by Mary Carter
“A star. Right.”
“Not an X.”
“X does not mark the spot.”
“Unless.”
Oh boy.
“I would invite the Xs if . . .” He let it hanging as if he wanted Ava to finish the sentence for him.
“You were playing tic-tac-toe?”
“No, silly. Do you think you could pretend, just for that night, that the flat is mine?”
“Yes. I can do that.”
Queenie clapped his hands and jumped up and down. He was surprisingly graceful for a big man. She’d have to catch his act one of these days. “Then invite the Xs too. Oh, this is going to be my night. And maybe. Oh. Never mind.” He fluttered his eyelashes and looked at her.
“Go on.”
“Maybe you can let it slip that I’m going to be on telly.”
“You read my mind.”
“And cake. You know who makes the best cake?”
Death. Give me death. “Why don’t you leave me a list?”
“As in who’s naughty and who’s nice? Smashing idea. I’ve got to start working on my surprise face. There’s an art to it, you know.” He gave a sample of a surprised face.
“Keep working on it,” Ava said.
“You are going to hide, and then jump out, and yell, ‘Surprise!, ’ aren’t you?”
“We are now.” At least she liked the hiding part.
“That’s good. I have the sudden urge for cake. You know who makes the best cake?”
“Just leave me a list, Queenie. I’ll follow it.”
“Good girl.”
Ava laughed as he trounced off to the bathroom. Oh, God. A party. She had no choice now. She’d start planning the party and double-check everything with Jasper. Jasper. God, she couldn’t wait to see him. Look in his eyes, touch him, smell him, take in his blazer, or blue jeans, or whatever the hell he’d use to cover his tall, muscular frame. A party. Like she was a normal person. He could be her date. Ava had never even been to a party and now she was going to throw one. She thought of Emma, the mayor’s daughter. How had her party turned out? Had they ever caught the potential kidnapper? Ava’s mother would know.
She picked up the phone and dialed her mom. Voice mail picked up. “Mom? It’s Ava. Call me back.” Ava hung up, feeling hurt. Her mother was punishing her. Or she was just so relieved that Ava was gone, out of her hair, that she was constantly out having a good time. Could her mother have a boyfriend? Ava hoped so. She hadn’t been with a single man since Ava’s father. Bertrand had been the love of her life. God, Ava wanted peace with her mom. She’d lost just as much as Ava had, maybe even more. When her father was alive, her mother laughed a lot. She always softened. She was crazy in love with Ava’s father; even Ava could see it. And although she hadn’t done it on purpose, Ava certainly had put her mother through the wringer over the years. She felt bad about that. Ava wanted her mother to be happy again. She wanted it for both of them. Maybe they could even have a real mother-daughter relationship. Learn to truly enjoy each other’s company. Go places together. Imagine that. But first her mother was going to have to answer the phone, and in the meantime Ava still didn’t have an answer to her question.
Ava opened her laptop and Googled “Emma Rhodes.” Immediately a picture of a man sprung up. Sketch Artist Helps Identify Kidnapper. He’d been caught. Thank God. He’d been working with one of the landscaping crews. Evil bastard. Ava pulled up the sketch done by Gary Vance. It was a remarkable likeness, one of his best. She wasn’t jealous, just relieved. In fact, she didn’t miss being a sketch artist at all. She much preferred cartoons, and caricatures and happy things. She’d definitely have her sketch pad on hand for the party. It would calm her if the crowd got to be too much. Ava set the sketch pad down, then went to the minibar and picked up Queenie’s little black book. She opened it and a little fabric square fell out. It was a dark red. Was this a fabric sample for a new outfit? She’d never seen him dressed as a woman except for his heels and stockings when he came into the pub. By the time he returned to the pub with her Xanax and blindfold, he was once again in men’s clothes. She wondered how he would dress for his party. She should make an effort to go to one of his shows, just like she should go to Jasper’s comedy sets. Why did all her new friends have to be so darn talented and outgoing?
