‘Crispin was one of the old prefects at my school, had his name carved into one of those plaques that I had to walk past every day and it kind of rubbed off on me I guess. Anyway, when I met Doris and Bluette all those years ago, they took one look at me and thought I could do with being brought down a peg so I swiftly became Crispy.’
‘I mean it’s not the worst…’
He offers me another drag but I shake my head, deciding that the third gin was enough of a tranquiliser for one night. He takes another deep breath and the smell of the weed sticks to the air.
‘Doris told me about your late husband,’ Crispy says to the sky, as if he’s addressing some far-off galaxy. Like he has his own personal constellation of lost souls that he talks to nightly like this. He takes another drag. ‘And if it’s any consolation I think you’re doing marvellously.’
I scoff, ‘I am?’
He turns to me, taking me in with a reassuring little squint. ‘Losing people, grief, well it acts as a mangle. I know death, it been a sad sort of companion in my life and I’ve watched as the grief consumes people, becomes them until it’s hard to see them as anything else. You, my girl, there’s still some life in you yet.’
I look at him hard, look at the sadness that I realise has been there the whole time, a sadness he has tried to mask with red cravats and silver suits. ‘You think?’
He reaches over the arm rest of the chair, takes my hand in his and rubs it vigorously. ‘I do.’
He gives me the headline pieces of gossip about each of The American’s guests until we hear some commotion from the dance floor, some cheering, more voices, a different hum.
I sit up, start the process of standing up. Crispy pulls at my dress.
‘Oh, don’t go!’ he pleads.
‘We’re missing the party.’ I pull free of his grasp and Crispy quickly scrabbles to his feet.
‘But we’re having fun!’ he pouts as I start to leave, precariously edging my way around the pool towards the exit. ‘Five more minutes.’ He trails after me, clawing at me to stay.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask, my eyes narrowing at him. The protestation is too much to just want me to stay here innocently.
‘Nothing’s happening! Just stay here for a few more—’ His sentence is stopped prematurely, replaced instead by a small strangled little shout and finished with a loud, thunderous splash. I look around to see Crispy underwater, his hands the only thing visible above the water line, desperately flapping about, his body making no attempt to surface.
Without thinking I jump in after him, reaching for the silver suit and when I have it in my hands, I desperately try to pull him to the edge until my knees catch on the bottom and I realise just how shallow it is. Barely a metre deep.
‘Just stand!’ I plead with the half-drowned figure who eventually returns to the surface, spluttering and choking. He slowly draws himself to his full height, the sad spliff hanging limply in his mouth.
When he finally gathers his breath he takes a look at me, hair sopping, dress weighed down by the water and lets out an almighty bellow of a laugh. He cackles at himself, at both of us, for a full minute until it becomes contagious and I am laughing too.
‘You arsehole.’ I splash him. ‘I thought you were going to drown.’
‘I shouldn’t walk and smoke,’ he booms and splashes me back.
When we turn around it is clear that the shrieking and splashing has drawn a crowd of concerned and confused faces and the guests are standing by the shallow end, watching us.
‘She saved me!’ Crispy wraps his arms around my neck and pretends to swoon. I push him off of me and watch as he clambers to the side, still hooting merrily.
‘What on earth?’ The crowd parts to reveal The American shuffling as fast as she can to see what all the commotion is about. I almost don’t notice the person at her side, how his concern turns to steely fury when his eyes meet mine and take me in.
‘Shit,’ Crispy hisses into the water.
‘Florian…’ I struggle for the words. His lip twitches in recognition of his name on my lips, the rest of his body rigid apart from a fist which he is clenching repetitively.
I manage to regain control of my face, it draws up into a hopeful smile – confirmation of how much I have wanted him to be here, of how much I wanted to see him again.
I wait for him to move, to smile, to wink, to grin in that way he has perfected, but a coolness hangs over him and then I watch as he turns his back and begins to storm back the way he entered.
‘Florian – wait!’ The American calls, staggering after him. I can feel all the other eyes of the guests on me, at the sopping wet girl in the pool.
‘You knew he was coming?’ I look to Crispy, all of the fun, the tipsiness fading from me. He doesn’t meet my eye. In that moment I know this has been just one big elaborate ruse.
I make my way to the steps with as much grace as a very wet three-legged giraffe and stumble out of the pool. The dress feels like someone has sewn weights into the hems and I trip only to be caught by Rupert who holds me at arm’s length like I might combust. I reach for a towel on the wall and manage a half-hearted attempt at mopping up some of the water but it’s a pointless exercise, so I limp towards the direction that Florian and The American had left in.
