CHAPTER 4. Party
Alex doesn’t come home for lunch as he’d promised. Around five in the afternoon, I notice movement and some hustle and bustle out on the lower terrace – people I don’t recognize are setting up tables, chairs, a sound system. The pool has been filled and there are already inflatable chairs floating on it.
I have no idea what’s going on until about eight in the evening, when pretentious cars driven by equally pretentious people start to arrive. They spread themselves out across the terrace, lounging in armchairs, drinks in hand, and clearly find each other fascinating company. I figure that it must be a party and am upset because, first, no one warned me and, second, if this house really is my home, then shouldn’t I be involved in such things? And third... Third, I ache for some privacy with my husband: I miss him. I miss his hands, his words, his tender, warm eyes – all of which seem to be a thing of the past.
And I also have absolutely nothing to wear. Well, except for my black dress, I suppose – the same one I wore at the karaoke club a million years ago. I have lots of clothes, of course, but I left them all back at home! I only took the black dress because it means something in my new marriage.
I don’t have any shoes, either, so I’ll just have to improvise: a barefoot woman in a little black dress is all the rage right now! It’s also pure eroticism, so I’m even onto a winner.
If Alex and I were closer, I wouldn’t even bother showing my face at the party. It’s not necessary and, even more than that, the need to appear before his friends and acquaintances, to try to please them, is incredibly stressful and even a little humiliating. But something tells me that my newly acquired status as the wife of the extraordinary and much-loved Alex requires sacrifices. I never wanted to annoy him with my whims. I have adapted.
*** ‘Pour It Up’ (Leo Kalyan Remix) by Rihanna ***
The man of the house doesn’t make his appearance until about nine in the evening and, avoiding the house, goes straight out onto the terrace. I notice that he has changed his clothes, because he went to work this morning in a suit and tie, and now he’s in jeans, a t-shirt and a stylish jacket, sleeves rolled up. Where did he get changed? I suddenly think to myself. Toxic little questions like that can burn a hole through anything like acid.
I make an effort and think other thoughts – I don’t want us to fall out from the very beginning; I don’t want to confront him. I’ve already had a marriage like that and, before we managed to make it work, part of me disintegrated and those feelings have been extinguished forever. I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid arguments.
The guests, meanwhile, are falling over themselves in their hurry to greet the owner of all this magnificence – his weight and authority are literally hanging in the air. Smiling broadly, he says hello to everyone: to the friends shaking his hand and to the women touching his shoulder and looking into his eyes. One of them, packaged in a glittery silver dress, greets him with a kiss on the lips and I flinch. Then he inclines his head, she spends a while talking into his ear, he laughs and puts his arm around her waist.
The last time I saw him laugh was in Paris... six years ago. I feel so awful that I can barely stand.
I’m watching it all from the balcony of our bedroom – dressed, hair done, makeup on – but I don’t have the slightest desire to go out to him. At this exact moment, I almost hate him.
I go down to the kitchen and hunt out a bottle of cognac (I still don’t know how to drink whiskey and rum properly), pour myself half a glass and gulp it down. After a moment’s hesitation, I gulp down another one. And another. Only then do I go back out onto the balcony – on the second floor, this time, outside the dining room.
Alex is huddled in a group with two men who are all business, so of no concern to me, and three women. They’re obviously discussing something important, most likely work. Finishing the conversation, he moves over to another group, where he hugs two guys and three women. One of the guys is Mark, I realize. He claps Alex on the shoulder, offers him a cigarette and helps him light it. I want to hit this ‘friend’, although I have to admit that the cigarette does make my sexy husband look even sexier. He smokes and listens to what they’re saying, occasionally saying something himself and, from time to time, looking over at the people dancing on the terrace. I hope he’s looking for me. Or rather, I really want to believe that he is.
The guests are setting the dancefloor alight to the beats of RnB music, expensive alcohol is flowing freely, waiters with trays are scurrying around like ants, a cool DJ is pumping up the atmosphere, and the party is picking up pace. In the distance, the sea is calm, beautiful, moonlit – as if the living scenery is providing a backdrop to all this decadence.
The whole time, Alex has been busy talking: barely has he listened to one person than another approaches, or he himself moves over to someone who is waiting to talk to him. Then, finally, he lifts up his head and our eyes meet. We both freeze and, despite the cognac, I want to burst into tears and shout: what are you doing? Why?
At this moment, the woman in the silver dress floats back over to him and puts one hand around his waist, her thigh squeezed against his, and the second on the back of his neck, forcing him to lean his head down again and listen to her. Alex gently extricates himself this time, but she holds onto his hand and pulls him over to a table where, I guess, some of his friends are sitting. He says something to her, literally pulls his hand from her grasp and heads towards the house.
He’s coming to get me, I think and rush to our bedroom, to the balcony a floor above. I see Alex arrive where I was just standing and, before he thinks to look up, I step back from the railing. I desperately want to make him look for me, and my mind doesn’t even try to fathom the reason why. Puerility? No. Resentment? Yes. The desire to make him exert at least a little effort? To grab his attention for more than just a couple of minutes? Alex is too busy a person to waste time on my childish games and immediately goes back to his friends. All five chat easily as they smoke, laughing often. When the girl in silver plants herself in my husband’s lap, indignation tears me apart.
If I was sober, I would probably sob in anguish. But I’m not sober, I’m drunk. And when I’m drunk, my alter ego takes control.
Three glasses of cognac have loosened my restraint. I shouldn’t really drink at all, to be honest. I tend to find myself in situations I’m not always that proud of later. And now, my inebriated brain somehow decides that it’s time I got out there and took the spotlight.
*** ‘Try’ by Pink ***
Pink’s voice reverberates for miles around as she urges us to ‘try’, persuading us that not all flames are fatal, and, lifting my head high, I slap out barefoot to meet my challenge. I circle the dancers for a while until I finally find myself directly opposite a white settee, the most comfortable on the terrace and the one I have already decided is my favorite, in fact. Sitting on it now are the people who are closer and more important to Alex than me. Exchanging jokes, their laughter easy and relaxed, they sip cocktails as they sing along to Pink, and the woman in silver is already up on the table, swaying her hips in time to the chorus.