Chapter 21 #2
He flips his palm over so that we’re holding hands. Shadows from the crystals above us cast a pall over his handsome features. He’s smiling even though his cheeks are now wet with tears. “Thank you for letting me talk about her. I can’t do it with anyone else.”
“Of course. Remembering helps. It’s a tragedy you won’t hold a memorial service. I’m sure there were many who loved her.”
“I thought about reaching out to some people, but I didn’t want word to get back to Father.
” This truly is the least sexy thing about this terribly attractive man, his utter terror of his family and unwillingness to overcome it for a woman he loved.
I push my disgust aside. It’s not useful now.
I signal to the waitress and order two desserts for takeaway in French.
I want to show Matthew that I am a woman who can take care of him.
He’s slurring and stumbling slightly as we make our way down the stairs.
“I’ll find us a taxi,” I say.
“No. My driver will come. When we asked for the check they placed a call to the phone in the car.”
I feel stupid. “I didn’t hear you ask them to.”
“I didn’t. They knew to do it.” Yet another perk of being rich I’d never considered, that a restaurant would know your personal driver’s number and be able to summon your car without even being asked.
“There he is, good man,” Matthew calls out, energized by the crisp December air and the promise of a tea party with his dead grandmother’s china. The night is getting stranger than I expected, but then the same can be said for the past several months.
We sit close, thighs touching, as we race through the streets.
I hear a rattling in the trunk each time we stop at a light.
The teacups might be shattered by now. When I look over at Matthew I worry he’s going to be sick.
He drank more than he was expecting. The streets narrow; the buildings grow grander, their facades adorned with intricate carvings and wrought iron balconies.
When we finally stop, a doorman hurries out to meet us at the curb.
“The cups. We need the cups. There’s a box in the boot,” Matthew says.
“I’ll get them.” I pat Matthew on the arm. “They’re fragile.”
Matthew did a terrible job with the packing. He seems to have wrapped the cups in linen napkins and silk blouses and I wonder about his state of mind when he collected them.
The doorman rushes over to me. “Let me, madame.” He takes the box from my arms. Matthew tosses a cigarette carelessly into the street, almost flicking it right at an elderly woman out for a stroll with her poodle, and grabs the box out of his hands.
“I’ve got it, Bert.” The cups rattle as I chase him over to the elevator.
Once the old metal grate closes on the lift and we’re on our way upstairs, Matthew releases a childish giggle and leans toward me to plant a sloppy kiss on my cheek.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” he slurs. As with Stella’s place, the elevator opens right into a private hallway leading only to Matthew’s apartment.
He sways toward the door and then reaches into the pocket of his coat for his house keys.
I see what’s about to happen in slow motion, but there’s no way I can stop it.
His weight shifts, the box tilts, he overcorrects to right it, and it slips out of his hands, crashing onto the marble floor.
He falls to his knees as the pieces scatter everywhere.
The tears that have been building up all night spill down his cheeks.
I sink next to him. His hands are bloody where his palms fell flat onto the shards on the floor.
“It’s my fault,” he cries.
“It’s not.” I grasp his hands to check the damage. “It was a heavy box, hard to balance.”
“Not the box.” His blood is pooling on the floor. “Stella. I should have done better by her. Fought my father. The stress of all this, that’s what killed her. I should have stood up to him.” He slams his palms onto the floor, back onto the sharp little pieces.
“Matthew, come on. Where are your keys? Let’s get you inside and I’ll clean this up.
You can’t think like this. There’s nothing you could have done.
” I don’t believe that though. He could have stood up to his father.
But then again, she’s not dead. He’s so heartbroken I almost want to tell him, but I don’t think he deserves it.
“Get up,” I say a little more forcefully.
He won’t remember any of this in the morning.
He does as I say. His fatal flaw in both life and business is that he wants to be told what to do, but he hasn’t realized that yet.
I reach into his pocket for his keys and unlock the door to his apartment.
I smell it as soon as the door opens. Something putrid, rotting.
I pull him inside and see the dishes stacked in the sink, the empty bottles of wine and liquor on the tables, plates crusted over with food on every available surface.
When was the last time he cleaned? It’s a shock he hasn’t paid anyone to clean.
“Do you have a broom?” I ask.
“Just leave it,” he slurs. “Can I show you my latest project?”
Oh Christ. He’s not capable of showing me anything at the moment, but he manages to stroll over to a desk that contains three massive computers, along with a jumble of joysticks, headsets, and what look like scuba goggles.
“Come on,” he says, beckoning. “Put these on. I’ll transport you inside of a painting.
It’s totally immersive.” He dons the goggles himself, taps a couple commands onto the keyboard, and promptly vomits onto his own shoes.
I can’t leave him like this, and yet I also want him to see what he’s done and feel indebted to me.
“Let me clean you up,” I say gently, plugging my nose against all the smells. He doesn’t fight me, goes mostly limp, which makes it nearly impossible to get him into the shower, but I manage to do it and eventually into his bed. He’s snoring within seconds.
There’s a first aid kit under the sink. When I pry the shards out of his hands he barely flinches.
I slather ointment on his palms and bandage them.
I leave the mess in the hall, the broken cups.
I want him to see them when he wakes up and feel this same angst all over again.
I inspect the shattered pieces and spy a single unbroken teacup amid the disarray. I slip it into my purse. For Stella.