Queenie came back into the room, robe on, towel thrown over his shoulder. Ava held the swatch up. “What’s this?”
Queenie gasped, then snatched it out of her hand. “Nothing,” he said.
“It fell out of your address book.”
“It’s nothing.”
“A new outfit?”
“Yes. Mrs. Claus. Ho, ho, ho.”
Liar. Why was a little piece of fabric such a big secret? “Why haven’t I ever seen you in drag?”
“Because I have a dressing room at the theater. Believe me, if I brought home all my outfits you’d have nowhere left to sit.” He whipped the fabric sample out of her hand and headed for the kitchen. “Espresso?”
CHAPTER 23
Dance club music pumped through the flat. Ava had never been to a dance club, but she was pretty sure this was the type of loud, rhythmic music they would play. Beverly’s speakers might have been old, but they were mighty. Voices rose over the music. The place was packed. The invite was just as Queenie directed:
Isn’t it a DRAG?
Time stops for no Queen
Exclusive invite
Celebrate the bash at his brand-new flat
(And he might just be on telly soon!)
And so they came. And kept coming. Ava had never met this many people, let alone called them friends and—in some cases—mortal enemies.
It turned out Queenie’s friends had been dying to get a look at her, as well as the flat. They arrived with booze, and food, and chocolates, and flowers, and boas, and buzzers. They fussed over Ava so much she almost forgot it was Queenie’s birthday and not hers. From the looks of it, she wouldn’t even have to use up much of her stash of food. Trays of appetizers rotated around the flat. Cheese and crackers, dips, crab cakes, stuffed mushrooms, it just kept coming. These people were amazing. Ava loved them. Queenie couldn’t be so bad if he had this many cool friends. They were Aunt Beverly’s friends, too; she recognized some from the plethora of photos on the wall. They came straight and they came gay. They came dressed in drag and dressed to die for. There were no awkward silences because nobody was awkward and nobody was silent. They talked as if they’d known Ava all her life. Ava didn’t have to say much about herself because they filled in the gaps, as if Mind the Gap applied just as much to parties as it did to the Tube. Everybody had an opinion about everything. Ava could have sat all day just listening to snippets of conversations or words that stuck out at her as being “British.”
Bangers and mash . . .
Primrose Hill . . .
Bubble and squeak . . .
Toad in the hole . . .
Apple crumble and custard . . .
There is one dungeon in North London I’ll always remember fondly. It’s closed now. It’s probably an Abercrombie and Fitch.
I got absolutely bollocksed at the office party and shagged an intern....
Several of the conversations just added to Ava’s fears.
The Tube? It’s horrific. Swarms of dirty people pushing and shoving. Last week a bloke fell off an escalator and cracked his head. You’re smart to stay away from that death trap.
London’s dirty. Not round here with all the shops, but my end, the South End of London, people leave trails of rubbish as if they’re trying to lure you somewhere like Hansel and fucking Gretel.
I’m sick of the rain. It seeps into your pores, you know. I’m thinking of moving to Spain. Have you been to Spain? Oh, you have to go. The Spanish are so laid-back. I could have shagged the entire island of Ibiza. Not like Londoners. They’ll bite your head off, they will. Although I will miss the buzz. Always something to do in London, it’s electric.
The culture,
that’s why I stay. The museums, the opera—
When was the last time you were at a museum or opera that didn’t involve dildos?
Shut your mouth, Franco. The ballet—the theater. You must know what I mean, being Beverly’s niece and all, luv. Wasn’t she just a marvelous actress?
It’s an international city. I don’t know anybody who’s actually from London. At any given day on the Tube you hear a hundred languages spoken. German, French, Japanese, Arabic—
Peals of laughter, snippets of British accents, and footsteps rang out.
“Love the dress, luv,” a man sporting a fedora said. Ava was wearing a green silk kimono with yellow stitching. God, she loved Aunt Beverly’s wardrobe. She’d also liberally applied her makeup. She almost looked like someone else, like an actress playing a role. She might have entirely forgotten who she was, if it weren’t for a few rotten apples who had had the nerve to come right out and ask her if she was agoraphobic. “Shh,” she said, putting her finger to her lips. “I’m an artist conducting a social experiment.”
