A Sky Painted Gold

by Laura Wood

  “Well, I think you made the right choice to stay on dry land.” Charlie’s voice is bluff and cheerful. “We finally got in last night but I’ve been asleep most of the day. All that travelling really takes it out of you, I guess. Still –” his voice brightens “– it means that I’m good and fresh for tonight’s party.” He smiles again, treating me to another glimpse of those beautiful white teeth. I like the way his eyes crinkle up at the corners. His looks really are quite dazzling, and I blink.

  “Yes, it’s a breakfast party for you, I suppose, rather than a dinner party,” I say.

  “Exactly!’ he exclaims, laughing loudly, as if I’ve said something incredibly witty. “Although … would it be bad form to drink at breakfast?” He is moving away from me and towards the drinks trolley.

  “I don’t think so,” I say in what I hope is a sophisticated manner. “You are on holiday, after all.”

  “Can I fix you a drink?” Charlie asks.

  “No, thank you.” I am still clutching my water.

  “Look at all that,” he says, eyeing up the bar. “Let me tell you, it’s a welcome sight after all the garbage we’ve been drinking the last few weeks.”

  “Oh, I suppose so,” I agree, sipping my drink and trying not to appear too eager. “I hear that the drinks they’re cooking up are positively lethal. I’d love to go to an American speakeasy, though, they sound so exciting.”

  “Mmm.” Charlie inclines his head in agreement. I am disappointed. I had hoped for tales of seedy back room nightclubs, of secret passwords and gangsters, hot water bottles full of whiskey and the sound of smoky jazz.

  We stand in silence. I can’t think of anything else to say, and the quiet stretches out between us. It must be because he’s so handsome, I think, that my brain can’t seem to find any words. I am focusing all of my attention on the glass in my hand so that I don’t stare at him too openly. When I do finally look up, Charlie is glancing about him with an amiable expression on his face, and he seems very relaxed while I’m starting to feel a little awkward. How frustrating that I have no trouble making conversation with the wretched Robert Cardew, but I can’t seem to string a few sentences together with this perfectly nice, extremely handsome man. I frown, overcome by a vague feeling that it’s all Robert’s fault somehow. Then, thankfully, another couple joins us.

  Charlie, it seems, is also delighted by their appearance, as it gives him a chance to start talking about some kind of sporting event that has just taken place. It might be cricket. I’m not entirely sure, but he seems enthusiastic about it. I tune out of the conversation, happy just to be standing there, and to let my eyes wander around the room. I am mentally taking notes, pinning the images down in my memory. I watch as these people talk, and I try to work out how they all know one another. They’re very tactile, always touching each other, and their eyes are bright, feverish. It’s not just the fine clothes that mark them out as being different to the people I know; it’s the way they stand, it’s the way they speak. But there’s something else too, some restless energy about them all, as if they could vanish at any moment, just throw open the doors and disappear off on their next adventure. They’re passing through, tied down to nothing. Free.

  As I’m watching them I realize that someone is watching me. I glance to the side and see Bernie standing in the middle of a group. His eyes rest thoughtfully on me, and I smile tentatively. He nods back, a small, knowing smile on his lips that makes me feel as though I have been caught doing something I shouldn’t.

  At that moment a voice intones, “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served in the dining room,” and I turn to see an older man in a black suit standing by the door.

  “I guess even Caitlin couldn’t get the butler into white tie,” Charlie mutters in my ear.

  “He doesn’t look very impressed by us,” I whisper. In fact, the butler in question has the put-upon look of a long-suffering man who likes things done a certain way, and doesn’t care too much for all this frivolity.

  “Shall we?” Charlie asks, gesturing with one hand towards the door.

  “Of course,” I reply, and he rests his hand lightly on my back, guiding me forward. The warmth of his fingers through my thin dress is sending little electric jolts up and down my spine, and I feel myself shiver as though I am standing out in a cold breeze.

  When we reach the dining room it is to find Caitlin standing behind a chair at the head of an enormous table. The room has been transformed and I think, fleetingly, that Alice might find inspiration here for her cloud-like room.

