An Evening With Mr Maxwell-Scott Chapter 3

We approached Gatsby’s place as per every Saturday night. The first time I came I wasn’t with Ava. A business colleague, the kind of man who is rarely seen without his Italian leather attache case and three piece suit, instructed me that attendance was absolutely essential. You see it is here, in this cavernous mansion in which only a single enigma of a man lives, that the most important business deals in New York are discussed and agreed upon. For me, it was also the first time I saw her. There she was with her head tipped back in laughter, a simple gesture that exposed her seemingly inherent joy. Her crystal blue eyes were, even from across the room, enchanting.

That was a balmy May evening six months ago when the first whispers of summer were distinctly intoxicating. This evening is far more crisp, requiring the heat of a Gatsby party which after all creates its own warmth due to the sparks between the masses of New York. I was wearing a midnight blue suit with a handcrafted wallet slipped into my suit jacket as a symbol of all I would need for the evening ahead – an evening full of promise and possibilities. The delicate straw-coloured champagne in hand glistened with an elegance that was reflected by its surroundings. Everyone knew that on a Saturday night there was a place to go that echoed with the voices of showgirls, businessmen and rogues. The house of a successful man, a man who held the very best parties, a name renowned wherever you may be in the bustle of New York. They say Gatsby killed a man you know. That he made his money in drugstores. There’s even a rumour that he’s an Oxford man. They are rumours though, of course, because none of us have ever seen him.

That night I didn’t notice the majority of the music, dancing and cocktails. I was focused on her, she was absolutely enchanting. Her Italian leather zipped purse was dripping elegantly from her wrist. Now I often watch her within our group as she offers witty remarks, the latest gossip and titbits of philosophy. Within the cacophony of sound, the laughter and music and couples wildly dancing the Charleston, she sits effortlessly displaying that evening’s silk dress and her classic accessories.

“That’s absolutely barbaric” exclaimed Jordan Baker who most surely was exaggerating her response. This was her style, after all, to create her own narrative regardless of facts like whether she had or had not moved the golf ball in that infamous game. She was dressed in a typically stunning black jumpsuit, paired with a thin clutch. Our families had been friends for years, so it’s understandable that it was Jordan who introduced me to Ava. And for the past 6 months, here we have been. It’s always here that I am most in love with her as all worries and issues seem to dissipate into the sensorily rich air. Here, she is effervescent.