We dance and drink for the next three hours until my feet start to scream at me and I’ve drunk so much I’ve almost started sobering up. Florian and The American are arm in arm dancing gently around the terrace. I let my eyes blur, the same way I had when we had been in his studio, blur them enough so that in the right light I can see his and Ettie’s brotherly similarity, knowing that Ettie would have loved this more than anything. He would have won The American over in an instant and would have whisked her off to waltz under the stars too, probably much more dramatically than Florian is managing, perhaps with deathly spins and a backbend. He would have danced with me too, the kind of dance in which his hands would be everywhere and I feel the longing spread through me.
And the thought of him, that kind of lingering awareness of what could have been, The American’s little comment about having a host of ghosts at every party, makes me miss him more in that moment than I have since I got here. I don’t want him here to cheer me up, or keep me company, or because it would make my life easier. I want him here because he would love it and I want to see him love it myself.
There are feelings that, once you have them, you can’t shake off with another drink and a nice conversation. So, I put the glass on the side and make my way back into the house, to end my night without crying on a dancefloor.
I take off my shoes when I get into my room and catch a half-hearted glimpse of myself in the mirror, hair wild, make-up smudged and clinging on for dear life, dress dangerously close to exposing my right breast. I straighten myself up and let myself onto the balcony.
Out here, in the darkness, I make out the orange glow of the little towns scattered over the horizon like fairy lights. I trace some headlights from one side of the hill to the other until they disappear. The sky is impossibly clear, and I look for the familiar constellations, notice how the Milky Way sits high in the canopy; a cloudy glaucoma in the night.
The music is still playing, there are the occasional pockets of drunken laughter, guffawing, stumbling, and somewhere a glass breaks. I rest my arms on the railing, hunch my shoulders over and take it all in, the sounds, the smell, the feeling, knowing that I never really will get it back again; this month will evaporate into a bank of memories for me to return to time and time again, becoming more dog-eared and faded with every day that passes.
The balcony door creaks open and I turn to see Florian emerging from his room.
‘The American sent me,’ he says quickly. ‘Said you looked upset.’
I take him in too, try to bookmark how he looks in this exact moment. How his shirt is slightly creased, his skin tanned and freckled, the boyish fringe that had been gelled into submission at the beginning of the night, now fraying at the edges and on his cheek is someone else’s lipstick, pink and faded as if he had tried to rub it off. He doesn’t look like Ettie now. Not even in the slightest. I guess when you start to know someone, truly know them, it’s like you start to see them in a different way, as if you know them by a specific aura. It makes their face, their features, as unique as a fingerprint. Ettie could be standing next to him now and I think I would struggle to find any similarities.
‘I’m fine, just feeling a little emotional,’ I say flatly, any actual emotion wrung out of my voice.
He doesn’t look convinced, but I’m sure the temptation of the pack of cigarettes in his hand is overriding his wish to try to stay as far away from me as possible.
‘Here.’ He offers the pack to me first and I take one gratefully.
‘Thanks.’
‘Just being civil.’ He manages a strained smile, and I am grateful for it; it feels like a small part of him is back, that the stranger that has implanted himself into the weekend is fading. He flicks open his lighter and takes a step towards me. I bend over, let the flame engulf the paper and fizz into life.
I turn back to my view, taking a lazy drag until my head spins.
Florian matches me, his shoulders a few inches from my own. ‘I’m sorry I’ve ruined your weekend.’
‘You haven’t,’ I shrug but he scoffs a little to let me know that I’m entirely transparent.
‘I wasn’t exactly in the right mindset for this anyway.’ I gesture to the dress, to the champagne.
‘Why did you come?’ he asks.
‘She made me. I was quite happy locked up in the apartment until it was time to go home. Guilted me that this could be her last birthday and then presented me with a new flight a few days later.’
‘And the literary world can wait a few days, can it?’ He looks at me expectantly, knowing the goading should solicit some response, perhaps a shouting match; maybe that’s what we need but I can’t give it to him, not yet. Instead, I clamp my hand onto the railing a little harder. ‘What?’ Florian persists. ‘I thought you were desperate to get back, sure you have some people eagerly waiting for the next instalment?’
‘There isn’t going to be a next instalment. There isn’t going to be a book. I’ve got a meeting on Thursday, I’m going to tell them that I can’t do it.’
He looks at me as if he can’t quite figure me out, like he’s not really seeing me properly. ‘What?’
‘Isn’t that what you want?’
‘No!’ he exclaims quickly.
I straighten my body from the railings, look at him square in the face. He shies away, turns his gaze instead to the band on his wrist. ‘Why not? I know you think I’m selling out. You can’t even look at me, Florian, you know that, you can’t look at me without glazing over in this kind of disgusted disappointment. So no, there won’t be a book.’
He looks as if I’ve shoved him. ‘I don’t look at you like that…’
‘And if this sodding book never existed then we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we? So, I just want it all to go away.’
He lets out a short, sharp puff of air. ‘You’re being a child.’
‘A child?’
