Parish was checking her hair in the rear-view mirror of her ten-year-old Toyota as she sat in the long line of pricey cars and oversized SUVs, waiting on the street to enter the Humber River Golf Club.
She hated getting dressed up. On the rare nights when she wasn’t at work in the office meeting with clients or preparing for court the next day, she liked to stay home and loll around in sweatpants. But tonight she was wearing the only cocktail dress she owned, pearl earrings, a matching necklace, and an almost-new pair of Manolos. She’d bought the shoes last winter, the last time she had a serious date.
A month ago, Lydia sent her the invitation for tonight’s event. It called for “golf-club formal dress.”
Parish phoned her. “What the hell is golf-club formal?”
“Get out your best cocktail dress.”
“As if I have more than one. Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I know. The party’s kind of over the top for an eleven-year-old winning a golf trophy.”
“You think?”
“It’s Karl. When it comes to Britt and golf, the sky’s the limit.”
Ever since Karl divorced Melissa and married Lydia, Parish had been caught in the middle between her two close friends and former colleagues. She was determined to remain neutral, but it wasn’t easy. Especially because Karl’s whole life was wrapped up in his daughter, and his obsession with keeping Britt away from her mother, while at the same time Melissa’s behaviour became more and more erratic. Which was the cause, and which was the effect? It was impossible to tell.
“Nance,” Lydia said, filling in the silence on the phone line. “You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“You’re going to come to the party. Please.”
“I’ll be there,” Parish said, knowing she had to go.
Parish hadn’t heard anything from Melissa since she’d stormed out of the courthouse this morning. There was a chance she might show up tonight, and Parish was afraid there’d be a major confrontation. Maybe by attending the party, Parish could mediate if anything happened.
A woman in a black jacket with the label “Concierge for Hire” was stationed at the entrance, inspecting invitations. Parish rolled down her window and felt the night air. Typical see-saw November weather in Toronto: it had warmed right up and a light rain was starting to fall.
“Welcome to Britt’s party,” the woman said to Parish. “Your name, please.”
Parish gave her name and the woman checked it off on her clipboard. Something about her looked familiar. Then Parish placed her. She was one of the “students” sitting in the back of the courtroom. An undercover officer.
“Here’s your Britt scarf,” she said handing Parish a scarf with Britt’s name in bold letters above the club’s colours and insignia.
“Thank you,” Parish said, then added the word, “Officer.”
The woman was composed. She smiled back at Parish. “Have fun, Counsellor,” she said, then waved Parish through.
Parish drove along the winding golf-club driveway to the front entrance, where three young men wearing the same concierge jackets were perched on the carpeted front steps that led to the clubhouse. One of them rushed out to the car in front of her and opened the driver’s door, unfurling an umbrella as he went. A second young man opened the passenger door to let out a woman wearing an elegant sheath, covering her with another umbrella. The driver, a man in a tux, passed his keys to the young man along with a dollar bill—of what denomination Parish couldn’t see—and took a ticket from him. The young man hopped in the car and sped away into the darkness.
Incredible, Parish thought. Valet parking when the lot was a two-minute walk away. And damn, she was going to be underdressed.
She pulled her car up. The third young man scooted down, easily taking the steps two at a time, swooped over, and opened her car door all in one smooth motion.
“Good evening. I’m Jack,” he said, covering her with an umbrella. “Welcome to Britt’s party.”
He had a beaming smile on his handsome face. Parish guessed he was in his early twenties. Very fit. Perfect teeth too.
Her foul-mouthed friend Zelda, who worried about Parish’s lack of a sex life since her divorce four years earlier, loved to tease Parish about how younger men were attracted to her. “It’s your great hair,” Zelda said. “To say nothing of your great ass and your goddam perfectly aquiline nose.”
Although Parish liked to deny it, perhaps Zelda was right. There’d been Bert, the young waiter, whom she met one night when she was out with Zelda at a vodka bar. He’d slipped her his phone number on the back of the check. Then Harry, a young guide, when they went on a canoe trip up north last summer. Both times, the flings only lasted a few weeks.
“There’s nothing to talk about with them,” she complained to Zelda the last time they were out at a Law Society trivia night and Jeff, a first-year lawyer, tried to pick her up.
“Talk? What the fuck do you need to talk about, girl?”
She swung her legs out of the car. Jack reached over and took her arm. She shook her head back and forth so that her hair flopped over her face and swung back away. What the hell, she was having a good hair day.
Up close, she put Jack at maybe his mid-twenties. Still boyish, and she could see he was in great shape.
He handed her a card with a picture on it of Britt holding a trophy in one hand, her golf club in another, a rather shy look on her face. Underneath the words Britt Is Number One, Your Car Number Is were typed out, and someone had handwritten in her number, 77.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the card and examining it. “Lucky sevens. This could be my night.”