  Everything is white. The floor and the walls have been draped with gauzy white material, the table is covered in a white tablecloth, with centrepieces of white candles and white roses. White chinaware is laid out, and the staff stand to one side in white uniforms. (I guess Charlie is right about the butler; he certainly doesn’t seem like the sort of person who would lower himself to wear a costume.)

  “Welcome, everyone!” Caitlin cries, over the murmurs of admiration. She is looking very pleased with herself. “Please find your name and take a seat, so that the festivities can begin.”

  I find the place card with my name on (silver ink on white, naturally), and take a seat. I am between a woman called Patricia Lester and a scrawny young man who introduces himself as Simon and spends most of the meal staring moonily down the table towards Caitlin. She is sitting next to Charlie, and I have to admit that my own eyes drift that way an awful lot too. We are quite the pair, Simon and I. Unfortunately for my burgeoning crush, Charlie’s voice is loud and carrying, and so I hear him talking at great length on a variety of subjects including shooting, fishing, and the correct stance when boxing. He speaks with a puppyish enthusiasm and punctuates his conversation with noisy laughter. He’s perfectly nice, but there’s something slightly … dull about him, something that fails to match up to those film-star looks. Occasionally he catches my gaze and smiles, and I still can’t help but swoon a little at the intense blueness of his eyes.

  I make more of an effort with Patricia as plate after plate of delicious food is produced (all of it white, of course, from the delicate white soup to the snowy meringues with champagne syllabub), and I am pleased to find a fellow Agatha Christie fan. We get into quite a heated discussion about murder weapons, which ends when Simon finally tears himself away from Caitlin’s face just in time to hear my theory that there are nine different ways I could kill the people sitting at this table without getting caught. Simon’s face registers his distinct disapproval, and I’ll admit that taken out of context it doesn’t look good. Still, I decide, Simon is as dull as a stick.

  I glance up to the other end of the table then and see that Robert has his eyes on me. “Only nine?” he says, his voice carrying down the table. “I can think of ten.”

  I look at him in surprise. “I don’t believe you.”

  He shrugs. “It’s not your fault,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I have the advantage in knowing that this table contains a hidden compartment.”

  “Does it really?” I ask, intrigued despite myself.

  He nods. “Just the right size for a murder weapon.”

  “I say,” Simon puts in here, looking a bit affronted. “Steady on, Cardew, young ladies present.”

  “Ah, quite right,” Robert says smoothly. “Forgive me, Lou, I didn’t mean to upset your delicate sensibilities.”

  I snort at that. His face might be a mask of politeness, but I know perfectly well what he thinks of my sensibilities. I resume my conversation with Patricia, although I can’t help running my fingers along the edge of the table in search of the hidden compartment.

  To Robert’s right, Laurie is in full force, telling an anecdote that has everyone around her shrieking with laughter. I watch for a moment, admiring the way she keeps them all hanging on her every word with seemingly very little effort. Unlike her brother, she doesn’t rattle on. She speaks slowly, and the smallest action, the raising of an eyebrow or the quirk of her lips, is devastating. Peo
ple look at her with an admiration that is almost blinding.

  All except her fiancé, that is. For most of the meal he sips his wine and answers questions politely. He has withdrawn, and his face is hard again, his mouth firm, his eyes cold. I see him drum his fingers on the white tablecloth, fiddle with his cutlery when he thinks no one is looking.

  Dinner lasts a long time. It seems that no one is in any great hurry, and I am enjoying myself enormously. Outside the long windows it grows dark, and the candles are lit. I feel much more relaxed, almost sophisticated. It is as if the whole evening is happening to someone else, it’s so unbelievable that I am here, almost like I am watching it from the outside. Except this time, I remind myself gleefully, I’m not reading about it in a magazine or sitting in a tree, watching the action take place; I am here, I am a part of it. The night seems suddenly to stretch ahead of me, like a dream I can’t bear to wake up from, full of possibility.

