“For fuck’s sake,” Thom mumbled.
Over at the head table, Lucille Killingworth maintained an expression of bemused tolerance.
“And of course,” Ted continued, “we shouldn’t forget our dear father who loved us so much he spared us his miserable company for the last twenty years.” The room had gone silent, mesmerized by the matador’s sword raised over the dying bull. “I’d like to see the look on his face if he saw his baby boy getting married to another man. I’d give anything to get him in here and watch his expression.”
Thom raised his glass. “Amen to that, brother,” he said loudly and downed his drink, inviting the others to follow.
Ted looked around with a silly grin, as though he’d just pulled off a very amusing joke.
“My undying thanks to my brother Teddy for his marvellous toast,” Thom said before Ted could start up again. “I think it’s time to adjourn to the other room for some music and mayhem of a different sort.”
The scraping of chairs filled the air as people stood and headed for the ballroom.
“I’ll fucking kill him,” Thom mumbled.
The band played a gleeful concoction of trills and well-heeled themes. Rock transformed to rumba. The dancers twirled on, oblivious to the sea change as light glittered on women’s gowns and the dandruff-flecked shoulders of middle-aged men anxious to show they still had it, or perhaps just hoping they did.
Daniella came through the doors, still in her Dietrich drag. She stood watching the dancers, a martini glass held breast high. Her eyes lit on Thom and Sebastiano gyrating and grinding together at the floor’s centre. Her mouth formed a hard line. Still blue, but less than an angel. Then she spied Dan. Her expression changed as she swept across the floor to him.
“Danny! You’re so sexy!” she cried. She had a way of eliding her consonants, making one liquid syllable flow smoothly into the next, as though they’d been written just for her. “Come dance with me!”
He obliged her, but just as they reached the floor the music changed from a samba to a slow motion wave. She wrapped herself around him, glass aloft, and drank over his shoulder. Fingers slid between the buttons of his shirt, caressing his chest. She bent her head back and extended a trousered leg, the young Martha Graham impersonating a Joshua Tree. Dan felt more like a piece of sculpture than a dancer.
“Daniella!” Sebastiano gave her a disapproving look.
Her eyes flashed rebellion. She continued to dance only slightly less wildly, then downed her drink and went off for a refill. Dan watched her flit between the tables, a pale drunken butterfly, with everyone’s eyes on her. She seemed to be flirting with the entire room. At one point she nearly stumbled into a table. If not for the quick reflexes of a man standing nearby, she would have fallen. A trio of men became instantly solicitous, but she brushed off their concern.
“You ought not to drink so much,” Dan heard one of the men say. “Especially if you can’t stay on your feet.”
She glared. “I’m not drunk,” she declared then turned away indignantly.
Sebastiano broke off his dance with Thom and went over to her. They exchanged a few heated words in Portuguese. Daniella tossed her head angrily and looked away, but Sebastiano was insistent as he pulled her protesting onto the floor. The music turned from a wave to a shimmer. He tore off his jacket and tossed it aside. His slicked-back hair, sheer cotton shirt, and tightly drawn trousers lent him the contours of a matador. He stood, chest extended, the young Valentino regarding his hermaphroditic self-portrait: Rudy and Judy. They might have been twins. Dan felt a tingling of lust.
Sebastiano came alive, hands whirling overhead. He glowed, a dark angel taking flight. Inspired by the dancers, the band launched into a fiery tango. Daniella unclasped her heels and threw them beneath a chair. The music grew feverish as she moved back and forth, mirroring her brother. Sweat hung in the air. He pulled her so close they seemed to be one body.
The crowd warmed to the tempo, arching themselves into the music, though none could match the Brazilians for ardour and grace. The room broke into spontaneous applause time and again. Even Thom watched them admiringly.
It was midnight. The band had moved on to a more northerly clime, the tempo chilled to the formal rhythms of a Viennese waltz, a confection that might have been popular in Hitler’s time. Older couples dominated the floor, feet shuffling, heels lifting gently as though nostalgia demanded a softer tread. Someone had coaxed Lucille Killingworth up onto the floor. The mother of the groom moved gracefully, scarf twisted lightly about her throat. She danced with a white-haired man who smiled a lot, though he seemed in deadly earnest. He looked down frequently, either worried about stepping on his partner’s feet or following some imaginary numbered dance steps on the tiles. Dan noticed his expression — admiration laced with desire seen through the eyes of a barracuda. This man had designs on the Merry Widow.
Bill and Thom had disappeared in the melee. The minister was chatting with another dykish type over in a corner. Dan saw he’d been right — she laughed and held her drink like a trucker bedding down at a pub for the night, clearly no longer discussing ecumenical concerns.
Sebastiano and Daniella had retrieved their discarded clothing and sat cooing at one of the tables. He pushed her hair from her face with his fingers. Whatever their argument, they seemed to have made up. A candle basked in the glow of Daniella’s pale skin, making her look sad and fragile.
Dan toyed with getting another drink, but decided against it. He felt flushed. He descended to the lower deck for a breath of cool night air. A couple huddled against the railing. It was the giddy dentist with the diamonds and his older boyfriend. They looked up at his approach.
“Cheers!” said the older man, raising a champagne glass and sipping from it before placing it on the railing.
Dan gave a friendly nod and leaned into the opposite corner where the rail curved against the back of the boat. They’d started their return. From above, music and laughter floated out over the water. On either shore, lights from passing houses gleamed like earthbound stars. Now and then, they swept past other vessels manoeuvring their way home.
The boat made a marked shift to the right, following the channel. The forgotten champagne glass inched toward the rail’s outer edge. Dan was about to say something when the boat shifted again. The crystal fell in slow motion, an arc of whiteness hitting the waves with a silent splash before disappearing in the blackness.
Dan left the amorous couple and made his way upstairs. A squadron of servers hoisted trays of hors d’oeuvres, passing him on the way to the ballroom. He felt cooler but his head throbbed. He stopped in the corridor and leaned against a doorway.
A voice came through the wall, the tones low and serious. He couldn’t make out the words. He stood there, not really intending to listen.
“You’ve got to pull yourself together.” It was Thom’s voice, followed by what might have been a stifled sob. “Look, it doesn’t mean anything. Not really.”
“But you’re married!” Bill’s voice rose in pitch, like a child whining about not being given a promised treat.
“It’s only a ceremony, Billy,” Dan heard Thom say in consoling tones. There was a long silence. Dan’s blood jumped with adrenaline as he waited.
“You’re
