“Food’s over there. Drinks by the fence,” Roy shouted aggressively after him. “Take as much as you like, there’s plenty!”
The garden was large and had been designed and planted by a botanist from the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens, a former tenant of the previous owners. Two enormous rhododendron bushes, their leaves still green and shiny, divided the brick-walled space into thirds: a slate-paved patio area featuring a massive teak table laden with food; a grassy area where the drinks table was—large enough for groups to mingle, lounge on various weathered wooden benches, or duck behind an evergreen completely out of sight; and a potential vegetable patch, where the bonfire had been erected.
Gabby and Manfred had insisted that Wendy hire a caterer, even though Wendy wanted to order all the food from Full Plate and prepare it herself. “It’s not dinner,” she insisted. “Just nibbles and wine and beer.”
“That’s what caterers are for,” Gabby had advised.
Gabby and Manfred had been called away to LA by Enjoy! and Fleurt to cover Meghan Markle and Prince Harry’s Bonfire Night party in person. Wendy should have been annoyed that she hadn’t been called away to LA too, but in fact it was a relief.
Wendy’s nerves were fried. She’d stayed up very late last night trying and failing to read Roy’s book. It was either brilliant or awful, she couldn’t tell. Did it have to be set on Mars? Why not in Marfa, Texas? Or Lima, Peru? Was Mars a metaphor for something she didn’t understand? Roy had gone to Oxford. She’d only gone to NYU.
Roy kept shooting her anxious, hopeful glances—even in his sleep. She knew he was waiting for a report. But the truth was, just like so many of his so-called fans, Wendy had never been able to get all the way through a Roy Clarke novel, not even Orange.
How would she tell him? There were so many things she needed to tell.
She stood by the food, rearranging the cheese knives and gulping champagne. Was it the cheese, or did the garden smell like pot?
Oh, what were they doing? Americans didn’t even celebrate Bonfire Night—they didn’t even know what it was.
* * *
One person was definitely celebrating. Ted Little was having a blast, lighting small objects on fire and tossing them on top of the still unlit pyre. He’d even found an aerosol can of insect repellent and was repeatedly spraying it and lighting the spray with the lighter he’d found in the schoolyard.
Ted couldn’t believe no one was yelling.
“That’s a cool trick,” the school nurse said appreciatively. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Do it again,” said the nice mom of his babysitter. It was even her house.
“Again!” his mom panted while doing jumping jacks. Lately she was always doing jumping jacks. Or giving herself facials. Or plucking her eyebrows.
Off in the corner, his dad smoked a little purple pipe, his skateboard propped up against the garden wall.
“Dude,” a hairy man approached him and reached for his purple pipe. “Your song ‘Omnia Vincit!’ is what made me want to be a Latin teacher.”
Ted lit another shot of insect repellent, then another, and another.
* * *
Liam sat cross-legged on the grass, half-hidden by a rhododendron bush. Shy spotted his worn gray pants and old Converse sneakers from her bedroom window and came down to talk to him.
“Mum can’t be happy. The whole garden stinks of weed. Why didn’t you come up? Why’re you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird,” Liam grumbled, even though he knew he was.
“You never answered my texts. Are you mad at me?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” he said miserably.
“Hello, Daughter.” Shy’s father stood over them, wielding a cocktail glass, looking larger and older than usual. A button was missing from his cardigan. “Did you invite that git of a Latin teacher to our party?”
“Dad,” Shy complained, “Liam and I are talking. Also, the whole neighborhood is here. It’s fine. I can invite who I like.”
Liam hadn’t noticed Mr. Streko arrive, but he saw him now, stuffing food into his mouth, gross neck tattoo bulging. He wished Shy hadn’t invited him either.
“I’m hoping he’ll make me captain next year,” Shy observed. “I thought I should make an effort.”
Mr. Streko glanced over at them, tossed his half-eaten plate of food into the unlit fire, and headed in their direction, already holding a hairy paw out to Roy.
“Salve, Mr. Clarke. I just wanted to let you know there’s no hard feelings.”