Quiver (26 page)

“Fine, I’ll be ready,” I say, smiling into the mirror to make my voice sound cheery.

“Looks like you’re almost finished anyway,” he says, leaning against the open bathroom door.

“Hey!” I put down the sparkly hairpin in my hand and push him out the door. “No peeking until I’m done.” I wanted to emerge, even if it had to be from the bathroom, beautiful and polished, maybe see that
you’re gorgeous
look from him that I’d missed for a while.

“All right, Cinderella, just don’t make us late for the ball.” I hear his bottle of ale, empty, clunk down on the kitchen counter.

A few minutes later, I have lashes on, earrings in, sparkly barrettes fastened in hair. I needed this ritual of getting ready, this distraction. I’ve been treading water at work. I’ve ignored three more of Foster’s lawyer’s calls. I haven’t spoken to Maria since she told me about her plan to see Foster. I even thought about taking back the dress, the shoes, and not going to the party, but Henry couldn’t be talked out of it. And when I opened the dress box and saw the beautiful green bodice of the dress, the tiny rosebuds on the skirt, I wanted so badly to wear it to the ball, despite the misgivings I had about how I got the tickets. So I went through the week like an automaton at work, ignoring everything but the photocopying and filing my daily routine has been largely reduced to. While I filed, I thought of the green tulle and of fluttery false eyelashes and of dancing with Henry in a ballroom.

“I think the taxi’s here. I’ll go up and hold it—hurry!” says Henry. I hear the door shut.

I put on my blue and gold brocade trench coat. It has princess sleeves and a rectangle of rhinestones for a belt buckle. I found it in a vintage store years ago, but it’s too fancy for everyday. I slide into it, happy as the brocade falls over my skirt, as I cinch the rhinestone belt around my waist.

Even though the taxi’s waiting, I pause to take one last look in the mirror. I’ve swept my eyelids with light gold and peacock shadow. Heavy doe-lashes. I imagine getting out of the cab at the hotel, Henry helping me slip off my coat when we enter the ballroom, tracing his fingers across the back of my soft green bodice. Chandeliers of azure crystal. He leads me slowly, deliberately, to the dance floor, my lilac heels clicking on marble, the band in white tuxedos playing ballads.

We walk through the tall iron gates of the Grosvenor. In the courtyard to the right there’s a line of sports cars and bright film lights hoisted overhead. Photographers snap, flashy-heeled women and dark-suited men mill about, stride through the front doors of the building. I look up at the tall stone facade, see illuminated windows dressed with gossamer curtains dotting the building in an erratic constellation. I wonder who’s inside, why they’re staying here, what they’re doing in London. The rooms that are dark, I wonder if they’re occupied, where the guests are for the evening.

We’re in the cloakroom and Henry’s just handed the attendant his jacket. “Hey, Wilson,” he shouts, waving his hand high above his head. He rushes into the ballroom.

“Here, miss, let me take that,” the attendant says, as I unbelt my brocade trench. “Lovely dress.” I thank him, then walk into the ballroom after Henry. I tell myself he’s probably just excited to be here, to get into the room.

The ballroom is more opulent than I’d imagined. High ceilings, ornate mouldings curl around the walls. A massive chandelier commands the centre of the room, suspended above the hardwood floor. It’s a tightly coiled spiral of crystal curtains illuminated in the centre by a soft, dusky light. Waiters circulate with impossibly ornate hors d’oeuvres on silver trays. The crowd is still thin, but the stream of arrivals steadily picks up and the atmosphere is growing more boisterous.

I catch up to Henry and Wilson. “Hey,” I say, linking my arm around Henry’s, “it’s all just stunning, isn’t it?”

‘Ah, first time in a ballroom like this, is it?” says Wilson. “Well, you look gorgeous tonight—like this sort of thing is old hat to you.”

“Thanks,” I say, and glance at Henry. He’s scanning the room and suddenly smiles. I look in the direction of his gaze. A young woman is walking towards us. She’s tall, even minus the silver stiletto heels she’s wearing. Her dress is steel-coloured and covered with layers of tiny, swinging crystals. It’s sleeveless, with a plunging V-neck. The skirt is straight, with a broad U-shaped cutout in the front that rises to her toned upper thighs, inches below her crotch. Her legs are long, her hair below her shoulders and very dark, almost black.

“Nicola,” says Wilson. “Found the ladies’ room all right, then?”

