by Andrew Hart
“See?” said Simon to Brad. “Expert opinions don’t matter to most consumers.”
“But people want the best!” said Brad. He was leaning forward, his shoulders locked, spine straight, and it struck me that he hadn’t made a smart-ass remark for a while. Usually, every other sentence had a barb or a punch line.
“But when you’re talking about wine, that’s just opinion, isn’t it?” said Simon, lounging.
“No!” Brad replied. His grin was a little fixed and his voice a tad louder than it had been. We had all been drinking since we got back to the house. “It’s measurable! There are experts whose judgment—”
“Nobody cares!” Simon laughed. “They like it, they drink it, and then it’s gone. The only people who are going to pay top dollar for what they think is the best are collectors, not consumers, and that’s too small and volatile a market.”
“But that’s not a concern for investors, is it?” said Brad. I was weary of the conversation and wished they’d shut up, but Brad wouldn’t let it go. “So long as they see their money growing, who cares whether it’s coming from a casual drinker who buys a few cases a year, a store that buys thousands, or a collector who buys one bottle of Châteaux Margaux 1875 but spends a quarter of a million dollars on it?”
“But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” said Simon, less playful now. “I don’t see investors making their money back on this.”
“Simon . . . ,” Brad began, earnest to the point of frustration.
“Leave it, Brad,” said Kristen, reaching over and patting his hand. He looked at her and she smiled. “Let’s have another drink, shall we? You can talk about this later.”
Brad hesitated for a second, then the tension in his face eased a little and he smiled.
“Sure,” he said. “Later. How about we open that Peter Michael Oakville Au Paradis? Gonna blow your mind.”
“I want something with vodka,” said Melissa.
“Yeah,” said Gretchen. “Get that voddy out.” She gave me a quick look and hesitated. “Voddy’s OK, right, Jan? It’s brandy you don’t drink.”
I was momentarily taken aback, wondering when I had let that slip, then nodded.
“Voddy is fine,” I said.
“Ah,” said Simon getting up. “But vodka and what? I spotted some elderflower tonic, and I had a case of basil spritzers flown over yesterday.”
For a moment, as Melissa and Gretchen oohed and aahed from the adjoining kitchen, Brad kept looking at the chair Simon had just vacated, his fists balled, and then he sat back and turned away. His gaze fell on me, and for a moment he looked—what? Caught out. Embarrassed and angry. Something hard and dark went through his eyes, and then he shrugged it off and turned to the rest of the group, getting to his feet and turning his back on me.
“Vodka it is,” he said, suddenly cheery. “Where’s my glass?”
“Are those words?”
It was Kristen. She was standing at the French doors that opened onto a brick patio with ornamental shrubs in terra-cotta pots between faded wicker furniture and a large grill, her head tilted on one side. I moved to join her.
“There,” she said, pointing at what seemed to be just dead leaves on the ground. They looked like they had been left over from someone sweeping up, the edges of former piles straggling into each other. But as I looked, squinting to wring a little focus from my terrible vision, I saw that she was right. The crisped fall leaves trailing together in little heaps of dust, sticks, and other debris formed what might be capital letters. An A stood out. And a spiky S. The rest were less clear.
“Hanos?” she murmured. “Nanos?”
“Nanos,” I said, still squinting. “But that’s not a word.”
“Just fell like that, I guess. Random.”
“Or someone swept up with a dust pan. I get those little lines on my floor where I can’t get the dirt up no matter how many times I sweep,” I said. I wasn’t sure why I wanted it to be nothing, a chance event. Something about it bothered me, partly the way it seemed arranged to be read through the window. If it was an accident, it was a strange one.
She laughed and nodded but turned from the window, still puzzled and thoughtful.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get a drink.”
An hour or so later we all went out into the garden for a few minutes, and I went back to the spot by the French doors to see if I could still read it, but the word, if it had been one, had been blown away, though there was no wind to speak of.
