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SOFIA LIVENS’ HOME was not large itself, but behind it sat the popular point which warranted the dozens of people conducting themselves wildly outdoors on such a blistering hot day.
A swimming pool.
And so I discovered the singularly discomforting moment at the water’s rigid edge in an absurdly boorish conversation with a boy a year or so older than myself with infinitely less common sense. What was his name? Tyler? Travis? Tony? No, Trevor. Yes, that sounded right. Trevor Stevens. God, what a bore. It would have been a miracle to find anything more than the latest football scores filling the area between his two pitifully large ears. I listened to the hellish numbers longer than I thought possible until the young man was finally called away to a swarm of giggling girls: girls who had little on their minds not inclusive to a life steamed with passionate romance and ending in a disappointing marriage.
Beads of sweat had begun to form along the nape of my neck and trickled downward to soak shamelessly into the cotton collar of my shirt. Had I known there would be swimming, I might have had the foresight to bring my bathing suit. But I had not known; therefore, I was stuck sitting along the edge of the pool in a hot cotton blouse and trousers that were just as uncomfortable as could possibly be imagined. The thick brown fabric clung to my legs and created great rivers of sweat to drip into my socks and shoes.
God, how appalling.
“It helps to put your feet in the water.” My head naturally jerked upwards, forcing me to shield my eyes from the sun’s devastating glare. The man towering over me was at least thirty, though I suspected slightly more. There was a distinct macherity to his face, as though he had seen the best the world had to offer and found it was made especially for him. His skin had been tanned to an even bronze with eyes so dark the pupils swallowed the irises whole. Brown hair sat ruffled on his head as a pile of twigs waiting to be caught alight by a careless match. It was as though he had just woken with no chance of going back to sleep; as if he had too much to live for to spend a third of his life in bed. That is, whatever he did at night, I did not believe it included sleep. I immediately hated him and liked him within the same moment. It was not his party, and yet he was Gatsby; roaming between the guests with nary a care in the world. I squinted up at him for only a second more before tying my eyes down toward the water’s crystal, shimmering surface.
“I am perfectly content with my shoes on, thank you.” There was such finality in my words I had hoped he would go off and leave me be like Travis—no, Trevor—had done. But unfortunately, he lowered himself leisurely beside the pool and outstretched his legs so the soles of his bare feet dangled over the edge of the pavement, hovering only a breath away from the water.
“I’m Sam Barker. Let me guess, you’re Jo.” My gaze flickered from the water for a painful moment.
“How did you guess?”
“You’re the only one on Sofie’s list I haven’t seen before. Her parties are known as the hot weeklies. Same people. Same day. Same time.”
“Oh.” Stunning reaction that, a true accolade representing years of ceaseless dedication to the furthering of my education. I had a mind carefully melded to accommodate the most pristine words of the English language. Through Keane I had grown fluent in the more practical languages, as well as a brief smattering of Gaelic; absorbed more through moments of necessity than a formal drilling of the grammar. All this, and what could I muster?
Oh.
Bloody Marvelous.
I tried again.
“These things are weekly then? Sounds like an awful lot of bother.” Sam Barker stared at me before letting his eyes wander aimlessly about the roaring party guests.
“I guess it could be, but it is really more a celebration of those of us who have nothing better to do. I throw a party every week at my house. A big smash. You should come sometime.”
“What about work?”
“What about it?” I ripped all my attention from a bug skimming the surface of the swimming pool.
“Are you saying you don’t work?” It shouldn’t have surprised me. He smiled and slid his bare feet into the water where that bug had once been.
“Why should I? I have enough money to last me a lifetime. Two, if I feel like going around twice. No reason to waste my time in some old office. Don’t tell me you work?”
“I’m a writer.” He grinned.
“You mean like a magazine writer? I’ve met a few of those in my time. Had a lot more energy under the covers than—”
“I mean a writer writer. I’m a novelist.” His face plummeted lower than the most acute case of disappointment, though it was not a reaction foreign to me by any means. At last he cleared his throat and squinted upwards toward the sun. “What does your husband think of that? You working, I mean.” The ice ran cold and fast through my veins and my fists clenched into iron blocks.
“I’m not married.” I cleared my throat; a painful action. “And if I was, you can be certain he wouldn’t give a damn about my career as a writer. He would at least be supportive of women reentering the workforce.” Sam Barker sat up a little straighter.
“So you’re one of those feminists types. I should have known. Seems every girl is now. Babbling on about women’s careers and all that. You should be thankful we gave you the vote.”
By tongues of men, from lack of thought.
“I wouldn’t say I was a feminist, but I wouldn’t say I wasn’t either. And as for women, you men should recognise us more. A friend once told me that everything is relative. I believe that includes our perspectives of others, as well as ourselves.”
“Who said that? Einstein?”
“Probably, at one time or another, but he wasn’t the one who told it to me. That makes all the difference.”
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I LEFT THE PARTY JUST as I had come; expecting nothing and gaining less. Something Sam Barker had said—if he had really said anything—struck me with the weight of the world. Einstein had indeed made some offhanded comment regarding the relativity of life, but Keane had mentioned it first on one of our sailing trips. I remembered it vividly; the tossing of the sea, the churning of the ocean, my companion fiddling with the sail, and the crisp English tones of his voice skimming effortlessly over the frothy waves.
