"I would really rather you not smoke in here."
>> FIRST MEETING SENTENCES ⤿ ACCEPTING.
It’s been nearly six months since she died and a little less than that since The Sun headlined its morning paper with a big smiling picture of her, taken at the Monte Carlo Beach hotel on their anniversary with no mentions of it, and the story about how the London socialite was brutally murdered in her bedroom during a burglary gone wrong. It was, not even a week later, juxtaposed by a stern, almost grim snapshot of him at The Randox Grand National and speculations about possible suspects that didn’t mention him by name but left it up to the reader what to think of a wealthy, influential viscount who hadn’t been known for his long-term relationships before meeting her. Then his father, a wealthy, influential earl who is on cordial terms with almost anybody above a certain pay grade, had news like this suppressed before they could even go public. But there had been police investigations against him, even if they revealed nothing but his innocence. When, about three months later, the real perpetrators were caught—two men aged twenty-eight and thirty-two from Barking and Dagenham who tried to sell their heirloom jewelry at a Manchester pawn shop—the interest was merely lukewarm.
Now, in April, after Lent and before the Easter term, he’s unexpectedly decided to take some time off, which his parents seemed relieved about and he isn’t quite sure how or why it has brought him here of all places; he’s had little desire to come back after the last time he left, which was after meeting Max for the New York Fashion Week where they indulged in reminiscences and too much champagne, knowing but not yet admitting that their friendship might be reaching a crossroads. But perhaps, or even because of it, New York City felt sufficiently remote from London to answer calls late and familiar enough to pretend it didn’t mean anything. ( Though there is, in a bed diligently undisturbed, a different truth as well: that the burial site of one secret is often befitting of another. )
It first starts as an attempt to get away from the sudden ruminations, visiting St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 631 Fifth Avenue, then Riverside and Trinity Church before veering off, driving all the way through upstate New York in his Porsche 911 that isn’t made for streets like these. The church of Our Lady of Perpetual Grace—a striking example of Gothic Revival architecture with its traditional stone construction, pointed arches and carefully crafted details, reminiscent of the small chapels on East Sheen or Teddington Cemetery—is only one destination of his journey, albeit the very last one so far. Towards the end of the nave, he’s now standing between the pews and the carved pulpit that resembles the large bow of a ship. Adorned with an eagle traditionally found in lecterns, it combines the two into one and simultaneously points towards the avenging angels jutting out from the high, wooden hammerbeams above, a beautiful marriage of exposed oak, natural stone and vast, empty space. But there is no service taking place, no congregant seeking refuge for their silent prayer, not even anyone meandering around the cemetery in search for peace or a loved one. There’s just him, who is here for none of these things, and the flower arrangements that remind him of funeral sprays. So he lights a cigarette, out of habit and despite knowing he shouldn’t, and doesn’t notice the soft footsteps on the carpet behind him.
I would really rather you not smoke in here, someone says, kind and innocuous, which, upon turning to match a face to the voice, prompts a reaction so visceral he can feel the bile rising in his throat. His first impulse is to bite back at him: make a snide remark about his work or his vocation, about the son of God and his sad, concave eyes up on the cross, or a low blow towards the other’s own looks, even, something venomous and caustic that burns and eats away at him like gangrene on a wound that just won’t close. But the longer he stands there in his neatly waxed Barbour jacket, finely tailored clothes and handcrafted Italian leather boots, pristine from head to toe, the more something else sneaks in—a faint memory from over a decade ago, as light as cremation ashes and gentle like water that hollows out stone; he suddenly feels exhausted and deeply, bitterly unhappy. When he finally speaks, however, it doesn’t translate into anything, his tone still standoffish and unsportsmanlike.
“Of course,” he concedes but, in actuality, has nothing to put it out on.
Then, distinctly British and profane:
“Sorry, I think I must have missed your name, Mr. ——?”
kianamaiart
romaincrisis
janainaart
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