“OK,” said Melissa, standing up, “you guys have to promise not to get all miserable if we play the Prince song, yeah? Coz we’re gonna party.”
“Deal,” said Kristen.
“Wait,” said Brad. His previous mood, whatever it had been, was utterly gone, and he was genial and funny again. “By my calculations, we’re at day one thousand nine hundred and ninety-six. We don’t get our millennium-even party till the end of the week.”
“I can’t wait that long,” said Melissa. “Plus, who says we only get to party once, am I right?”
“You’re right,” said Simon.
“OK, then,” said Melissa, satisfied. “So I figured we would start at the very beginning. Marcus, you’re up.”
I gave him a quizzical look as he rose and began hooking his iPad up to the flat screen on the wall, muttering about compatibility issues.
“Right,” he said, turning and smiling at the rest of us. “Melissa asked me to cobble together a little presentation—sorry, Gretchen, this might be boring for you—to remind us all of why we’re here.” He tapped the iPad and the TV on the wall came to life, displaying a truly glorious photograph of the original six of us, sitting in our swimwear in deck chairs, toasting the camera with multicolored drinks. We were joy personified. Across the top, in large, festive letters, it said, “1999 days of friendship!”
Marcus made another click, and the inevitable keyboards, drums, and bass kicked in. As Prince crooned away in the background, everyone cheered and the slide show began. Every swim, every meal, every dance was catalogued, the images full of life, energy, and flashing smiles. Here was Brad with a towel on his head and an eye patch made from a napkin, waving a bottle of rum and pulling an argggh! face.
“Pirate Brad!” shouted Melissa. “I’d forgotten Pirate Brad.”
“Well, he hasn’t forgotten you, me hearty,” said Brad in his best Captain Jack Sparrow voice, leering at her.
“Check us out!” said Kristen as a picture of just the women came up, all modeling the same Charlie’s Angels pose in our bikinis. “We are svelte!”
The next image added the boys to the picture, all mimicking our look and holding halves of oranges and melons up for breasts. Gretchen about wet herself at that one. Then we were splashing each other in the sea, unwrapping grape leaves at our favorite taverna, and posing with the staff.
“Waiter boy!” Kristen exclaimed. “I’d forgotten him. He loved you,” she said to Melissa, teasing.
Melissa always seemed to be the center, the focus of attention, but she wore it so well that no one minded. There was one where you could see Brad looking at her with a kind of mute adoration that was both touching and hilarious.
“Hey, mister!” said Kristen, reaching over and slapping him lightly on the back of the head. “Save those looks for me.”
Brad winced.
“Honest to God, Officer,” he said to Simon in a bizarre hick voice, “she beats me something rotten, so she does! Domesticated abusing, it be!”
“Not to worry, my lad,” said Simon seriously. “We’ll put the mad witch behind bars; just you see if we don’t!”
“You’ve got your own little show going here, huh?” said Kristen, grinning.
“You just don’t recognize good art if there are no aliens in it,” said Brad, earning another slap upside the head.
Next up in the slide show was a gallery of each couple gazing lovingly at each other. I blushed when the one of Marcus and me came up, surprised that he had included it, but
could not look at him, even as Kristen made awww noises beside me. Then there was more dancing and toasting, Melissa looking sour on a donkey, some gloomy cave formations, another meal, another round of drinks, and our notably tanned faces gazing back at the camera, smiling still, if a little weary.
“Boy, we look exhausted,” said Simon.
“Partied pretty hard,” said Melissa.
“Still going strong!” said Gretchen, as if she had been part of it all. I wanted to feel sorry for her at the way she was being excluded, but she either didn’t notice or didn’t seem to care.
The final slide was a view of the coastline from above, onto which had been Photoshopped the words: Here’s to the next 1999 days!
Marcus received his applause with a modest bow, and I found myself gazing at the blank screen in the hope of seeing more, of falling back into those pictures, that time. I don’t think I was the only one. After a moment I refilled my drink and caught Marcus’s eyes on me.
