The Spectacular

ALSO BY FIONA DAVISThe DollhouseThe AddressThe MasterpieceThe Chelsea GirlsThe Lions of Fifth AvenueThe Magnolia Palace An imprint of Penguin Random House LLCpenguinrandomhouse.comCopyright © 2023 by Fiona DavisPenguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.DUTTON and the D colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATANames: Davis, Fiona, 1966– author.Title: The Spectacular: a novel / Fiona Davis.Description: 1. | New York : Dutton, [2023]Identifiers: LCCN 2022059177 (print) | LCCN 2022059178 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593184042 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593184059 (ebook)Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.Classification: LCC PS3604.A95695 S64 2023 (print) | LCC PS3604.A95695 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/20221212LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022059177LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022059178Cover design by Sarah OberrenderCover image of marquee by Naomi Galai/Getty; image of Radio City Music Hall by agf photo/SuperstockInterior design adapted for ebook by Maggie HuntThis a work of fiction. Although certain story elements and characters are inspired by true events and real historical figures, they are used fictitiously and not intended to depict actual people or events or change the entirely fictional nature of this work. Other names, characters, places, events, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and in these instances, any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.pid_prh_6.0_143791173_c0_r0 CONTENTSCoverAlso by Fiona DavisTitle PageCopyrightDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-OneChapter Thirty-TwoChapter Thirty-ThreeChapter Thirty-FourChapter Thirty-FiveAuthor’s NoteAcknowledgmentsAbout the Author_143791173_ For Greg Wands CHAPTER ONEDECEMBER 1992I still dance in my dreams.But not in my life. In my life, I shuffle around this too-large house, tossing whatever is within reach into the nearest cardboard box, not bothering to wrap anything in newspaper or to make sure the box labeled living room actually contains items from the living room.The movers are far more worried about my belongings than I am. As I’ve hit my fifties, I’ve found that the stuff that surrounds me every day has lost its charm. Like the clock on the fireplace mantel that I pick up, surprised at its heft. The darn thing hasn’t worked in a decade. Or the cast-iron Le Creuset pot that sits in a drawer doing absolutely nothing. I haven’t given a dinner party in ages, and I’m not about to start now. Some people end up hoarding their possessions, unable to get rid of the plastic bags that the groceries came in, but that’s not me. To be honest, I’m getting a kick out of seeing box after box go out the door, like a snake shedding its skin. Out the door and into the big truck, to be dropped off at the Salvation Army. The few pieces that are left, including my antique bed and my favorite armchair, will be delivered to a sunny one-bedroom with high ceilings in Sutton Gardens, an independent-living community for the fifty-five-and-over set, where you can mind your own business in the comfort of your room or join in on a water-aerobics class, depending on the day.You would think that after independent living comes dependent living, but instead it’s “assisted,” which brings to mind someone delicately holding your elbow as you cross the street in the best of circumstances or offering extra leverage as you rise from the commode in the worst. Having been the assistant myself for many years, I know full well what’s involved. Finally, there’s the memory-care floor, which is a laugh because for most folks behind those locked doors, there aren’t that many memories left to be careful about.That’s not me, though. Not by a long shot. At fifty-five, I still have all my memories intact, thank you very much. There are days when I wouldn’t mind blocking out the more painful ones, but I have nothing to complain about, not yet. I’m aware of my limitations, but I’m not defined by them.My new lodgings are just down the road from this house, so I’m not venturing very far. Even though Bronxville is only eighteen miles from Midtown Manhattan, it’s an oasis of green, renowned for its “stockbroker Tudor” houses, the term coined after the newly rich snapped them up in the 1920s and ’30s. People like my father, who was looking for a home that was close to the city but not too close, a place that showed he had good taste and a good job. My father never got tired of pointing out the slate roof and lead glass windows to visitors. He may not have been a stockbroker, but he was a company man and proud of it.I look about my living room, almost expecting to see him drinking a scotch in his favorite armchair, and my throat tightens.“Let me help you with that.”One of the movers, a skinny kid with freckles whom the others have teased all afternoon, puts the box he was carrying on the coffee table and comes toward me, eyes wide. He gently takes the clock from my hands.“It doesn’t work,” I say, wiping the dust from my palms. “You can have it, if you like. Maybe it can be fixed.”“We’re not allowed to take anything,” he says. “But thanks.”He looks like he’s barely sixteen and is more tentative in his actions than his cohorts, who move about the house like they own it. “You’re new at this,” I say.“It’s my first day.”“That’s why they’re making you do all the hard work, like climbing up into the attic. You better not take that kind of guff from them. They’ll never stop.”“I don’t mind.” He pauses. “I found some things in the attic that I thought you might want to sift through,