The Socialite.

Jan 04, 2008 - 21:41 PM PST

I wrote this piece two years ago after watching "Gosford Park". It was a warm spring midnight and I could hear the clock chime in the village (I'm actually serious about that). Don't judge the ending too quickly. Its the way it is for a reason.



The Socialite
Rebecca Pilling


Crickets heralded in the summer that year. She stood at an upstairs window, smoking a cigarette, staring soberly at the full moon over the moor. There was a cool breeze blowing through the open window but she felt no need to cover up. The light from the moon shone blue on her face and hair. Her pink slip, which appeared white in the light, clung to her body displaying her waiflike figure.
She stood at a window in the corridor, barefoot. She didn’t like to smoke in guest bedrooms and she didn’t feel like dressing to go downstairs. She saw the open window, felt the cool breeze and the moonlight was so inviting. It was doubtful anyone would be along at that hour – little danger of anyone discovering her.
The breeze blew again. She shivered slightly but took no notice. The air seemed to draw her towards the open window. The cool air and the moonshine were so delightful, they were almost intoxicating, and she began to feel loose and relaxed. Whether it was the effect of nature or the nicotine fix, she couldn’t be sure, but she like the feeling.
Popping the cig between her teeth, she linked her fingers behind her head and stretched her hands to the ceiling pulling her whole body up until she stood on tiptoes. Then abruptly she dropped back into the carpet and stood in the previous attitude feeling lighter than she had before.
She took a drag and blew the smoke slowly and steadily at the moon. Had anyone seen her, the effect would have been disarming. A beautiful face framed by blue blonde hair through a smoky moonlit veil.
She appeared almost ten years younger in the hazy moonlight, her face devoid of makeup, her hair loose. High heeled shoes and the right clothes coupled with a bitter knowledge of life, normally made her appear older. She’d ceased giving her age at sixteen and let people assume what they liked and let those who could remember, remember. Whenever asked her age, she simply ignored the question.
At her last birthday a friend commented on the absence of candles on the cake. She replied,
“Candles? Who puts candles on cakes anymore? Why, I haven’t had candles on my cake since I was a child!” Four years previously.
The breeze drew her closer to the sill; it seemed to beckon her with its tantalizing possibilities. She felt a sudden urge to embrace those possibilities. She wanted to throw her arms out and fly into those possibilities. She couldn’t exactly do that but she could compromise.
The old manor had big, thick, stonewalls resulting in large windows with wide sills, substantial enough for her tiny person to perch satisfactorily without fear of falling off. She pulled herself up and sat so she was facing the moor again. Her legs, blue in the moonlight, dangled out the window.
She raised her arms above her head and felt the cool air rushing around her body. It was almost like flying, but not quite. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried again. She imagined she was really flying. She felt herself lifting off the sill and her lithe body passing through air. Her hair blowing in the cool summer breeze.
It was a glorious feeling. The feeling of lightness filled her with glee. She seemed to soar. No more pressure holding her down, no longer tethered, she was delighted by it all. Finally at peace; finally happy, she was suddenly bursting with joy, giddy laughter filled her soul. What appeared to be the sun shone before her and she laughed harder still.
The following morning they found her cold, dead cigarette on the stone windowsill.