It rained that night. I didn’t notice at first because it was so dark outside and I was so tired, but then I noticed the streaking down the great windows and saw, when I shaded my eyes and pressed my face to the glass, the way the cedars on the cliffside were bending in the wind.
The lights flickered, and Kristen gasped an uneasy “Uh-oh.”
“No worries,” said Simon. “The landlord said they lose power here all the time. AC burnout in the summer, snow on power lines in the winter, storms in the fall. Flooding, downed trees. You know the drill.”
“Maybe we should have come in the spring,” said Kristen, who sounded spooked.
“It’s fine,” said Simon. “There’s a generator and lots of gas. Eight hours of power in one tank, if we need it. Sound good?”
Kristen leaned into him and smiled vaguely. She looked unsteady, and I wondered how much she had drunk. The look she gave him was more than flirty. It was secretive.
“Sounds good,” she said and drifted away, her private smile still in place.
Simon watched her, his eyes dropping unconsciously to her ass as she walked away, then turned back to the window and stared fixedly into the rain-swept night.
“Did someone go out?” he asked, still looking out the window.
“Huh?” said Melissa, who had been drowsing absently on the couch, her long legs stretched out in front of her.
“The gate’s open,” said Simon. “I closed it when we came in. Has someone been out? Come on, people, let’s try to be a little careful.”
“You’re afraid we’ll fall prey to Zorba the Ripper?” asked Melissa.
Gretchen laughed, a high, unsteady laugh, too loud and long, until Melissa gave her an arch look and said, “No more voddy for you, little Gretchen.”
“I’m fine!” she sang back. “Totally down, right Marcus?”
“I’m sorry?” said Marcus.
“I’m down. You know. Down.”
“I don’t know what you . . .”
“You know,” she said, her eyes unfocused. “It’s a street thing, dog. ‘I’m down with OPP, yeah, you know me . . . ,’” she sang, flashing ludicrous gang signs.
“Oh boy,” said Marcus. “You need to go to bed.”
“Just tryin’ to keep it real, homes.”
“OK,” said Marcus.
I moved quickly, getting up and sliding in between them and taking hold of her hands. I couldn’t see Marcus’s face, but I didn’t need to. I could hear the tightening in his voice.
“Come on, Gretchen,” I said. “Bedtime.”
“Okeydoke,” she said, beaming sweetly, her eyes vague, head lolling. I hauled her to her feet, but she shook me off and made a show of taking a few steps unassisted. I threw Marcus a glance. He was watching Gretchen leave, scowling. When he caught me looking, he rolled his eyes.
“That’s my girl,” said Melissa absently, though I wasn’t sure which of us she was commending. Her attention was on Simon, who was still scowling into the darkness outside.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said.
“Not worried about us,” said Simon, terse and frowning, oblivious to the almost-drama with Gretchen. “Worried about the house. We paid a significant deposit to cover any damages. I’d rather not lose it because we invited the local hooligans onto the property.”
“I don’t think there are any hooligans round here,” said Melissa. “Goats, maybe.”
Again, Gretchen’s manic laugh.
“Jeez,” said Melissa to her, “Marcus is right. You need to go to bed.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Marcus. “I’m beat.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
I couldn’t see Marcus’s face properly, but I thought he flinched or blinked or . . . something.
God, I thought. What if he thinks I’m fishing for an invitation, a drunken quickie for old times’ sake?
I nearly made a show of changing my mind and pouring myself one last drink, but I already felt wobbly and a little nauseous and wanted nothing more than to get into bed. It was only midnight, but I had been traveling all day and suddenly realized that the time difference made it seven in the morning. No wonder I felt like an extra on The Walking Dead. I turned to say my good nights, but Brad and Kristen were already asleep—or pretending to be—on the loveseat, and Simon was still staring out the window down to where the open gate was swaying back and forth in the wind. When I looked back to where Marcus had been, he was gone. I took my time, washing my glass out and wiping the sticky counter down so that I wouldn’t bump into him on the landing.
