Chapter 27 #5
I stand on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek so I can whisper into his ear. He should know better than I do how to behave in this situation, but all of his faculties have left him.
“Raise your glass and congratulate her. Pretend you’ve been expecting this all along.
They want to see you wither.” I think of the Van Gogh print of the peach tree at Stella’s apartment, the blossoms borne down upon by the winds, struggling to survive.
Matthew appears strong, but he might be the weakest limb in this family, and perhaps his father knows it.
He shudders slightly and grips my hand tighter. I regret for a moment slipping him that pill in his drink. I’ve made him less robust in a moment when he desperately needs strength, but I can’t think about that now. I squeeze back and he manages to raise his glass in the air.
“To my sister,” his posh voice booms. I see flickers of disappointment on the faces of the spectators, the ones hoping for a scene. “To the woman who will bring this company into the twenty-first century and beyond.”
He steps toward the stage, wobbles. It’s slight. No one but me seems to notice.
“You don’t have to go up there,” I whisper, looking around for a waiter so I can order him an espresso.
I raise my own glass. “Let’s celebrate with a dance.
A father-daughter dance.” It’s bold of me, a stranger, to make such a declaration, and now all eyes are on me.
But how can the two of them refuse such a sweet request?
The band begins to play, and Louis takes his daughter’s hand and leads her to the middle of the ballroom.
They are a graceful, if mismatched pair.
Matthew melts into me, grateful.
“Dance with me.” I cling to him tightly, making it seem like we’re too caught up in one another to be interrupted. But one oily gentleman dares to tap him on the shoulder. The man’s tux is too shiny, his fingernails dirty. He doesn’t belong here any more than I do. I can smell my own.
“Matthew, old chap. You must remember me. Nigel Shreveport of Artforum. Do you have a comment on your sister’s promotion?”
“Tonight he’s just enjoying the party. Perhaps he can call you tomorrow,” I say.
“And who are you?” Nigel asks.
“I’m nobody. Just a friend.”
“I’m delighted.” Matthew gathers his wits about him. “My sister is the most brilliant and capable executive I know.”
“But surely you must be disappointed.”
“Oh, I never wanted it anyway,” Matthew manages, a little too gruffly. People are watching now, and listening.
“That’s not what you said when we talked last month.” Nigel Shreveport is not going to be deterred. It’s an ambush.
“We’re needed elsewhere,” I say as firmly and politely as possible, and steer Matthew from the room.
I glance behind me. Louis and Caroline are mobbed with their own crowd of sycophants, though the band keeps playing and some guests are dancing, or at least shifting from foot to foot in anticipation of a dance.
I steer Matthew toward the massive foyer and up the stairs once more. He’s deadweight as we make our way back to Stella’s room, but I manage to heave him onto the bed, remove his shoes and jacket, and pull the covers over him.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to his snores.
I summon the driver again, explaining that Monsieur Swanson has opted to stay but I need to get back to the city. He doesn’t ask any questions. He’s trained not to.
The ride back to Paris is quiet. As I get out of the car, I feel ridiculous gathering up the taffeta of my skirts and stepping over a puddle of mud and piss to reach the cracked sidewalk in front of my building.
It’s late, but my street is alive with patrons spilling out of the jazz clubs in the heart of the Fleas and heading into the center of the city for a night of more revelry as the holidays approach.
I’m not exactly out of place in my evening wear, but I’m self-conscious anyway as I walk into our shabby building and take the stairs to the third floor because the elevator’s broken.
I want to shower and pass out. I can still smell Matthew all over me.
It’s not unpleasant, though I want my body to be my own again.
The girls are both asleep. I let my dress fall to the floor in a puddle of feathers for the second time this evening and sit naked on my bed, wanting to get into the shower and also not wanting to move.
I brush my fingers over the zipper of my duffel bag.
I hadn’t opened it during the drive, but now I pull the jewelry out, box by box, piece by piece.
Diamonds, rubies, emeralds. There is at least $20,000 in cash and finally a packet of letters tied together with a ribbon, a shaky scrawl on old parchment.
I loosen the ribbon and start reading. They’re addressed to a woman named Claire—Stella’s grandmother’s name, I think.
Once I start reading I can’t stop. They tell of a terrible betrayal and the end of a friendship.
I can feel the heartbreak from a century away.
They’re signed by none other than Jo van Gogh.