Eloise could kill him. She could kill both of them.
For a moment, Donna looks flustered, hurt, and Eloise worries that she might start crying in the middle of her favorite bar. But Donna regains her composure. She clears her throat and says, “Okay. Excuse me.”
Charles is in the middle of filling a flute of champagne for Donna’s French 75 when she waves him over. At first he looks befuddled—he sets the flute down and frowns—but when he reaches the bar, and Donna, he smiles.
“Something else, ma’am?”
“Actually, yes. There is. Do you see that man over there?”
She points at Paul, and he freezes. Eloise wonders if it’s too late to hide, or to throw herself in between Charles and her mother. To take the bullet and save herself the embarrassment of having to explain her brother later on.
“Well,” Donna continues. “He’s my son. He’s the one who ordered the dirty martini, which I’m sure will be just delicious. In any event, if you remember correctly—and I’m sure you do; you seem like a real pro—I ordered a second dirty martini for a young man who I stupidly called ‘his friend.’ I want you to know, Charles, that this was a terrible mistake. Because the truth, which my son has just made sure to remind me of, is that the young man is actually his boyfriend.”
Charles glances at Eloise; Eloise closes her eyes.
“They’ve been living together for years,” she hears Donna say. “Isn’t that wonderful? Charles? I asked, isn’t it wonderful?”
“It’s wonderful, ma’am.”
“We’re thrilled for Paul. Love is love, Charles. And we fully and unconditionally support his lifestyle—which, by the way, we wholeheartedly believe is how he was born, as opposed to some loosey-goosey choice.”
“Are you finished?” Paul growls.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Was that the sort of explanation you were looking for?”
“I’ll have your drinks in a moment, ma’am.”
Someone taps Eloise’s shoulder, and her eyes shoot open.
“What?” she hisses.
“We’ve got a table for you, Miss Lafarge.” It’s Daniella. Eloise, ashamed, feels her shoulders shrink. “If you all just want to follow me, I can have your drinks brought over to you.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
She gestures for Donna to follow the hostess. Alice goes next, and then Mark. As Paul turns to go, though, Eloise grabs hold of his wrist.
“Ow,” he says.
“Was that entirely necessary?”
A couple moves past them, balancing six highball glasses between four hands. They look familiar—they’re looking at her—and Eloise tries to place them. She can’t, though, so instead she smiles.
“You’re kidding, right?” Paul says.
“You could cut her a little slack once in a while, for Christ’s sake.”
“Me? I’m the one who needs to be cutting some slack?”
“Oh, give it a rest, Paul.”
“You don’t know, Eloise.” His nostrils flare. “You have no idea the sort of relentless oppression that—”
She tightens her grip on his wrist and digs her nails into his skin. She can feel the faint pulse of his blood.
“No,” she says. “No, you listen to me. I come to this restaurant multiple times a week, do you hear me? These are my people.”
He starts to speak, but she clenches down harder.
“What’s more, this is my wedding. I’m going to repeat that, so you fully understand it. This is my wedding. Do not fuck this up, Paul. Do you hear me? Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up.”
She loosens her grip just enough for him to yank himself away. With his other hand, he rubs the wrist that she was holding, which is now tattooed with deep purple crescents.
“You’re insane,” he says, and she does her best to ignore him. Then, after he’s stared at her a little longer: “God, your hair.”
She says, “What about it?”
“How does it always look so good? It fucking kills me.”
Paul
July 4
Paul fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette, but quickly remembers that he’s with Mark, who hates it when he smokes. Instead, he locates a lone piece of gum and pops it in his mouth.
“It’s just so bouncy, is the thing. Even in this humidity it’s just so bouncy.”
“It didn’t look that bouncy to me,” Mark says.
“Her hair’s always been like that, though. Even when we were kids. She must get it from her dad. He must have bouncy hair. Because, I mean, look at Alice. Look at me. It practically looks like someone crowned us both with mops.”
“I think you have very nice hair.”
Mark’s not paying attention. Instead, he’s looking up and down Shaftsbury Avenue for a taxi, of which there are none. Less than none, it seems. In fact, Paul thinks, the street’s crammed with so many people and so few cars that he suspects they’d have better luck finding a rickshaw, or hitching a ride on some strapping Londoner’s back, than hailing a cab. And yet, still Mark appears determined—he’s got his hand shoved into the air like a hitchhiker—so Paul indulges him; he stands by his side and chews his gum.
“I wonder if we should have stayed,” he says, suddenly thinking about the end of dinner. Eloise snatched up the bill and invited them all over to her flat for coffee and scotch. Alice and his mother had agreed to go—but then, Donna’s also staying there, and Alice has the unfortunate duty of being a bridesmaid. Before Paul could even weigh the option, though, Mark had declined on behalf of both of them.
“We’ve got plans to meet a friend of ours,” he’d said, matter-of-factly.
Eloise had stared at Paul, and the only thing he could think of was how the restaurant’s low lighting, coupled with the spectacular volume of her hair, created the impression that her head was exploding.
On Shaftsbury Avenue, Mark pauses from his taxi hunt to turn and gawk at Paul.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“She’s just trying so hard,” Paul says, a little astonished by how quickly he’s leaping to his half sister’s defense. “If having a glass of expensive scotch in her palatial apartment makes her happy, it seems like it’s the least we could do.”
“She’s an awful snob.”
“Oh, come on.” Paul smiles and kisses Mark’s cheek. “You’re only saying that because she managed to out-snob you.”
Mark pulls away. “No, I’m saying it because she’s insufferable.” He straightens the lapels on his blazer. “Besides, my God, Paul. She practically assaulted you. I’m surprised she didn’t draw blood when she grabbed your arm.”
Paul rubs his wrist. The little crescents still remain. “She was just excited,” he says. “I mean, like I said, she’s trying so hard.”
“Are you listening to yourself right now? She abuses you, Paul. She bosses you around, and she abuses you. Sometimes I think you actually like being pushed around. Christ, look at how Goulding treated you.”
Paul’s puzzled. “I threw a mannequin at his head. I broke his nose.”
“Only after he treated you like a halfwit pack mule, no doubt. You truly are a glutton for punishment.”
A cyclist swerves toward the curb and nearly crushes Mark’s foot. He curses.