“How’s that, luv?”
“I’m spending an entire year inside the flat, just to see if in today’s wireless age it can be done.” They leaned in, wanting to know more. “You know. Can I order in absolutely everything I need?”
In London, of course you could, they said.
“Can I maintain friendships?”
“We’re here, aren’t we?”
“Maybe even romance?” Ava blushed on this, and immediately scanned the room as if Jasper would materialize.
“Luv, this is London. You can even order in a mate,” one of the drag queens screeched. The small crowd whooped at that. Ava kept up with the charade and begged them not to tell anyone.
“Is it a blog?” someone asked. “Can we follow it?”
“I’m saving it all for a book,” Ava said. “The Insider’s Guide to London.” They liked this too. They laughed. Ava felt warm inside. No wonder Jasper wanted to be a stand-up comedian. It was like a high, making people laugh. “Please, just don’t tell anyone. Can’t compromise the experiment,” Ava said again. Heads nodded; people promised. She assumed the British gossip vine worked the same way it did everywhere else. It wouldn’t be long before the rumor spread. She wasn’t agoraphobic, a shut-in, an invalid! She was an artist, conducting a social experiment. She’s writing a book, don’t you know? The Insider’s Guide to London. Brilliant!
As the festivities raged on, Ava found that she much preferred watching to participating. Perhaps it was too much too soon. She grabbed her sketch pad from the bookshelves in the living room and made her way over to her emerald stool. She began to sketch the nearest person to catch her eye. He was a short man, but thin, and he held himself very straight. An important man, maybe a director? He had on a gray suit with a pink tie. He was wearing green eyeliner. He was very animated, moving his hands almost like an orchestra conductor as he spoke. She began to sketch him. The bow tie was the piece that interested Ava the most, along with his dramatic hand gestures. He was like a cruise ship host. So soon she found herself sketching a cruise ship, with the bow-tie man at the helm, waving his arms, telling embarking passengers where to go. She made his grin the exact same size as his bow tie. She gave him a bubble and a caption: The “Luv” Boat.
From behind her came the peal of laughter. She looked up. An extremely tall black man was the source of the mirth. He was dressed in a blue-rhinestone skirt and a black wifebeater shirt. Long black boots and a wig with wavy black hair down to his ass. He was stunning. Light caramel skin with features both strong and delicate. Fake eyelashes and purple eyeliner ringed green eyes. Ava knew her mouth was hanging open.
“You’re beautiful,” she said.
“And you must be drunk,” he said, then laughed some more.
“Completely sober,” Ava said.
“Well, we’ll have to do something about that, darling, won’t we?” He held out his hand, and when she offered hers he kissed the back of it.
“I’m Ava,” she said.
“Everyone knows who you are, luv. Welcome to London, Ava. I’m Francis.”
“Hi, Francis.”
“My friends call me Franco. That means you now. Your aunt Beverly was one of my dearest friends.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ava said. An ache rose in her. She should be the one experiencing the loss; Bev was her family. Ava was in her flat, wearing her dress, talking to her friends. She could only grieve for missed opportunities.
“What do you think of your little flat in this end of the world?”
“I love it.”
“Who wouldn’t.”
“Queenie!” Franco yelled. “You have to see how she captured George.”
All heads turned to her, including George, her bow-tie man. George gazed at his picture; then he, too, roared with laughter, along with Franco. The crowd parted and there stood Queenie. He was wearing a long black gown with sequins. He was in full makeup, complete with a shaggy blond wig. Ava couldn’t believe the size of his purple-tinted eyelashes. He was the ugliest yet somehow the most arresting woman she had ever seen.
