The Finishing School

Cressida’s father, Armand, rips a piece of his crusty bread in half and stuffs a hunk in his mouth. It’s Parents Weekend and Cressida invited Kersti to join her and her parents for dinner at the Maison de Raclette. Kersti’s parents didn’t come for Parents Weekend. They couldn’t afford the trip. Kersti was disappointed when she received the apologetic letter from her mother. She realized after reading it that she missed her parents. Her visit with them over the holiday was short. She spent Christmas eve and morning with them—most of it at the Estonian House, surrounded by all her parents’ friends, which was essentially the entire Estonian community—and then she boarded a plane to Telluride to spend the rest of the holiday with Cressida at her family’s log cabin.

They had a wonderful time, just as Cressida planned. The cabin was more of a log mansion, with picture windows overlooking the Rockies and a back door that opened onto the mountain. They skied, made chocolate chip pancakes in the middle of the night, dyed each other’s hair, and watched a lot of movies in their pajamas, sprawled on an L-shaped couch the size of Kersti’s entire main floor. Mostly, they reconnected. It was a lot like the first year of their friendship. Just the two of them, rediscovering one another. Kersti didn’t have to fight for Cressida’s attention, or feel threatened by anyone else encroaching on their time together. As the week went on, Kersti remembered with a softly swelling heart what she loved so much about Cressida—her irreverence, her wit, that feeling she gave Kersti of being completely adored and special.

On New Year’s Eve, they sat in front of the TV and watched the ball drop in Times Square, drinking Baileys in chocolate milk. Cressida’s parents had gone out and they had the house to themselves. At midnight they opened a bottle of champagne that Armand had left for them. They drank from the bottle and danced to ABBA and Grease—the anthems of their childhoods—and got so drunk, Cressida fell in the bathroom and split the porcelain toilet lid in half. They rolled on the floor laughing about that for a while, and then Cressida got in a cold shower so she wouldn’t pass out.

When she was done, she gazed at her perfect, naked self in the medicine cabinet mirror and then covered up in a white terry robe with the initials DSP monogrammed on the pocket. Kersti still could not imagine Cressida ever being pregnant. Her body was obviously never meant to be disfigured or desecrated in any way. The thought of her smooth, flat stomach distended over elastic band maternity pants, or her milky skin vandalized by blue stretch marks, was utterly incongruous.

“What was it like being pregnant?” Kersti asked her.

Cressida sat down on the ledge of the tub and lit a cigarette from the pack she’d left on the soap dish. “Horrid,” she answered. “I was so nauseous I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t read. All I could do was sleep and puke into a garbage can next to my bed. It was a nightmare.”

“Weren’t you afraid to tell Hamidou? Couldn’t she have expelled you?”

“She would never,” Cressida said, giving her a funny look.

“Did it hurt? The abortion?”

“No.”

“Do you and Magnus ever talk about it?”

“Never,” she said, standing up. “You’re the only person I’ve ever talked to about it, Kuusky. You’re my soul mate.”

That week in Telluride, Kersti was reminded why being Cressida’s best friend was a privilege. So she resigned herself, once they were back in Lausanne, to be diplomatic and share her with Magnus as best she could. She was still bruised over the way he’d used her, but what choice did she have other than to accept what they were offering?

Armand looks at his watch and frowns. Magnus is meeting Cressida’s parents for the first time and he’s late. “I wouldn’t have showed up late to meet your mother’s father when we were dating,” he states, crumbs flying like sawdust from his mouth. “It’s disrespectful.”

“Let’s just order the raclette,” Deirdre suggests, trying to placate her husband. “I’m famished.”

“He’s not earning any points with us,” Armand says, ignoring his wife.

Armand Strauss is an intimidating man. Broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed, with a neatly trimmed silver mustache and gelled silver hair that shimmers like diamonds beneath the light of the chandeliers. Being a world-famous composer and musical theater producer—he created the decade-long running play And Then There Was One—he demands respect from everyone who crosses his path, or as Cressida likes to put it, he sucks the blood out of them.

Cressida gives Kersti an amused, conspiratorial look. She’s working her way through a bottle of red wine and her cheeks are gorgeously flushed. “So he’s late, ” she says. “Big deal. He’s not one of your stagehands, Armand.”

“Cressida,” Deirdre says sharply, her British accent more pronounced. “It’s a matter of courtesy. It’s got nothing to do with who your father is.”

“Everything has to do with who my father is.”

“He should want to impress me if he cares about you,” Armand adds, holding up his hand, gold rings glinting. A waiter appears and Armand orders in French. Raclette for five and another bottle of Pinot Noir.

The waiter nods and scurries off, almost colliding with Magnus. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “The bus from Verbier broke down.”

He unzips his ski jacket, the lift tickets jangling like keys. His cheeks are red from the cold, his usual spiky hair somewhat flat from his hat. He’s wearing a white shirt and a tie, dark dress pants.

Cressida looks over at her father with a satisfied expression. Armand says contritely, “Glad you could make it, Magnus.”

Magnus sits in the chair between Cressida and Kersti. He looks at Cressida adoringly, kisses her cheek, and completely ignores Kersti.

“How was the skiing today?” Armand asks him, stabbing a tomato slice on his salad plate.

“A little icy,” Magnus says, lighting up a Philip Morris. “I’m going to try Chamonix next weekend.”

“I wish we had more time for skiing this trip,” Armand says, turning to Deirdre. It’s the first thing he’s said to her all night.

“You look gorgeous,” Magnus whispers to Cressida, as though they’re the only two people at the table. She’s wearing a lavender cashmere sweater and has her hair straightened. It looks like mink.

“She doesn’t know how beautiful she is,” Deirdre comments, and it’s unclear whether she’s proud or jealous.

“I think she does,” Armand says, observing his daughter. “I suspect she knows exactly how beautiful she is.”

“Maybe she’ll follow in my footsteps and be an actress,” Deirdre says.

“She’s way too smart to be an actress,” Armand counters.

Deirdre flinches and looks down at her plate. Cressida hardly seems interested in what everyone is saying about her. She’s used to it. She’s effortlessly dazzling, always the centerpiece. Kersti is starting to feel invisible again.

“I’m thinking of producing a play about the Gulf War,” Armand announces. “Enough time has passed since it ended. I think we have some perspective now.”

“Will it be, like, a ten-minute play?” Cressida jokes.

“It’s a parody,” Armand explains. “It captures our American grandiloquence.”

“I used to love watching Desert Storm on TV,” Magnus remarks, refreshing his wine.

“That’s rather cavalier,” Armand tells him. “Which is exactly what this play is about. It was a war, not just a TV show to garner good ratings.”

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