We mill about on the terrace in little packs, still slightly unsure of the others in our party. It is clear who has met before; they laugh loudly at the other’s jokes, place hands on each other’s shoulders and waists for a little too long.
I am allowed to skirt the edges, occasionally being included in a conversation. I learn that Debbie has been married three times before she met her Frederic who is actually a year younger than me. They met at the ballet which Crispy later informs me is a load of bollocks unless ‘ballet’ was a new name for a dating site for younger men who want to be bankrolled through their thirties in exchange for a few nights of passion a year.
Rupert with the red chinos seems to be the only semi-normal person here. He was a theatre agent in a past life and now spends his retirement selling art.
The American flows through the crowd effortlessly. She looks younger, like she has spent her life in a constant state of rehearsal for these things. I think about the story she told me, the life she must have lived, how in many ways this was the one thing a marriage to a man she never really loved allowed her. I think of how sad it is then, that the one person she probably wants to be here more than anyone, isn’t. I feel that familiar sadness seek me out again, but it’s sharper than it has been, with frayed raw edges because I’m not thinking about Etienne.
‘Do you approve?’ The American asks when it’s my turn. She places her arm around my waist pulling me into her. She smells of lavender and gin, a delicious combination.
‘It’s beautiful and you’ve been very generous, some would say too generous.’ I gesture to the dress.
‘No such thing. You look beautiful. It’s important for young women to feel beautiful or they end up becoming all sad and boring and settle for sad and boring men.’
‘I get your point.’
‘And you’re feeling okay?’
‘Yes. I’m feeling better. I’m happy I’m here.’ I kiss her cheeks again and she holds me so close to her I think for a second that she won’t let me go.
In a clearly well-rehearsed routine, some young men in suits push the tables away from the floor, leaving space for the band who have begun to play something more upbeat. The guests begin to congregate on the dancefloor whilst I stay back, a happy observer. That is until there is a tap on my shoulder and Crispy, wearing a silver suit and the same red cravat, stands there holding his hand out expectantly.
‘Is there any point in me saying no right now?’
‘Not one bit.’ He winks and pulls me into the middle where he immediately starts to pirouette me until I squeal for him to stop and threaten to vomit.
‘That’s better,’ Crispy shouts over the music.
‘What is?’ I ask, my face screwing up in confusion.
‘You’re smiling.’
Crispy has the guy at the bar at his beck and call, delivering large gin and tonics directly into our hands.
‘Do you smoke?’ Crispy slurs after our third goldfish ball of Tanqueray.
‘Occasionally,’ I nod, expecting Crispy to present a little packet of cigarettes but instead he nudges me in the direction of some stairs. I take our drinks and follow him down to a hidden patio where some expensive-looking loungers are scattered around the swimming pool.
He collapses into one with a groaning thump and rifles in his jacket pocket for a little silver cigarette case.
‘That looks expensive.’
‘Was my grandfather’s, you can see the dent a bullet made over in Ypres.’ He opens it up to reveal eight rather suspicious-looking cigarettes. ‘I rather like the fact I’m using it for nothing but debauchery now.’ He takes one out and the smell hits me.
‘When you asked if I smoked, I thought you meant cigarettes.’
‘Oh no.’ He curls up his lip in disgust. ‘This is purely medicinal.’ He shrugs as if it is some consolation, lights the spliff and then immediately passes it to me.
I think about saying no. I haven’t done this since university and even then, I distinctly remember throwing up almost immediately.
‘Fuck it.’ I grab the spliff and take a short, half-hearted drag before spluttering most of it out immediately.
Crispy takes it back off me with a slightly incredulous look and lies back in his deckchair staring up at the sky.
‘Fucking lovely, isn’t it?’ he says. I look up too, take in the splattering of stars, the heavy moon, the glow and laughter emanating from the house.
‘Yeah. It’s pretty nice.’
‘She’s happy you’re here.’ He takes a long breath. ‘You know the past few months, it’s like I’ve got the old girl back again.’
