brings his arms up above his head in a static pirouette. ‘Pretty damn good if I do say so myself and my birthname wasn’t exactly inspiring.’
‘Go on…’
‘Oh…’ He looks around to see if anyone’s listening and when he realises the coast is clear he sighs. ‘Bernard.’ He side-eyes me. I try to wrestle the emerging grin from my face.
‘How lovely,’ I choke back.
‘You’re an awful actress, darling,’ he pouts. ‘Well, anyway, when I started auditioning I wanted a stage name, something refined, classy, unusual, so I became Crispin Fée.’
‘Wow… that was a choice.’
‘Crispin was one of the old prefects at my school, had his name carved into one of those plaques that I had to walk past every day and it kind of rubbed off on me I guess. Anyway, when I met Doris and Bluette all those years ago, they took one look at me and thought I could do with being brought down a peg so I swiftly became Crispy.’
‘I mean it’s not the worst…’
He offers me another drag but I shake my head, deciding that the third gin was enough of a tranquiliser for one night. He takes another deep breath and the smell of the weed sticks to the air.
‘Doris told me about your late husband,’ Crispy says to the sky, as if he’s addressing some far-off galaxy. Like he has his own personal constellation of lost souls that he talks to nightly like this. He takes another drag. ‘And if it’s any consolation I think you’re doing marvellously.’
I scoff, ‘I am?’
He turns to me, taking me in with a reassuring little squint.
‘Losing people, grief, well it acts as a mangle. I know death, it been a sad sort of companion in my life and I’ve watched as the grief consumes people, becomes them until it’s hard to see them as anything else.
You, my girl, there’s still some life in you yet. ’