“Never surrender to the stupidity of categorization, Lawrence. From where you stand, you shall always see a subject differently from another’s eyes. The stars may appear insignificant flames from here, but we are but dust to them. Everything is relative.”
I had only smiled then, a brief grin and some strand of words that meant so little now I can only recall they were incredibly well mannered and obhorrably dull. They were nothing like those great philosophical lines that poured from Keane’s mouth as honey from a diligent hive.
Everything is relative.
Just as I became warmed by these three words, God lashed out his hand and sent great torrents of rain hurling down upon this speck of dust floating beneath the stars. The color of life drained away into shades of varying grey; outlined with black paint dripping from the sky. That yellow California sun ran away to be replaced by half a dozen ominous clouds, scoffing at our lives sheltered from what we wish to ignore.
What fools we were then.
I hesitated, which is not an unusual occurrence when both sides of one’s mind are occupied in a heated debate which marks the division between separate articles of one person. Some femininity that had survived banishment insisted I turn round immediately and call a taxi. Surely that was not too weak and womanly a thing. In fact, the more those damnable droplets found their way down my neck, the more reasonable that desire became. But the consequences of one’s actions are so often worse than enduring some temporary discomfort. And the truth was I had no energy to return to the party and again submerge myself in a society of young people. I disliked young people as a whole and deplored them as individuals. Not all of them perhaps, but I had found a sufficient number of poor representations to soil the group as a whole. I really ought to have been thankful to the rain for chasing away the blistering heat and giving me a viable excuse to return to my own environment. I could no longer bear the bending and bowing to chivalrous graces and laughs that bubbled upwards like overpriced champagne. To endure such mental pain for so long was not only dangerous to one’s sense of pride, but no doubt one’s back as well.
Of course, it had occurred to me that I would need some sort of transportation back to the beach house; however, at that exact moment, I was suddenly and inexplicably content with being aimless. I traveled on the winds of instinct, sheltered by the colored canopies jutting outwards from the various storefronts as overstretched umbrellas. There is some virtue in being a wanderer. When you forget to worry about where you are going, you are not concerned about how you get there. I passed people desperately seeking shelter, yet there was a glorious feeling pent up in my soul, which was slowly released with every step along that mirrored pavement. So intent did I become on my imaginary axis, my eyes shielded themselves from my surroundings, only to have the blinders completely torn away by a strong hand maliciously clamping down over my mouth.
I lashed outwards; fists and shoes begging to meet unsuspecting flesh. Every jerk shot a dose of adrenaline through my veins. Heart pounding. Muscles screaming. Head whirling. A single glimpse of pinstriped cotton was enough to fuel my efforts further as my assailant dragged me toward the ominous alley. My fingers clawed at fabric sleeves until I heard the painful creaking of overtaxed bones on the verge of snapping. They were not mine, but that of the figure who’s shoulder I now had twisted in a way that was believed anatomically impossible without complete separation from said limb to the rest of the strong body. It was a loud cough of a voice that exploded through my ear as the hand pressed further against my mouth. I recognised not the frozen rasps of words, but the words themselves held some familiarity. I had no choice. I fought harder until a great cannon fire shattered my eardrums with its close proximity.
“For God’s sake, stop struggling before you hurt yourself.” I slammed my heels into the sopping pavement and spun round with fists at the ready.
“Keane, if you don’t want me to fight, it may be best to find another way to gain my attention. Brute force does not give a pleasant impression. Besides, you should be more concerned with injury to your own limbs before you begin analysing mine. I do hope your shoulder hurts for a while.” An appraisal of the man crushed all hopes of ensuring some physical discomfort. His arms appeared fully intact without the slightest twinge of onsetting pain. But, where I was seemingly incapable of unraveling the muscles of a person’s complex anatomy, Keane’s necktie had been sufficiently disturbed from its infamous knot. This; however, was quickly remedied by a few casual strokes of his long fingers.
“Well?” He lifted a grey fedora from the dirt at his feet, brushed the rim, and placed it rakishly on his head. “How do I look?”
“Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. If Mrs. McCarthy could see you now—with your hair slicked back and that vulgar suit—never again would she complain about your tweeds.”
“I admit the style is rather . . . flamboyant.” Obnoxious, more like. “And I can’t say I am particularly fond of the cut of the jacket, but ‘weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning’.”
“And what might that joy be? Nevermind, I don’t want to know.”
“You don’t?” A greying eyebrow climbed high on his forehead. “And here I thought that adventurous spirit of yours would leap at the chance to enjoy those fruited seeds of prohibition.”
“Now I really must decline. You aren’t suggesting we raid some mafia hideaway to find what? Armed murderers?”
“A photograph. A rather compromising photograph depicting James and his maîtresse. Remember, Lawrence, ours is not a task of attack, per se. Merely an act of infiltration. But come, we mustn’t stand out in the open like this.” Keane’s gentle fingers fell upon my arm and pulled me further into the dark shadows of the alley. I allowed my legs to follow his lead, and yet my mind had not yet fallen into his path.
“Let’s say—hypothetically speaking, or course—I did go along with whatever it is you’re doing. What the devil would I disguise myself as? A blasted fly on the wall?” My companion smiled; a boyish glow banishing the creases of his face to the unnatural gleam of his eyes.
I wished I hadn’t asked.