4 #2
Vicky and Sebastien went on to chat about the weather, more specifically the oppressive heat, and the wisdom of hosting a
garden party during a heatwave.
“What do you make of Mathis?” Vicky asked her new friend.
It wasn’t like Vicky to crowdsource opinions on a man. If she liked a guy, she’d walk up to him, flirt a little, and ask him
out. She wasn’t one to wait around to be picked. She’d learned early on, in prep school, that the wallflower got stomped on.
“He goes by Matty. I met him a while back, before he was married.”
“Oh? Is he still married?” Vicky asked.
“Nah, but no surprise there. Four out of five marriages blow up in your face,” Sebastien said. “And, yeah, I know. I’m a hypocrite
with this rock on my finger, but the numbers don’t lie, honey.”
“True! Congrats on your engagement!” Vicky exclaimed. “Your proposal was all over social media.”
Sebastien hooded his eyes with his left hand, flashing the rock.
“You make a cute couple.”
“Thanks. My fiancé is working,” he said. “He couldn’t tag along this time. Usually when I travel, we make a thing of it.”
Jules would remind Vicky that she, too, had someone waiting at home, someone who was babysitting her cat, but she wasn’t one
to dump cold water over hot coal.
“He’s engaged to the painter Alexandre Montclair,” Vicky informed her. “The next Basquiat.”
Jules took a long sip from her cocktail, struggling to stay engaged.
It wasn’t that she was unfamiliar with Montclair’s work.
Something had caught her attention. Not an actual thing, but a shadow, dense and dark, moving amid the shrubs around the pergola, and .
. . gone. She could not shake the feeling that she’d seen something she wasn’t meant to.
But what “thing” exactly? Why hadn’t the others seen it?
Vicky and Sebastien, unbothered or unaware, went on chatting.
Meanwhile, she’d broken into a cold sweat.
It was at that precise moment that her companions realized that she hadn’t contributed anything substantive to this conversation.
They turned to her now, Sebastien with apprehension, still unsure of his standing in the group, and Vicky with concern.
“Are you alright?” Vicky asked.
It was the second time today that she’d had to ask. Jules thought she’d cleared her mind of the dark clouds but clearly she
hadn’t. “I’m fine,” she said. She was hallucinating, but fine. “A little headache that’s all.”
“It’s these damn drinks,” Sebastien said. “Too sugary and complicated. Give me a tequila and lime any day.”
“Vodka soda,” Vicky said.
“When was the last time you had a drink of water?” Sebastien asked. “You may need to hydrate.”
They had a point, but it was more complicated than that. Was it the garden? The scent of jasmine, which ordinarily she loved,
was overpowering. The air was thick with it. And for some reason, Jules was chilly again. At some point, she’d moved out of
the shade to stand in the sun and still could not feel its warmth.
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
Vicky was advising her to take a melatonin before bed when her attention shifted. “There he is!” she said. “The man of the
hour.”
The announcement was unnecessary. Jules felt his arrival. A current of excitement had moved through the garden, the party
crowd, and her very being.
For the occasion, Jules wore the dress that hadn’t made the cut for her housewarming party.
It was perfect for this event. The crisp white fabric lay nicely on her bronze skin.
The halter neckline showed off her bare shoulders and back.
Her newish pixie cut freed her neck from the weight of her hair.
Leaving her room earlier, she’d felt beautiful.
Even before Vicky had announced the man of the hour, Jules knew someone was watching her, thinking the same.
“He’d be my draft pick for the weekend,” Sebastien said.
“Approved. We met in Tokyo. He’s hot,” Vicky whispered.
“London,” Sebastien said. “We had the most intense, interesting conversation. Like real deep, you know?”
“Heads up!” Vicky said. “He’s coming this way!”
“Nope!” Sebastien volleyed back. “Daphne intercepted him.”
“Penny Dreadful has his drink,” Vicky observed. “What is it? Looks like a Brain Hemorrhage. I fucking can’t with these cocktails!”
This play-by-play, though maddening, was useful. Jules could stay as she was, rock still, and not acknowledge his grand arrival
in any way.
“He and Matty are friends,” Vicky observed, watching the scene over the rim of her glass.
“Told you the boys would stick together,” Sebastien said.
Jules couldn’t take any more. “I’ll be back in a second,” she said. “I need . . . something.”
She left it at that and strode off. However, there was no way to reenter the house without walking past “the boys.” She overheard
them chatting in the shorthand friends develop over time. “What . . . the actual hell?” Leo asked.
The sound of his voice was so familiar, it roped her into the past.
“Don’t know, mate,” Matty replied. “I half expect the Human Centipede to crawl out from the bushes.”
He let out a soft, low laugh. Jules’s heart rate slowed in response, each beat echoed in her ears. She chanced a glance. His whiskey-brown eyes were on her, tracking her, questioning her moves. Her next steps might as well have been on air.
Jules retreated to her bedroom on the third floor and twisted open a bottle of water. The window nicely framed the party scene
below. She saw that the boys had caught up with the girls. All four of them were chatting freely. She felt trapped.
What am I doing?
It was summer in paradise and here she was, reclined with smelling salts, all because she’d caught a chill. Meanwhile he was
out there, looking fucking fantastic, likely regaling her friends with stories, making them laugh. Their laughter reached
her now, spirited and wild. She yearned to join them and add her voice to the chorus, but her head was heavy. She lowered
herself onto the bed and closed her eyes.
When she woke, she was even more disoriented than before. Night had fallen. It was quiet. The noise and laughter had died
down. The party was over. She switched on the bedside lamp. Everything was as it was when she’d first arrived, a tidy blue
room with floral drapes and rattan furniture. Her suitcase rested on a stand. Her sandals were by the door. Nothing was out
of place or strange, but for the briefest moment she’d had the sickening feeling of being watched.