Page 71 of A Sky Painted Gold

“Hello, ladies,” he says, and his eyes travel appreciatively over my costume. “You look wonderful.” I feel a little zing at the compliment. It is obvious from his face that it is sincere.

“So do you,” I say, and he does. He is wearing a black embroidered frock coat over a white shirt with black breeches and black shoes with silver buckles. On his head is a powdered wig. The effect is dramatic and very, very attractive.

“You look like quite the regency buck,” Caitlin says approvingly, peering over my shoulder.

“Thanks, I guess,” he says, scratching at his wig. “I’m pretty glad I don’t have to wear these things all the time, though.”

“But where’s your mask?” I ask.

“Yes,” Caitlin says. “Rules are rules.”

Charlie grins. “Don’t worry, I’ve already had this from my sister. Robert has it. I think he had to change, but I’ll get it from him in a minute.” He turns to Caitlin. “Laurie told me to tell you that everything is ready when you are.”

“OK, thank you,” Caitlin says, and Charlie wanders off towards Robert’s room. “Are you ready, birthday girl?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go!”

We descend the stairs into another world. A gold carpet runs down the middle of the staircase, which is lined with hundreds of small white candles in glass jars. The entrance hall is decked out in twinkling lights and the ceiling has been swathed in broad strips of black and gold fabric as if we are inside an enormous marquee. The space is absolutely heaving with masked people in extravagant costumes who turn and cheer as we walk down the stairs.

“Oh my God,” I hiss, grabbing Caitlin’s arm. “Don’t let me trip over with all these people watching.”

“Ssssh,” she whispers. “Stop worrying and enjoy yourself. You’re the guest of honour.”

There is a table to one side that is heaving under the weight of expensively wrapped gifts.

“What are those?” I ask.

“They’re your presents,” Caitlin replies easily.

“My presents?” I echo. “What are you talking about?”

“People know it’s a birthday party so they bring a present.” Caitlin says. “Don’t worry, it will mostly be stuff someone else gave them at their birthday party. Everything gets sent round and round in an endless circle. At my last birthday party, I got back three things I had gifted other people. One of them was a tiepin engraved with their initials!” I think about the gifts that I received from my family and friends, and about the thoughtfulness behind each one. This pile of “gifts” from strangers is just another performance, part of the illusion. There’s nothing real about any of them.

Waiters in black tie and black domino masks are circulating with gold trays. On the trays are champagne saucers full of a pale green drink. Caitlin grabs two and hands one to me.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I can’t remember,” Caitlin replies, “but it’s called a ‘Lou’.”

“What?” I ask again.

“It’s something special the bartender designed in your honour. I think it has chartreuse and gin and some other things in,” she says. “It’s delicious.”

I take a sip. “And lethal,” I gasp.

Caitlin grins. “As all good cocktails should be, darling. Now come, come.” She takes me by the hand and leads me through to the sitting room, which has been completely transformed. All of the furniture is gone, and the room is done up like a real nightclub, full of small tables covered in gold tablecloths and chairs with black velvet cushions. More candles burn, and the plinky plink of a piano fills the dim room with a seductive, almost sleepy feeling. This is a place for intimate conversation and slow dancing, the kind of place where scandalous things happen in smoky corners.

We walk through the room and out of the French doors that open on to the lawn. Out here the sky seems to be filled with enormous round white lanterns and twinkling lights.

“Oh, Caitlin,” I breathe. “How beautiful! I don’t understand. It’s like magic!”

“Aren’t they clever?” she says, pleased. “They’re attached to very thin wires.” She points overhead. “You can’t see them now that it’s dark.”

There is a huge white-and-gold bandstand on which a seventeen-piece jazz band, all wearing masks, are setting up their instruments. It is not, I realize with a pang, Lucky’s band. Not that I really expected him to come, but when everything feels this much like a dream, it seems so easy to expect a happy ending. I don’t know if Caitlin is thinking the same thing, but her eyes seem to linger there too.

A dance floor of chequered white and gold stretches out in front of the bandstand, ready to welcome the growing crowd. A bar reaches along the front of the lawn, overlooking the sea, and eight bartenders stand behind it already mixing drinks for the hordes gathered there. We stop here for a moment, greeting people. I am surprised by how many people I know from various parties over the summer. When my green drink is finished I am handed another. I can’t stop looking about, reminding myself that this is for me. A party like this, for me.

“There’s still one last thing,” Caitlin says, tugging my hand. We walk around to the walled orchard. Hundreds of candles are lit on top of the wall, and when we make our way inside I can see that long tables have been set up, stretching the whole length of the tree-lined avenues. Down the centre of the tables run twisting decorations of fruit and flowers, interspersed with heavy gold candelabras. It looks like we have stumbled across a party in a fairyland forest.