New Year's Eve 1988
A little dose of fiction to brighten your January
This week I’m sending a piece of fiction, an episode from a longer work—The Tears of a Painter. If you’d like to go back to the beginning, you can start here.
I held onto Mark’s kiss on those coffee fields for a whole year. A whole year of no one else being allowed to kiss me. In my defence—I was in the dramatic height of my teens. If Mark were here now, I’m sure we’d both be laughing our heads off about it. I stayed kiss-celibate for a whole year, while he—well let’s just say, according to the grapevine, he did nothing of the sort up in rainy England. And after a year, when I saw him again, he seemed to have completely forgotten any trace of a kiss. There was not a word said about it, nor, much to my frustration, an attempt at a second one. Come to think of it, he was different that Christmas. I’d not seen him that playful since—well, since before that horrible day at the Baobab tree. He was chirpy. He stayed with us at the farm for the entire two weeks. We went out riding together almost everyday. He spent the evenings helping us put together a 2000 piece puzzle. He agreed to sit for me while I painted his portrait (Kirstin asked me to, and I almost couldn’t because he was being so funny through the whole thing).
Then on the morning of New Year’s Eve, we all drove into the city like we had done every year. There, we stayed with his other grandparents, Kirstin’s mum and dad, running around, getting ready for the gala that night. Mark even offered to drive my mother and Kirstin to the hairdresser. There was a pastry shop nearby where we waited, eating strawberry tarts and drinking coffee, Mark playing with my sunglasses, putting them on his head and then on mine, while our mothers had their hair trimmed, highlighted and styled.
Kirstin’s parents had a magnificent garden, overgrown with all kinds of trees and flowers. They had recently added a swimming pool, and Mark and I spent a couple of hours laying there beside it on sun-beds before it was time to get ready. He fell asleep; I did too, but I woke before him. I looked over and noticed his back turning pink. His skin had become pale from the months in England.
You’re burning, I said.
He didn’t hear me; he was still asleep, so I pulled the sun-lotion from under my sun-bed and went over to where he lay. I knelt, took some lotion in my hands and started spreading it over his back.
Eyes still closed, he mumbled something.
You were burning, I said.
He opened one eye first. What are you doing?
Putting lotion on your back. You’ve been in the sun too long.
Anna—
What? Should I have let you get all red?
He was quiet, and our gazes held through the silence until he sat up, legs over the edge. Do you know that I missed you in England? he said. He reached for my hair and tucked it behind my shoulder.
For a moment, a kind of spell fell over us. I don’t know—maybe we were going to kiss then, we were looking at each other like we both wanted to, or maybe I was just imagining it, but then one of our mothers—I can’t even remember which one, maybe it was even Kirstin’s mum—called from the terrace: Kids! It’s time to get ready. Come inside— and just like that, the moment passed. Mark shrugged. Thanks for the lotion.
You’re not going to need it now anyway.
Kids! came another call.
***
That year, I wore a long olive gown that fell in a straight silhouette down to my ankles. I was almost ready. My mother had already gone downstairs, and I couldn’t get the back closed—there was a zipper as well as two hooks that needed fastening—so I came out of the room to call her up again. Mark was on the landing, on his way downstairs. He already had on his tuxedo and bowtie. For a second, I went still. He looked astonishingly handsome—starched shirt and all—and I told him so. It was a simple statement of truth. Wow, I said. You look good.
You too, he said. Then he looked again. Wait—something’s not right with that dress.
Without the back done up, the dress was sort of sagging off one side.
It isn’t zipped up, I said. Can you?
He stared at me as though I’d lost my mind.
Please—Mummy’s already gone down.
I walked over to him, turned and lifted my hair. And he obligingly zipped me up. Sometimes you seem to forget I’m a healthy male, he mumbled.
I looked over my shoulder. Not really. I think I caught him by surprise there, because his hand paused mid-motion. Sometimes I think you forget I’m a healthy woman—or a woman at all for that matter.
He blinked—once, twice. I stared at him, daring him to add to that, but he just finished zipping me up and then fastened the two hooks. You’d better go put on shoes. We’re late and dad’s downstairs getting a baby over it.
The gala was packed. Out in the gardens, white balloons intertwined with lights hung suspended over the tables. Inside, in the ballroom where the band played, chiffon drapes cascaded from the ceiling. There was the customary flurry of hugs and kisses as I met friends I’d made over the years of attending to the ball. At that age, back home, Mark had his friends and I had mine, but here, we all blended seamlessly. I was in a good mood, feeling flirty with all the boys around, but my gaze never strayed too far from Mark.
It was after dinner, not long before midnight, that the idea came to me—who knows, perhaps emboldened by a little too much to drink or the memory of the day on the coffee fields. One of the guys in our group had just come over with shots of tequila. The only way to bring in the New Year, he announced. We were on the dance floor and each of us took a glass, downed it, then started jumping in unison to the song pumping through the room. Mark wasn’t with us. He was on the edge of the dance floor by one of the tables, talking to someone, a friend of his father’s, I think. But he glanced over, and our gazes met. That’s when the idea came to me—I would get him to kiss me again. Come, I beckoned with both my hands. He smiled but remained there, listening to the man.
I’m going to get Mark, I said to the others.
***
He saw me approaching. How many shots have you had? he asked.
Just one. I held out a finger.
You’re way too happy for just one.
Cross my heart.
Anna, right? the man he was talking to asked. Barbara’s daughter?
I nodded, then tiptoed up to Mark’s ear. Want me to rescue you? I whispered.
I hope you don’t mind, I said to the man. But we need Mark on the dance floor. It’s almost midnight.
The man shrugged. You’d better go, he said to Mark.
I took Mark’s hand and pulled him onto the dance floor. Everyone cheered when I returned with him. A few minutes later the DJ began her countdown. Ten, nine, eight— she reached one, and—Happy New Year 1989.
Streamers went flying into the air. Horns blew. The band started playing Auld Lang Syne. People were kissing each other. I turned to Mark, smiling wide. Happy New Year.
Happy New Year.
From behind, someone swivelled me around, and before I knew it, there was a group hug happening, everyone getting squished together. 1989 is gonna be the year of romance, the DJ crooned. That’s a promise to all you lovers out there on the floor tonight. She played A Groovy Kind of Love by Phil Collins. I felt Mark’s hands come around my waist and turn me back to him. Hey there, he said. Happy New Year.
I moved closer and put my arms around his neck. Happy New Year.
It was an incredibly charged dance. I could feel butterflies run the length of my body all the way down to my feet.
Somewhere in the middle of the song, I lifted myself to his ear and whispered, Take me home early. I had never done anything this bold before.
He stopped moving completely.
Tell your dad I’m not feeling well and you’re going to drive me home and you’ll come back for them later.