Frank laughed and reached behind Cleo to grab one of the profiteroles Santiago was parading around the room while singing “That’s Amore.”
“Eventually I make it back to the roof, and everyone is asking where I’ve been,” Anders continued. “I explain the situation to them, how at last I crawled on my belly from the elevator to the bathroom, propped myself up on the towel rack to pee, which, as you can imagine, was not so successful. And do you know what they say? ‘Hey man, that sounds amazing! Do you have more?’ I’m telling you, in this moment I realize I will never understand Americans.”
Zoe, tired of standing, or perhaps of not being the center of attention, squeezed beside Anders on the narrow set of apple boxes he was perched on, an act that would have been difficult had Zoe not been slight as a fawn. Anders smiled, revealing a mouth of gappy, uneven teeth, and the perfect symmetry of his face was momentarily shattered.
“Ah yes, Americans are all addicted to pills,” said Frank. “I’ve heard this one before.”
Zoe ruffled Anders’s blond hair. Cleo wondered if they were going to sleep together, or possibly already had. This wasn’t hard to imagine, since Anders had slept with everyone—including Cleo.
“I am not saying they are all drug addicts,” Anders said. “I am merely pointing out that there is a cultural difference in terms of attitudes toward self-medication. Back me up here, Cleo.”
It happened right after she met Frank, when she still thought she’d be leaving the country in a few months, following a party with an open, and subsequently lethal, bar. After a brief, unsatisfying fuck on his Chesterfield sofa, Anders had casually dismissed her. I’m sure you’d rather go sleep in your own bed?
“Anders thinks everyone in America is taking something,” said Frank.
“The booming pharmaceutical industry here speaks for itself,” said Anders.
Everything Cleo needed to know about lust and its humiliation, she learned in the moment she found herself lurching home from Anders’s apartment with his semen still coating her stomach. Neither of them had ever told Frank.
“Okay, okay, let’s keep the cultural criticism to a minimum,” said Frank. “Since Cleo is just about to become one of us.”
“What?” Cleo snapped back to the conversation at the sound of her name.
“You’re becoming an American,” said Zoe pointedly. “Right? That’s what all this is for?”
She twirled her long finger around the room.
“Yes. I mean, no—,” stumbled Cleo.
“You have to apply to be a permanent resident first,” jumped in Anders. “Is what she means.” He gave her a reassuring look.
“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a green card application and a shitload of paperwork,” Frank sang.
The hem of Cleo’s dress had flipped over her knee. She glanced down to smooth it and noticed, for the first time, a tiny silken tag on the inseam. Written in feminine cursive was one word: “Intimates.” So it was a nightgown. She had worn a nightgown to her wedding. Slowly, Cleo bowed her head.
“Just never lose your accent,” Zoe said, wrapping her arm around Anders’s waist to further secure her seat. “British accents are so hard to get right. My voice coach says I sound cockney.”
“I never lost mine,” said Anders. “Unfortunately.”
“Yeah, you still sound like the Terminator.” Frank laughed.
“He was Austrian, you idiot,” Anders said.
Cleo looked up at the sound of her name being called from across the room. She twisted around to see Audrey’s face peeking from the bathroom door, mouthing Help. Cleo got up to excuse herself and gave Frank a peck on the lips. Another whiff of wine.
“Don’t forget to drink water,” she said.
Audrey was leaning over the sink when she entered, scrubbing ferociously at a red wine stain on the front of her shirt. It seemed a futile case until Audrey remembered that the trick to red wine stains was to pour white wine on them, something about neutralization. Cleo ran to the kitchen, returned with a bottle of pinot grigio from the fridge, and, at Audrey’s instruction, proceeded to slosh it over Audrey’s chest while she stood in the bathtub, gasping for breath.
“Shit, I’m soaked. Is it out?”
Cleo looked at Audrey’s shirt, which had turned a urine shade of yellow, the red blemish unaltered at its center. Audrey pulled it off her body with a wet suck to inspect. They exchanged a long look, then exploded into laughter. Audrey stripped the shirt off and stood in her bra.
“Do you think I can just wear this?”
“Wait,” said Cleo, hopping out of the tub and opening the laundry hamper. She pulled out a dress shirt that looked clean enough and offered it to Audrey. It was long enough to be a dress on her. She cinched it at the waist with her belt, then inspected herself in the mirror.
“Not bad.” She turned up the collar. “Anyway, the only outfit anyone will remember is yours.”
Cleo sat down on the cool lip of the tub with her knees together. Her hair made a curtain around her downturned face. “Audrey,” she whispered. “Does it look like I’m wearing a nightgown?”
Audrey turned around and kneeled in front of her. “That’s a really weird question, Cley,” she said. “Since you look like a fucking angel.”
Audrey pulled back the curtain of hair and kissed her on the cheek, then returned to the mirror to fix her eyeliner with the tip of her finger.
“Anders is like serial-killer handsome,” Audrey’s reflection said. Cleo nodded slowly, trying to keep her face neutral. “Did I ever tell you about the time we hooked up?”
“You did?”
Cleo was surprised to feel a pang of jealousy shoot through her.
“Ages ago,” said Audrey. “It was like a chest of drawers with the little key sticking out falling on me.”
Cleo could feel her face begin to flush with shame. But no, it was something else, something lighter, warmer. It was laughter.
“And he tried to stick it in, you know, the back,” said Audrey.
“No!”
Both girls were laughing. Audrey leaned against the sink to catch her breath. “Maybe that’s why he never called me.” She sighed.
“You think?”
“If I was into anal,” she said, “my whole life could be different.”
Dessert had been laid out while they were in the bathroom. As well as the tower of profiteroles, there were silver trays of strawberries dipped in white chocolate, dishes of red-and-gold Rainier cherries, bowls of whipped cream and warm dulce de leche, pots of pink sugared almonds, and a box of chocolate cigars. The guests barely touched any of it. Cleo suspected there was enough cocaine circulating that half of them had no appetite at all. She took a little comfort in the thought that the cake she’d secretly pined for—a three-tier buttercream with scalloped icing, bands of white satin ribbon, and a cascade of frosted pink roses—would have gone unappreciated as well.
Santiago clinked his glass with a spoon and called for quiet. He was balancing precariously on a milk crate, enveloping the room with a smile.