Dead to Her(66)

“Marcie isn’t feeling well,” Elizabeth said. “I’m going to run her home.”

“I just need to lie down for a while in some quiet,” Marcie muttered.

Marcie wasn’t sure if she was sad or relieved when Jason didn’t offer to come home with her, but instead just nodded. “If you’re sure. I won’t be home late.”

“I’ve got a headache.” William sounded as snippy with Elizabeth as Jason had been with her. “Have you got any Advil in your purse?” Whatever it was they’d been talking about, it was far from resolved. Elizabeth flushed slightly and shook her head.

“No. I’m sorry. Surely you have some in the bathroom?”

William glared at her as if the effort of the stairs was too much.

“Why don’t you go get a coconut water?” she said. “They always rehydrate you. I’ll stop at the drugstore on the way back. Can’t have you not enjoying your own party.” She smiled, trying to lift the moment.

“Enjoy the party?” William grunted. “I didn’t want this party.” He hadn’t even looked at Marcie. “We’ll pick this up later, Jason, and it had better turn out to be like you said.”

He walked away toward the kitchen, and Jason stared after him.

“Is everything okay?” Marcie rested her hand on Jason’s shirtsleeve. Through the fabric she could feel the strength in his arms that used to turn her on so much and she’d thought would protect her forever.

“Go home, Marcie.” He shook his arm free, not hard enough to make a statement but with enough force to make her feel quietly abandoned. “I’ll see you later.”

Screw you, Jason, she thought, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. Maybe I’ll tell the world myself just what you think your second wife is. Maybe I’ll take the power back rather than leave you with it like a sword hanging over me. But the words that actually came from her lips betrayed her and made her feel smaller. “Okay. Have a good time. I love you.”

“Come on,” Elizabeth said, when Jason didn’t return Marcie’s sentiment. “Let’s get you home.”

Elizabeth was parked in front of the garage and it was a relief not to have to walk through the throng of partygoers to reach the car, instead slipping out the side door of the house.

“Thank you for this,” Marcie said. “You’re very kind.”

“No problem at all. I needed a break from all the people, if I’m honest. I’m not much of a party person, as you probably already know, but I’m so used to doing whatever William asks it’s almost second nature to show up to everything.”

Their host had come out front and was standing on the steps, drinking from a carton. He didn’t look at them as they drove past, and Marcie was about to turn her attention back to Elizabeth, when her mouth fell half-open as she stared out the window. It couldn’t be. A fresh gaggle of guests were arriving at the house, climbing out of limousines in five-inch heels and expensive dresses, laughing and chattering as they made their way toward the gardens.

One figure was hanging back, a tight black dress hugging her narrow frame, dark hair thickened by extensions and piled up in curls on her head, eyes sharp as she watched Elizabeth’s car leaving. Her face was half covered with a glittering black mask, but Marcie would recognize that slash of a bitter smile anywhere. Jacquie. Jacquie was at the party. As they pulled out into the street, Elizabeth was still droning on, but Marcie felt as if she were listening underwater. Jacquie.

Maybe she needed to go back.





40.

Keisha had floated like an unwelcome ghost through her own party, at times sure she was entirely invisible. In so many ways, she had been. An object, a delight, a curio. And then, of course, by the end of the night, damaged goods. A mockery. But not a person. Not a breathing thing of her own. A hum of unsympathetic whispers as she’d drunkenly taken flight, ushered out by Iris and Elizabeth and Virginia.

Even here, in the quiet dark gloom of Eleanor’s bedroom, it felt as if the first wife had more energy in the house than Keisha had, her own dark skin absorbed by the grainy night, leaving her almost incorporeal. There would always be earth and grime under her shaped and polished nails. She shivered and beat her fist at the side of her skull. Who could she talk to? Who would listen? Could she even make any sense of her jumbled, cotton-wool thoughts?

What time was it? Two? Three? Probably later. Everything had become a haze, the past forty-eight hours a jumbled kaleidoscope of images and memories. She should have taken the Valium script Marcie offered, always proud KeKe, your pride is your downfall, like you could ever have quit when you’d finished what you’d gotten—who were you kidding, always kidding yourself, a lie to a fool, yes yes Auntie Ayo please shut up in my head I know there was no boy please leave me alone. The tension with William as she’d quietly climbed the walls when the Xanax ran out, and then this evening, as she’d dressed and preened and pretended makeup and clothes and money could make everything better—a mask behind a mask, always hiding, always hidden, concentrate, focus, everything is crumbling, drowning, cut to pieces—the shouting as he held the photo out at her—head thrown back, laughing, peeling her top off as she danced, breasts out in the night air, whole body wild and full of dark magic like how Auntie Ayo used to be behind her locked door—slamming the door on Julian and Pierre as their heads turned as one toward the noise as they glided across the marble beyond.