“Yes,” she says, drawing a long nail down his shoulder. “Henry, hello, darling.” She leans forward and kisses him on both cheeks.

“Very good to see you,” he says softly. “So, would you like a drink?”

“Wonderful,” says Nicola. “Champagne would be brilliant.”

“Right on it,” says Wilson. “Dani, I’ll grab you one too, love.” He and Henry head off to the bar. I’m left, unintroduced, with Nicola.

“Um, hi,” I say. “I’m Danica. Henry’s girlfriend.”

“Oh, right,” she says, sounding a little bored. She doesn’t extend her hand, so I keep mine at my side, but I attempt to make some conversation.

“So, you’re in the residency with Henry?”

“That’s right.”

“You have studios nearby each other, I think?”

“Yes, we do.”

I wait a few beats and hope that she elaborates. Nothing.

“So, what sort of art do you do?” Henry’s told me that he always hates it when someone asks him this, but I’m desperate.

“Photographs, mostly.”

“What’s your main subject?”

“Whatever interests me. Currently, I’m interested in the male form. I like to experiment with applying different substances to the body, then photographing in varying light.”

I decide to be encouraged that she’s spoken more than three words in a row to me, so I follow up. “What sort of substances? Different kinds of materials or outfits or something like that?”

“No outfits. Things like oil, or milk, or even things like canned tuna or dog shit, right onto the nude male.”

“Does the tuna even stay on the skin?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter if it stays
on,”
she says, sounding exasperated, “it’s about the
method,
the theoretical understanding of committing and documenting a certain event.”

“Right, I didn’t mean to suggest...”

A waiter comes by. “Ladies?” He holds out his tray of salmon canapes. I take one; Nicola waves the waiter away.

“Darling, you are here!” At the sound of Maria’s voice I turn around. She’s wearing a Grecian-style gown, with Edward trailing behind her. “Wonderful!” She kisses me on the cheek. “Hello,” she says to Nicola. “We met at Henry’s studio.”

Nicola nods at her and continues to look uninterested.

“Dani, you have been here long?” I haven’t spoken to her since the day we went shopping.

“Not too long,” I say. I’m grateful that she’s joined Nicola and me. “Wilson and Henry are here too, at the bar.”

“If you excuse me, I’m going to see how they’re doing with that champagne,” says Nicola. She turns and stalks across the floor. The back of her dress is also cut low, to the top of her hips. She’s not wearing a bra.

“Pretty girl,” says Maria. She takes a tiny sip of her drink. “That dress—it looks like Swarovski crystal.”

“Yes, it’s interesting,” I say. I look down at my outfit, which seemed so chic before. Now the tulle and roses all seem childlike.

“Dani, you look sad, almost,” says Maria. “What, you do not like your dress now?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Anyway, you look great. Beautiful gown.”

“Yes, it is. On loan, only.” She twirls, strikes a pose that showcases a thigh-high slit. “But Dani, you are silly to worry about your dress. You are beautiful tonight. As always, but you shine especially tonight.”

I smile and I feel like hugging her despite our disagreements. I try to forget about the crotch-cutout no-bra outfit on Nicola, and instead remember my manners and say hello to Edward.

“Good to see you again,” he says, smile perfect and white against his lightly tanned face.

Another waiter comes by with flutes filled with champagne. Edward holds one out to me.

“Oh, I think Henry’s actually getting me one,” I say.

“Then he’s too slow,” he says with a grin and puts it in my hand.

“Come with me,” says Maria to me, “there are some people we should meet.”

For the next hour and a half, Maria and I whisk around the ballroom. We meet the latest Turner Prize winner, a food writer for the
Guardian
and the host of
The X Factor.
The actress who plays Baby in
Dirty Dancing
compliments me on my dress. Maria tells everyone we’re collaborating on a book. Waiters buzz by with prosciutto-wrapped melon balls, brie and cranberry tartlets, and trays and trays of champagne and wine. By the end of my third glass, a Pinot Grigio Edward insisted I try, I am awash in all the warmth and glamour that I’d expected from this night. Except I haven’t seen Henry since he went to get me a drink almost two hours ago. I look around the room and spot him over by the illuminated multicoloured bar, talking to Nicola. I excuse myself from my current conversation partners—Maria, a novelist named Tessa whom I’ve heard of but whose books I’ve never read, and a rich museum patron—to go and see if he might dance.