  Finally, our conversation is interrupted by the deep clanging of a bell.

  “OK, everyone!” Caitlin exclaims, and she jumps to her feet. “Now it’s time for the evening to begin!”

  A thrill pulses through me. All of this excitement and apparently the evening hasn’t even begun. Caitlin is by my side then, pulling me to my feet and tucking her arm into mine.

  “Come on,” she says. “The real party is in the orchard.”

  “I can’t believe this isn’t the real party,” I reply, giddy and excited. “I’m having such a wonderful time.”

  Caitlin looks at my face, which I’m sure is positively glowing. “You really are, aren’t you, you darling?” she murmurs. “How nice to see someone enjoying themselves so much.”

  “But you all enjoy yourselves all the time!” I exclaim. “All the parties, the costumes, the people. How could anyone be unhappy with all of this?”

  Caitlin smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oh, it’s my experience that people can be unhappy anywhere,” she says, and I hear something in her voice that makes me think for a second that she really means it, but then she gives a little shimmy of her shoulders, almost as if to shake off the gloom, and she’s back to the bright, glittering creature of earlier. “Anyway,” she continues, “if you’ve enjoyed the evening so far I absolutely cannot wait to see what you think of the next part. If I do say so myself, it is some of my finest work.”

  We’re outside now and there are lots of cars pulled up on the drive. People must have been arriving for hours and hours. How curious to throw a party that can start without you. I say as much to Caitlin.

  “But you wouldn’t want to arrive until things have warmed up, would you?” she asks. “There’s nothing worse than being early and standing around waiting for people. This way we get to enjoy the full effect.” We round the corner of the house and walk through the arched entrance to the orchard, cut into the white stone wall that hems it in.

  Then I see exactly what Caitlin means.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Underneath the inky velvet sky, the orchard glows like a luminous pearl. A white dance floor has been erected in the front, and white ribbons are tied to the trees, which have also been hung with delicate silver apples and pears. Lights twinkle up and down the rows of fruit trees, and it’s as if we have stumbled across a fairy grove. In the pale, silvery moonlight throngs of guests drift across the lawn and up and down the tree-lined avenues in their white outfits. Laughter and music fill the air.

  “Oh, Caitlin!” I breathe.

  “I know!” she says eagerly, tugging me forward. “Let’s go!” and we make our way into the crowd. “You see, the orchard is perfect for a bit of privacy,” Caitlin explains. “All sorts of secluded corners for wicked behaviour.” Her eyes twinkle. “Perhaps you and Charlie should go for a little walk.”

  “I-I don’t know what you mean,” I splutter.

  “Ohhhh, yes, you do.” Caitlin wags her finger at me.

  “He’s quite handsome,” I admit in a small voice.

  “Oh, Charlie’s nice enough, if you like that sort of thing, I suppose.” Caitlin wrinkles her nose. “Not my type.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised. “Why not? What’s wrong with him?”

  Caitlin looks at me uncertainly for a second, before reaching out her hands to grab a couple of drinks from a passing waiter and handing one to me.

  “Oh, nothing, darling, nothing,” she says lightly, draining her glass in one long gulp. “He’s terribly sweet … but a beautiful ninny, that’s for sure.”

  I snort at this. Although it’s mean, I have to admit this has been my own conclusion. I sigh. “A very beautiful one, though,” I say with a little smile.

  Caitlin laughs, throwing her head back as she does so. Her laugh is nice, sort of scattered and lilting, it has an untidiness that is at odds with her polished appearance. “Kick off those shoes,” she demands now. “You did promise. Let’s dance!”

  I need no further invitation. The band that was here a few nights ago is back, and they are playing the most wonderful jazz. My feet are already itching to dance, and their music is like a call to arms. Six black musicians are squeezed on the stage, along with an upright piano, a double bass, drums and horns, and they are playing as though their lives depend on it.