“Hey, you never know,” Jack said, all smiles.
She noticed him looking sideways at her old Toyota and caught a smirk on his face.
“Maybe you should park my old jalopy at the dark end of the lot,” she said.
“Sorry.” He chuckled. “It’s just most people here drive ridiculously expensive cars.”
“You could finance a third-world nation with them,” she said.
He laughed. “That’s a good line. I’ll have to tell my business professor that one.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“Community college. Special course in golf-club management. I’m kind of doing my victory lap. Two more credits to go.”
“Happens.” Parish was in no hurry. It was easier to make small talk and flirt with this good-looking young guy than face the high-powered crowd inside. “This looks like a good job.”
“It’s just part-time. Dad’s the general manager. He named me Jack after Jack Nicklaus. I’ve been golfing here my whole life.”
“You must be good.”
“Seven handicap,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
Parish realized he wasn’t only making small talk with her but was expecting her to give him a tip.
“Wait a minute.” She fished around in the little change purse inside her shoulder bag. The smallest bill she had was a ten, and she wasn’t about to ask him for change.
“Here, thanks,” she said, handing it over to him.
He glanced down. She expected him to be surprised to get such a big tip, but he momentarily frowned. The other members in their fancy cars must give these kids at least twenty bucks.
What the hell was she doing at a place like this? She was so out of her league.
She swiftly calculated. If she was seventy-seven, and there was still a line of cars behind her, say there were a hundred. If most of them gave only ten, that was a thousand dollars divided among four kids. Cash. Say the average tip was fifteen dollars. Or twenty. The rich, she thought, just get richer.
“Ah, thank you,” Jack said, seeming to remember his manners.
The car behind her beeped its horn. Jack looked at it and waved. “Got to go. Have a good time in there, lucky sevens,” he said, before he sped away.
Inside the ornate clubhouse, she was accosted by a photographer. He insisted on getting her to pose beside a life-size cardboard cutout of Britt swinging a golf club. Then a woman with a video camera directed her to a booth where she was asked to recall her greatest memory of Britt growing up.
“Hi, Britt. It’s me. I’ll always treasure the nights when your dad brought you to the law office where I worked with your mom.” She waved at the camera. “Remember the paper shredder? Cccrunch Cccrunch.” It was Parish’s private way of messaging Britt about Melissa. Karl and Lydia wouldn’t want to hear about Karl’s ex, but too bad.
Parish had taken her godmother duties with Britt seriously. They met three times a year. Once at Karl and Lydia’s annual pre-Christmas open house. Parish would bring her a present, and they had a tradition of sneaking out and going to Starbucks for hot chocolate. At March break, before the golf season, and in the fall after the season ended, Britt would come and stay with Parish for a weekend. It was a big thrill for her to be downtown, and they’d spend most of their time shopping. Her dad wanted her to be in golf clothes and sweatpants all the time, but Britt had some of her mother’s flair for fashion.
The club’s vast ballroom was festooned with banners and balloons with BRITT stencilled on them. The walls were covered with more life-sized photos of Britt golfing from the age of three on up. Parish noticed that Melissa wasn’t in any of the pictures. Her very existence in her daughter’s life had been erased.
The dance floor was already packed with kids Britt’s age. A hip-looking guy was leading them in moves to the music of a DJ on the stage at the end of the room. A photographer was taking pictures and a videographer was taping the whole thing. Tuxedo-wearing servers circulated with precious-looking hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne. Parish grabbed a glass and downed it in two gulps.
She found the place with cards on it for table assignments. Hers was named the “Twelfth Hole.” She got another glass of champagne and walked over there. People were already seated at a round table busily talking to each other, old friends who all knew each other. She didn’t know any of them. The only seat left was by the window. She sat and took in the room.
There were some prominent politicians and local celebrities, whom she recognized, but she didn’t know anyone here. She wasn’t surprised. Ever since Lydia had left the law firm and married Karl, she’d hung out with this new, wealthy crowd.
Parish gazed out the window. A lone golf cart with the word Security painted on its side drove along the path that cut across the back lawn and disappeared into the darkness.
Keeping the barbarians at the gate, she thought, trying to imagine what it was like for the homeless people across the river sleeping out in the cold. And wondering about Melissa: where oh where could she be?
“Hi, I’ll be your server tonight, ma’am,” a familiar male voice behind her said.
She swivelled around to look at a server, who was holding up two bottles of wine.
“Will you be drinking red or white?” he asked.
“I’m thinking red. Fill it right to the top please.”
He bent over to pour the wine and whispered, “Good choice, Ms. Parish.”
“You need to keep me well lubricated tonight to get through this,” she whispered back. “But don’t worry, Detective Kennicott, I’ll take a cab home.”