Unless he wanted me to and was deliberately hovering outside the bathroom . . .
I pushed the thought away decisively.
I was right to. I saw no sign of him upstairs and moved quietly to my room, unlocking the door and closing it behind me with something like relief. I couldn’t afford to confuse my life further by getting entangled with Marcus again, even if he wanted to, which seemed unlikely. And besides, I was here all week. Plenty of time for that kind of bad decision.
I stepped out of my clothes and left them where they fell, suddenly so tired I couldn’t think. The bed was soft, softer than I generally preferred, but tonight that didn’t matter. I was, for the first time in years, asleep in under a minute.
I woke with a start. It was still dark, and I had no idea what time it was or, for a moment, where I was. It took me a second to orient myself: the bed, the window, the door.
The door.
My blurry eyes latched onto it as my brain connected the dots, trying to recall what had woken me. A knock? Footsteps in the hallway as someone blundered to the bathroom? Or the door handle?
I had locked it when I came in. I was almost sure.
I lay where I was, huddled in the duvet like a child hiding, and then I got up, flinging the covers aside and stalking across the room with a muttered curse of decision. I tried the handle.
Locked.
I went back to bed and lay very still for a long time.
Eventually I fell asleep again and heard nothing more till I woke and found the room full of soft light. It was muted by the drapes, but it was clearly morning. Or afternoon. I had no idea. The room felt muggy, the air stale. I peered through the drapes, squinting at the brightness of the sun outside, to see if there was a window I could open. They all had little locks, the kind that required a screwdriver-like tool to unfasten before you could unlatch them. There was no sign of it.
I flung myself back into bed and fished blindly for my watch on the nightstand. I had to hold it right up to my face, and I sighed, recalling the whole swimming-with-glasses fiasco.
Idiot.
I had reset my watch on the plane as soon as we touched down. Now I stared at it, trying to make sense of how long I had been asleep.
Jesus.
Almost eleven hours! I stared at the ceiling and gauged how tired I was, how hungover, and found that however long I had slept, I still felt woolly headed and exhausted. I listened to the house, trying to detect the sound of move
ment, water running through pipes, distant laughter.
They might have all gone to the beach or into the town.
I felt a pang of disappointment. However intimidating I sometimes found them—well, most of them—I didn’t want to be left out. Perhaps if I went down now, without showering, I could catch them.
And meet Melissa the Radiant with her British TV star sidekick, oozing perfection over spinach and egg white omelets? I don’t think so.
The bath was wet, and there were half-empty mini bottles of shampoo and body wash, one of which had its prime ingredients—ginseng and extract of pomegranate—laid out in faux French. Well, maybe it was actual French, but you know what I mean: the kind of French chosen to feel chic (!) without actually being a barrier to anyone who didn’t speak French. Basically, just English words with a few accents and a couple of letters rearranged, like in some restaurants that offer salads with “bleu” cheese dressing, which they then pronounce blue. Anyway, I took some, and my irritation at the Frenchified marketing made me feel less bad about using it without asking. It smelled nice—not synthetic, like you might expect—and I gave it a closer look, upending the bottle to read the embossed stamp in the base: FABRIQUÉ À PARIS.
So . . . not your Great Deal knockoff after all. Awesome.
I dried myself off, donned a towel, and made the sprint back to my room, whose stale air was even more obvious now that I had been out of it. I needed to find one of those window keys. As I had crossed the landing, I’d heard desultory conversation from below. Brad, I thought. So at least some of them were still there.
I put on another sundress and tried to recall if anyone had floated a plan for the day. I couldn’t remember. The whole evening was foggy and vague. Either I had been really tired, or I’d drunk more than I thought. Probably both.
I drifted down slowly, cautiously, keen to see who was there before they noticed me, though I wasn’t sure why. Brad and Kristen were sitting at the kitchen table, and Melissa was going through a cupboard on the far side by the stove.