Moonlight Over Paris(71)

By the time Mr. Fitzgerald had come to some sort of agreement with the beleaguered host, Helena was quite prepared to discount him as an insufferable boor, the sort of person one crossed the street to avoid. Her poor first impression was only bolstered by the unease she saw in everyone else’s expression, Sara’s most of all.

“I had so hoped . . .” whispered her friend.

“I know, my darling. Don’t fret. I’m sure they’ll behave,” Gerald reassured her.

As the Fitzgeralds approached, Helena couldn’t help but stare, for there was something about them that simply invited such attention. They were a good deal younger than the Murphys and radiated a confident sort of glamour that put her in mind of film stars. It was as if they expected to be admired, to be watched, and rather than shrink away from the limelight as she would do, they actually relished every moment.

“I’m ever so sorry we’re late,” Mr. Fitzgerald announced once he and his wife had reached the table, kissed cheeks with Sara, said hello to Gerald, and been introduced to Helena and Agnes. “You know how it is.”

“Scott wrote like a madman today,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “He sat himself down at the dining room table and didn’t get up for hours. I spent the whole day tiptoeing around like a little old mouse.” Finding this amusing, she began to laugh, and it was such a merry, infectious sound that Helena, and everyone else, began to laugh as well.

Mrs. Fitzgerald was young, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four, and had a round, sweet face, dark and expressive eyes, and a small mouth that she’d painted into a fashionable cupid’s bow. She wasn’t beautiful, not really, but there was something indelible about her, as if once seen she could never be unseen, and she fizzed with an energy that felt nearly kinetic in its intensity.

She also had a most unusual accent, her words all smoothly honeyed vowels. But it was charming, just as Zelda Fitzgerald herself was charming, and Helena found that she quite liked the woman. Mr. Fitzgerald, however, was more of a puzzle. He was older than his wife, perhaps in his early thirties, and was slight and fair with beautiful gray-green eyes. Yet there was an indistinct air to his expression, as if the better part of his thoughts were focused elsewhere, and his gaze never seemed to truly focus on her or anyone else at the table.

Gerald had ordered several bottles of fine Burgundy for the table, but to his evident consternation Mr. Fitzgerald ignored the wine, instead demanding round after round of American-style cocktails. It was rather shocking to Helena, accustomed as she was to a single aperitif before dinner and then one glass of wine, two at most, with her dinner. It certainly didn’t seem to make him happier or more content with the company he kept. Like a child presented with a bowl of boiled sweets, he seemed interested only in the here and now, the delight of consumption, and was unconcerned by—or perhaps accustomed to—the inevitable aftereffects.

Talk at the table was strained, though Agnes and the Murphys did their best to carry things along. Discussion turned first to Mr. Fitzgerald’s work, for his third novel had just been published.

“Scott’s first two books were grand successes,” Sara explained to Helena and Agnes. “We’re all quite certain The Great Gatsby will be, too.”

At this Mrs. Fitzgerald giggled, or perhaps it was only a hiccup. “Everything Scott touches turns to gold. Doesn’t it, honey?” She drained the last of her cocktail and set the empty glass on the table. Her pretty face was shiny with perspiration, and she had begun to handle her cutlery and the stem of her cocktail glass with exaggerated care.

Mr. Fitzgerald’s face reddened, but Sara spoke before he could answer. “How is your Scottie liking Paris? You would love the child, Helena. Such a dear little thing. Not even four and she knows her entire alphabet forwards and backwards. She’s even learning to speak French.”

“I hate Nanny,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, her expression grim. “And she hates me, too—I know it. I hardly see Scottie anymore. Whenever I pop into the nursery, that woman tells me they’re busy with lessons, or playtime, or mealtime, or naptime.”

“Now, come on, Zelda,” Mr. Fitzgerald said. “You know we agreed that a settled routine is best for Scottie.”

“Yes, and where does that leave me?”

“If you ever thought of anyone apart from yourself, for one single second of the day, you’d admit that Nanny is right. The world doesn’t revolve around you—”

“So says the great man of letters. The saving grace of American literature.”

“Now, Zelda,” Sara interjected, “you haven’t told us what you’re wearing to the ball. Have you something fun planned?”

“We’re not going,” Mr. Fitzgerald answered, his voice sharpening to a sneer. “Zelda’s too tired.”

“It’s too late to change our minds. We’d be the only ones there without costumes,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said evenly, her eyes fixed on a point at the far side of the restaurant.

“Gerald and Sara don’t have costumes,” he countered.

“We’re actually planning on changing. Just so you know,” Sara said mildly.

“And we’ve been out every night this week already. Can’t we just have a quiet evening at home?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked, her voice beginning to quaver. “Just the two of us?”