“Of course, darling,” says Maria, walking with me a few steps out of the group. “But you are enjoying yourself, yes?”

“It’s perfect, Maria. Thank you for the tickets.”

She smiles and puts her hand on my arm. “You are most welcome. See, Dani, you shine tonight. We are a good pair.”

It might be the wine or the light or how beautiful and earnest Maria looks, but I think she could be right. She’s pinned a spray of tiny white flowers behind her ear; the petals twine with her shiny curls. Her diamond pendant glitters. She leans towards me, eyes wide and waiting for a reply.

“Yes,” I finally say, “we are.”

“I will catch up with you later,” she says, her voice light and happy. “Go and dance with your Henry.”

He doesn’t notice me walking up, so I tap him on the arm to get his attention. “Oh, hi,” he says, looking uncomfortable.

“Coming in! Here’s fresh drinks,” says Wilson, approaching with a cocktail in either hand. He gives a pink one to Nicola, who hasn’t looked at me. “Oh, Dani,” he says, “I would have got you one too—didn’t know you were here.”

“It’s all right, I just came over. To see if I could finally steal Henry away for a dance?” I circle my arm around his and tilt my head to the dance floor.

“Uh, well, maybe later, Dani. Nicola and I were discussing...business.”

“Business?” I can’t keep the sharpness out of my voice.

Wilson hands the other glass he’s holding to Henry and puts his hand on the small of my back. “I’d be happy to take a spin,” he says, and leads me away from the two of them. “No need to get upset, Dani.” He manoeuvres me to the middle of the ballroom and into a tight hold.

“Right, right.”

“It’s not like you guys are married or anything.”

“What does that mean?” I lean away from him.

“It’s just that monogamy isn’t a priority for you guys at this time in your lives,” he says, moving his hand back around my waist and pulling me in. “You’re still young. There’s so many choices out there.”

“Choices?” My eyes sting.

“Exactly. I mean, you can’t blame Henry, really. He’s just doing what he needs to, personally, creatively. You’ve gotta relax, Dani,” he says, twirling me around quickly and laughing.

‘‘Just doing what he needs to?”
I say, trying not to scream out the words. But the bowling-ball feeling I’ve had in the pit of my stomach tells me that I have a very good idea what he means. Wilson’s words finally make it real, make it something I can’t continue to ignore.

“Come, now, you have to know. Nicola is beautiful and well-connected. And Henry’s clearly attracted to her, not that that’s a news flash.” Over his shoulder, I catch the light bouncing off Nicola’s crystal dress, see her leaning close to whisper something to Henry. He’s smiling, looking downwards, close to her chest.

“Don’t worry, Dani,” continues Wilson. “You’ll figure out if you and Henry will keep up an open arrangement, or if you’ll just finish with each other. Or whatever. Don’t worry so much about defining things. You have lots of options.” He slides his right hand below my waist and rests it low on my hip, and strokes my neck, lightly, with his left. “You look smashing tonight, Dani. So fresh, cute.” He pushes his pelvis against mine and keeps his hand on my bare neck, pulling me towards him. I smell his Hugo Boss cologne, and my field of vision fills with his frosted-tipped hair and a gold hoop earring. I feel a little like I might vomit.

“Wilson—” I push away from him and leave the dance floor. I force myself not to run, instead manage to keep it at a brisk walk until I find the ladies’. Then I dash into a stall, lock the door and sit down on the closed lid. I gather my skirt between my legs and bend over my knees so that my tears drop straight down on the pretty mauve-tiled floor and don’t run down my face and ruin my makeup.

The bathroom door swings open and two women click-clack in. I try to stop sniffling and remain as quiet as possible. The stall, or little room rather, that I’m in is fully enclosed, with a proper door, so hopefully they won’t take notice of me crying. I hear the snap and pop of compacts and lipsticks being opened.

“Did you see that woman wearing that hideous rust-coloured dress? The one that looked like a hoop skirt?” says one.

“I tried not to. I can’t believe anyone would go out in public like that.”

“I know,” says woman number one. I hear fabric rustling, imagine she’s adjusting her acceptably stylish dress. “But,” she continues, “looks like you’ve been pretty occupied all night.”

“Perhaps,” the other woman says coyly.

“I would have thought you’d be farther along with things by now. Are you dragging things out on purpose?”

“No,” says the second woman, sounding exasperated. “It’s only that Henry has some little girlfriend trailing around after him.”