by Alexis Hall
In the car, he passed me a neat little parcel, and explained, “We were instructed to bring a book.”
“To dinner?”
He nodded. “I hope you don’t mind that I had Bellerose provide one.”
“Did he also pick the restaurant?”
“He”—Caspian got all pinkish at the top of his cheekbones—“helped me come up with something you would like.”
“Maybe I should go out with him.”
“I would strenuously object.”
I unwrapped the book and burst out laughing. It was a folio society edition of Rebecca.
The restaurant turned out to be this wood cabin built on a traffic island near London Bridge. Inside, it was clean and unfussy, all grown-up shades of brown, and books everywhere—there was even one on our table, a copy of Eros the Bittersweet. And it turned out the whole deal was about telling stories through food. Which I…yeah. Cheesy or not, I loved it.
And, best of all, they had a tasting menu so I was saved from having to order, something I always hated. I mean, not what beans I wanted in my burrito, but there was way too much pressure in fancy places. You had to worry about the price of things, whether you were paying or not, and also what your choices might be saying about you. Like if you had the beef after the crab, did that mean you were a yahoo, and everyone was secretly laughing? And…and…on top of all that was the major commitment you were making to a large, expensive plate of food that you might not even like.
But this way I got to sit there and enjoy a candlelit Caspian and the food took care of itself: arriving as part of what seemed to be an endless parade of exciting nibbles. Some of which, I’ll admit, were slightly challenging for a middle-class boy who grew up in the middle of nowhere, but I quickly got swept up in the drama of never quite knowing what was going to turn up next. We had savory Oreos, called Storeos, made with squid ink and eel mousse, and crispy cod skin with cod roe emulsion, and black pudding topped with pineapple. And that was before the meal had even properly started. I didn’t think my bouche had ever been so comprehensively amused.
They brought us pouches of sourdough next served with condiments, and I literally squealed when it turned out the candle was made of beef fat and had been quietly forming a pool of warm, meaty deliciousness for us to dip the bread into. I did quite a lot of squealing, actually, as the various dishes appeared. Squealing, squeaking, gasping. Occasionally even waving my hands in the air. Everything was just so pretty and playful and weird, like the teeny-tiny mashed potato served with coal oil, or the Snow White apple that was presented to us in a bowl of billowing dry ice and opened up to reveal beef tartare and truffle, or the tiny little milk bottles that were full of rhubarb and custard soda.
And Caspian…God, I don’t quite know. He was looking at me the way he looked at Star Wars. Which made me so happy I got scared. Because it made me realize that I’d been with Caspian longer than I’d ever been with anyone and I had no idea what it meant. Our relationship had started with a blow job on a balcony, progressed to a pre-negotiated, short-term sexual arrangement, and then exploded.. And now it was…nothing and everything and we were at a restaurant together and was he my boyfriend?
Was Caspian Hart my boyfriend?
And did I even want him to be? Since it generally resulted in me going off someone pretty quickly.
Eh. Was it really worth worrying about? It was obvious Caspian liked me. And liked me far more than I was used to being liked. More than any reasonable person ought to like me, in all honesty. But I couldn’t help wondering: did it feel for him the way it felt for me? These Icarus wings, heavy on your back, and full of the promise of power, drawing you higher and higher and faster and faster until you couldn’t tell anymore whether you were flying or falling or soaring or drowning.
Chapter 23
I’d meant to be delightful when Caspian left, sending him across the ocean with the sweetness of my kisses lingering on his lips, but unfortunately our parting took place at 4 a.m. And so I was mainly half asleep, mumbly, and pathetic. I think I got my message across, though, especially when I wrapped my arms around his leg and wouldn’t let go.
“I’ll be back next Saturday,” he said, trying to sound exasperated and actually just laughing. “Please let go. I don’t want to be late.”
“No. I’m keeping you.”
“Arden.”
I whimpered tragically. “Promise you’ll come and see me straight away? As soon as you land?”
“It’s Eleanor’s birthday. Have you forgotten?”
Oh shit. Where had August gone? “Only technically.”
