FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 2013
I had my hair rolled and pinned and wore this severely cut tweed skirt-suit I’d found in a charity shop. I’d tried to convince Marc to go as Hitler to my Eva Braun, but he’d said that would be taking it too far, so I’d had to get creative with my accessories. Lizzie had rolled her eyes and told me the whole thing was stupid, but Charlotte had helped me paint a cardboard Reichsadler to pin to my breast, tea-stain some identity papers and doctor a tin of mints into fake cyanide capsules.
“I’m not sure how appropriate this is,” Marc had said, walking in on our crafting session. “What if she tells her teacher she’s spent her weekend painting swastikas?”
“It’s educational,” I’d said. “And, anyway, it’s no less appropriate than the gross paper hearts her teacher had them cutting out. I’ve half a mind to complain to the school about their endorsement of such a clichéd, grossly heteronormative holiday invented by capitalist corporations to sell chocolates and greetings cards.”
Marc had raised his eyebrows and left us to our painting.
I’d dubbed the evening our Anti-Valentine Party. The invites had asked our guests to come as “History’s Worst Dates.” I’d managed to get Marc on board by telling him T. S. and Vivienne Eliot had attended parties as Dr. Crippen and his mistress Ethel le Neve. “It’s literary!” I’d said, kissing away his frown and trying not to think too hard about the state of Tom and Viv’s marriage at the point they donned those costumes.
Fran and Ollie had come as Bonnie and Clyde, while Patrick and Susan made an incongruously paired Dracula and Aileen Wuornos. Marc had opted for Lord Byron, which he’d dressed as for three previous costume parties. I complained he was lazy, but he did look good in his silk cravat and smoking jacket.
Among others, we had a Henry VIII, a Jack the Ripper, a Cleopatra and a Myra Hindley in attendance. I was particularly impressed with Philippa, who’d shed her power suits and convinced her husband to bare almost all with her as Adam and Eve. “Best or worst date ever? Discuss,” I heard them say as they introduced themselves to a couple of Marc’s colleagues.
I did the rounds, topping up drinks and encouraging people to play the silly card and truth games I’d set up throughout the house. Marc had helped me make a Treasure Hunt for the Broken-Hearted, and I’d turned the living room into a Vegas-style Chapel of Love, where guests could bond themselves in the most unholy of matrimonies. I glanced around, wondering if people were having fun, how long it would be until they left.
“What a performance,” Philippa said, sipping the wine I’d dyed with food coloring. “You’ve gone to so much effort.”
“So have you,” I said, gesturing toward her paper fig leaves.
The bell went and I slipped through the throng to open the door. I let more guests in, squealing at their outfits, swapping pleasantries and leading them to the kitchen to pour bloodred gin and tonics. After introducing them to our Ripper and Myra, smiling at Susan across the room and refilling a snack bowl, I returned to the kitchen to run myself a glass of water.
“You okay?”
I turned to find Fran standing behind me. She was wearing a beret and holding a plastic gun in one of her gloved hands.
“Never better,” I said with a smile. “How are you?”
“Getting through,” she said. “Great party. I think everyone’s having fun exploring their dark sides.”
I laughed. “I guess there’s always something new to discover about your friends.”
“Indeed,” Fran said. She looked at me for a moment. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Honestly,” I said. She held my gaze until I looked away.
“Okay,” Fran said, lifting her gun to my chest and pretending to shoot me. “Then we should get back in there.”
I pulled the mint tin from my jacket pocket. “Cyanide?”
We stepped into the dining room and joined a conversation about the new business park development. I listened for a while, then drifted into the empty hallway, seeking a few minutes alone. After a while Marc came up behind me, placed his hand in the small of my back. He leant toward me and pressed his lips to my ear. “Fräulein?” he said. I’d spent the past week messing around with my German accent, longing for Marc to catch on to my teasing. I felt my desire swell; perhaps it was finally working.
“Ja?” I said, turning to face him. I touched my fingers to his cravat. “Alles ist gut?”
“Yeah,” Marc said, his voice normal again. I dropped my hand. He sounded tipsy. His gaze drifted to the iPhone in my other palm. “Whose is that?”
“Uh, I don’t know. It must have fallen out of someone’s coat,” I said, gesturing to the overloaded hooks. I placed the phone on the shelf beneath the mirror and smiled at him. “How’s the party?”
“People seem happy. I might just check on the girls.”
“I’ll go,” I said, twisting from his touch.
I found Charlotte sitting at the top of the stairs, picking from a stolen bowl of crisps. “Hey you, you’re meant to be asleep.”
“You’re being too loud.”
“I’m sorry, darling. You want to come down for a bit?”
She shook her head.
“Want to sleep in our bed? It’ll be quieter up there.”
“Okay.”
I led her up to our room and took my shoes and jacket off to snuggle under the covers with her for a bit.
“Why do you have parties, Mummy?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. To see my friends, to bring people together and make them happy.”
“Everyone’s just standing around, though.”
I laughed. “I guess they are. But that seems to be what makes them happy.”
“Does it make you happy?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Sometimes, though, even if something doesn’t make you happy to begin with, then if you just smile and pretend, eventually you find you really are happy.”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose.
“Nothing makes me as happy as sitting up here with you, of course.”
“Will you wait ’til I fall asleep?” she said.
“Of course,” I said, stroking her hair. “I’ll be here just as long as you need me.”