Page 17 of Safari Murder Party
Waylon left a string of broken hearts behind him, and Eliza was just another casualty. Fletcher’s heart ached for her with a pang of knowing guilt. It must have been a horrible kind of torture to be in love with someone who could never love you back the way you deserved.
“Heard it was a nasty break, but I can’t say I wasn’t jealous of the rock on her finger. Although, when you work like we do, who has time to settle down anyway?” Molly asked, a playful lilt to her voice.
“God, truly,” Fletcher said. Her thumb trailed over the bare spot on her ring finger. The spot Kent wanted to fill. “I’ll cheers to that.”
Their glasses clinked, and Fletcher tipped what was left of her spilled Manhattan down the hatch. Whiskey had soaked all the way through her bra, tacky and cold. She needed to get changed, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the pool’s deep end.
Joplin barely had time to kick off her espadrilles before Waylon dragged her beneath the surface. She reemerged, tangling her limbs with Waylon’s in a feeble attempt to dunk him underwater. The way their bodies pressed together…
Finally, Fletcher choked out, “I’m going to freshen up.”
Back upstairs, she unzipped a fresh top from the packing cube dutifully labeledShirts. (She was nothing if not meticulous.) This one was celery green with balloon sleeves tied in ribbons by her wrists. Better suited for the air-conditioned office rather than Lydell’s sticky heat. But it would have to do.
“You’re too afraid to go after what you really want, Fletcher,” she mimicked Waylon’s unsolicited advice.
Standing in just her sales-rack bra while rinsing the Scotch out of her blouse in the gold-plated sink, she let herself hate Waylon. She hated him for ruining her favorite shirt. For having everything he wanted in life handed to him on one of the staff members’ silver platters. For never worrying about getting evicted. For his stupid, chiseled abs.
He must have known the effect he had on her, like a schoolboy pulling on a girl’s pigtails, just to watch her get flustered.
And it was working. So, she also hated him for that.
Once the liquor had mostly been rinsed down the drain, Fletcher tossed her shirt over the shower’s glass door. She blew a breath out through her mouth and situated the dry blouse over her shoulders. Dyer’s promise cut through her spiral, and it straightened her spine:You play by my rules, Miss Spence, and you could have everything you’ve ever dreamed of.
The trouble with Cartwrights was that the rules were always changing, but with her jaw clenched so hard she’d definitely need a root canal when she was back in Manhattan, Fletcher nodded to herself in the mirror. Maybe everything with Dyer was a game, but, for once, she wasn’t afraid to play.
Jackie had said there could be a spot for Fletcher on her staff. That was why she’d come here. She would do what it took to prove she belonged atJet-Setter. Whatever the cost.
5
The first course had already been served by the time Fletcher made it down to dinner.
Violin melodies beckoned her toward the hidden grotto on the far side of the pool. Lit candles dotted her path. A light fixture had been hoisted into the air, woven from some variety of horns—impala? antelope?—and the centerpiece was an ebony-and-gold table with an arrangement of dahlias and eucalyptus.
A table set for fifteen.
Fletcher’s heart plummeted. Another reminder that she hadn’t been invited. That she didn’t belong here.
Everyone else clinked their crystal flutes and sipped sparkling wines they were born knowing how to pronounce. All these things they intrinsically knew, Fletcher had to teach herself. Which fork was for salads and which was for the rest of your meal. What a hedge fund was. The art of summering in the Hamptons.
God forbid, Fletcher couldn’t even tell impala horns from antelope horns.
At the opposite side of the table, Dyer wordlessly gestured with the serrated end of his knife. From the shadows, a server procured another armchair. Its golden legs scraped against the tiles with every agonizing inch. No one chewed. No one swallowed.
Eventually, the staff member shoved the chair at the end of the table, stuffing Fletcher between Sheila and Asshole Rick, right across from Waylon.
“Apologies,” Fletcher said to the group bashfully as she sank into her seat.
Conversations whirled on without any regard to Fletcher’s arrival, picking up right where they left off—without her.
Melv, Jackie, and Raul roundtabled about cloud-based document-management platforms. Bertram and the Brians chatted animatedly about the trademark logistics of incorporating a Taylor Swift lyric into a headline while Deepti and Opal traded keratin-treatment recommendations. An easy, familiar cadence. Rhythms they knew well.
Fletcher counted the steps to their dances. Melv would deadpan something unexpectedly funny, and Jackie would lift her lipstick-stained glass to salute. Right on cue, a French 75 tipped into the air.
Then, she overheard Brian mention a new email campaign idea and knew it was downhill from there. Other Brian, looking up from his untouched appetizer, would get so excited spit would start flying, and Bertram would lean away, a hand pressed to his distended belly as if to settle his churning disgust.
Fletcher’s usual patterns didn’t fit in here. Instead of gossiping over drinks and fine cuisine, she would normally be spending tonight in her apartment, head dangling off the sofa whileSex and the Cityautoplayed.
Ford would stop by, already buzzed off free drinks. He’d stealher Häagen-Dazs out of the freezer, and she’d let him. Before Carrie got back together with Mr.Big, he’d dart out the door, off to karaoke or trivia night. Then, a bit later, Kent would call, and she’d answer. He’d ask her to take him back, and she would.