“There’s the birthday girl again,” Ava said. Queenie fluttered his lashes. It was the second outfit he’d worn since they yelled, “Surprise!” He’d shouted so loud she wasn’t surprised her eardrums were still vibrating. She had to give it to him; even she thought he was truly surprised for a minute there. He wrapped his arms around her and smashed her to his bosom. He smelled of Scotch and baby powder.
“Beverly would be so happy,” he said.
“Don’t squash the artist,” someone called out. “Not until she does me.”
“Why not?” somebody yelled out. “Everyone else has.” Laughter rolled in, one wave after another.
“Oh, me first, darling,” Franco said.
Queenie released Ava. “I wondered what you did in that thing all day,” he said, looking over her shoulder at her sketchbook. “Remarkable.” Ava picked up her sketch pad, ripped out the portrait of George, and handed it to him. He grinned ear to ear. This was much better than sketching criminals. These people were happy to recognize themselves.
“Will you sign it?” George asked.
“Of course.” She had never been asked to sign one of her sketches. The police certainly never wanted her name. She autographed it, and then paused over a new sheet while a crowd hovered around her. So many people. Little colored dots began to swim in front of her face. Oh, no. Not inside too, please not inside too.
Fire extinguisher, fire extinguisher, fire extinguisher. Ava put her hands over her eyes. She could just announce a game of hide-and-seek. She’d hide under the bed.
“Give her some space,” Queenie said. “Come on, come on.” He began to physically pull people away. “Ava does better if you just act natural,” he said. “Right, luv?”
Ava swallowed hard and nodded. “Not easy with this bunch,” Queenie said in a stage whisper before whipping his dress to the side and flouncing off into the crowd. Ava sat on her emerald stool and gripped her sketch pad.
“I want to be a rock star,” Franco called from across the room.
“Perfect,” Ava said, focusing on the sketch pad. “I can see you in the spotlight.”
“Can you, luv?”
“With those looks? You have to be under the lights.” Men in the crowd laughed and a few slapped Franco on the back.
“Give me leather pants,” Franco said.
“Draw them half off!” someone else yelled out.
“That’s not until the finale,” Franco said.
“Mince pie, hot from the oven!” Queenie yelled.
“Why didn’t you tell us she was so talented?” George said.
“I didn’t realize,” Queenie said. “I thought she had no talents whatsoever.”
As Ava sketched Franco, she heard someone walk up, saw a glimpse of long brunette hair. She looked up to find Hillary gazing at her.
“That’s quite good,” Hillary said. She
sounded surprised. Hillary didn’t think much of her to begin with, would never imagine Jasper having a crush on her.
Did Jasper have a crush on her? Or was she projecting? Her heart began to thump. If Hillary was here, did that mean Jasper was here too? Was he watching her? Did he think she was good? Where was he? She finished the sketch of rock-star Franco. She gave him a bubble: Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. Franco snatched it out of her hands and howled. He immediately started passing it around.
“Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, Queenie.” She could tell he’d never heard the saying before. She could totally claim it as original.
“I don’t hate you because you’re beautiful,” Queenie said. “I hate you because you’re young.”
“Ish,” Georgie called out. “He’s young-ish.”
“How would you draw me?” Hillary said.
The socialite from hell? “You could have a shotgun wedding,” Ava replied. It just popped out of her mouth.
“What’s a shotgun wedding?”
“Yes, tell us.” Even Queenie looked on eagerly.
“You’ve never heard of a shotgun wedding?”
Heads shook back and forth.
“Well. The origin goes back to the Wild West. When a young lady was dating and became pregnant her father, shotgun in hand, would force her and the man who got her that way to marry. So today, when a pregnant woman marries her lover it’s often referred to as a shotgun wedding.”
Laughter rolled around. “Shotgun wedding,” Georgie said.
“Shotgun wedding,” Franco repeated. He mimed holding up a shotgun. Georgie mimed having a pregnant belly, then slapped his hands on either cheek, mouth opened. Ava laughed. Hillary simply stared. In fact, she seemed to be vibrating a little.
Franco placed his hand on Ava’s shoulder. “Would you like a cocktail, darling?”