  The man playing the piano is singing, and his voice is so much better than anything that’s ever come out of our record player at home. He’s fire and ice, his voice smooth and sensual one moment, then explosive, burning the next. The crowd is going mad. Caitlin is turned towards him, her eyes closed as she sways to the music, a faraway look on her face.

  “He’s wonderful,” I murmur.

  Caitlin opens her eyes, as if startled to find me standing there. “He’s … quite good,” she says nonchalantly, and I think she is trying to hide a smile, obviously pleased that she’s pulled off such a splendid party.

  Not wanting to be rude, I take a long gulp from my glass, not even sure what I am drinking. To my relief, it’s sweet and fruity, almost like juice. I do as she says and kick off the white slippers, feeling a pang at leaving them that is slightly eased by the feeling of warm grass under my toes. Caitlin does the same, and I notice that her toes are painted with red nail varnish. We make our way to the dance floor, which is already full of hot, vibrant bodies swaying and spinning to the beat.

  The Charleston is an exhilarating dance, a dance full of joy – the joy of being alive, the joy of being right here in this very moment. It is a dance that says that we are modern and unafraid. With a tremendous feeling of relief, I throw my hands in the air and give myself over to the feeling of it. I remember learning the dance with Alice, giggling in the front room as we bashed into each other while Freya critiqued us mercilessly. I feel a pang as I think about that time with Alice. It was before she got engaged, when I had no thought of anything ever changing between us.

  Caitlin dances next to me, her hips shaking, her feet flying across the ground. Her red lips curve into an enormous grin as her eyes meet mine. She reaches out and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back, giving myself over to the music and laughing as I turn my face up to the night sky.

  A hand appears on my arm. I swing around and find myself laughing up into the handsome face of Charlie Miller.

  “I have to dance with the prettiest girl here,” he yells above the music, and despite the practised chivalry in his words I can feel a goofy smile sliding across my face, at this scene unfolding like a dream, like something I would have made up for my book. Charlie is like a cut-out version of Prince Charming, with his straightforward good looks and his easy smile. The music is too loud, too fevered for conversation, and I allow myself to simply enjoy the fantasy. This, I realize, is what I had hoped tonight would be like. A world away from my own life, where I can be someone else, where I can step straight into the pages of my well-thumbed magazines.

  The music changes and couples sweep into an energetic foxtrot. Charlie is a good dancer, and I lean against him, more than happy to be led around the
dance floor in his arms. What an excellent invention dancing is, I think dreamily. What a wonderful excuse to press up against a handsome man.

  When the music ends we switch partners and Charlie asks Caitlin to dance. I find myself staring up at that terrible drip Simon, but make my excuses.

  “I think I need a drink, if you don’t mind!” I exclaim, fanning my warm face with my hand.

  Simon doesn’t even have the good manners to look disappointed, he just shrugs and grabs hold of the next girl along. Perhaps I’m not completely irresistible after all, I think ruefully. I catch Caitlin’s eye and gesture that I am going to find a drink. She nods, and her lips form the words “Come back soon.” I make my way off the dance floor, squeezing through the heaving crowd.

  Away from the dance floor the air is a lot cooler, and I take several deep, steadying gulps. The buzz from dancing still rushes through my limbs, leaving me restless, and I go off in search of a glass of water.

  Almost immediately, I bump into Robert. Well, more accurately, I trip over his feet. As I’m heading, stumbling, towards an inevitable collision with the floor, one of his arms shoots out, and his hand wraps around the top of my own arm. With a sharp tug he pulls me upright before I can fall.

  “Oof.” A noise comes out of me and I rock back on the balls of my feet, flustered.

  “Hello.” He looks down at my flushed face and removes his fingers from my arm, although the warmth of his touch remains.

  “Hello,” I reply, and I rub at the spot where he caught me, as if I can rub the tingling feeling away. “Thanks for the rescue.”

  “Not a problem,” he says. “Clearly, you’re more nimble when it comes to tree climbing than you are on solid ground.”

  “It was actually your big feet that tripped me up,” I point out, because something about the way he says it stirs the combative spirit in me. “And I bet you’re awful at climbing trees.”