“How about”—he peeled my hand gently off his knee and gave it a squeeze—“I pick you up and we go together?”
That startled me almost awake. “You want to take me to…um…a family thing?”
“Why not? You were invited.”
“I know, but it seems serious, doesn’t it?”
“If you’re uncomfortable, I can meet you there.”
“No!” Oops. Capslock! Ardy Strikes Back. It was too late to sound nonchalant now, but I tried. “It’s cool.”
He smiled, and bent down to kiss my nose. “Then it’s a date.”
The sheer sweetness of those words left me floating through Sunday in a happy haze. On Monday, though, work happened to me. I honestly hadn’t expected Poppy to say yes, since all we’d discussed was the interview. But she did—as long as I was still involved. And from then on everything became a flurry of agents and publicists and contracts and ahhh. It took most of the week, untold emails and even a couple of conference calls, all of which felt way above my pay grade. Especially because I didn’t have a pay grade.
But, somehow, by Thursday, it had all come together. And, with the end in sight, an email plinked into my inbox that was only to me. It was from Mara Fairfax, the editor of Milieu, and it said: “Do come along to the office. This afternoon. 2?” Nine words and the world’s most unconvincing question mark—as impenetrable as a text from someone you fancied when you weren’t quite sure if they fancied you back. Was this a casual visit? A job interview? Did they just want to look at me like I was a monkey at the zoo?
Still, at least I didn’t have long to fret about it. A little before two, I’d navigated a receptionist and was ascending to the appropriate floor of a moderately ugly, portico-fronted office block off Hanover Square. A woman, a leggy brunette in pearls and ballet flats, was waiting for me at the far end of a long, white corridor, where the words MILIEU, EST 1702, was picked out in gigantic, shiny letters on the wall.
“You’re Arden, aren’t you?” she said, stepping forward. “I’m Tabitha. Tabitha England-Plume and, yes, I’m a real person and that’s my real name. You can look me up if you like. I’m in the Bible.”
I shook her hand dazedly. “Were you begat?”
“The other Bible. Debrett’s.”
“Oh. The thing is, I haven’t actually…”
“Don’t worry, Mara’ll give you a copy. It’s all terribly silly really.”
She led me under the Milieu sign and into the office itself. I was braced for the full Devil Wears Prada but, actually, it was kind of banal. Plainly decorated, with computers tucked into cubicles, it could have been the admin block for almost anything. The Wernham Hogg Paper Company. Maybe half of the workstations were occupied. All of them frighteningly tidy.
“Mara’s nuts about clutter-free working,” said Tabitha. “This way.”
I hurried after her down another corridor, this one lined by framed Milieu covers. Things gradually got shinier—through their glass walls, I caught glimpses of fancy meeting spaces and rooms so full of clothing racks you could barely have wriggled inside.
Mara’s own office, when we finally got there, was large, but not swaggeringly so. It was clean and bright, austerely decorated with a few black and white prints, and what I took to be a personal photograph of a laughing girl and a horse. There was room for a sofa and glass-topped desk, and a large table, currently strewn with photo
graphs, which was where the action seemed to be happening.
A woman, who I thought was Mara Fairfax, was leaning over the images, studying them with a focus bordered on ferocity. Her colleague, probably the photographer, had her hips braced against the edge of the table, one foot—in a perfectly polished Oxford—swinging idly. She was pretty much the picture of glamorous nonchalance, in high-waisted pinstriped trousers held up by braces over a low-cut white shirt, but then she reached out to Mara and tucked a strand of her honey-brown hair gently behind her ear. Which Mara herself hardly seemed to notice.
“Well,” she said, “I think any of these three could be a cover. Or maybe just these two. I like her face in this one—there’s a softness there, almost a whimsy, which isn’t a side of her we usually see. But this one, the shape of her body”—her hand traced a curve—“it’s pure Kate.”
The photographer tapped the second. “This is it, I think.”
“Let’s try it.” Mara straightened up. And then, with a wave of her hand, “Come in, you two. Have a seat.”
“Um. Hello.” I perched on the edge of one of the chairs in front of Mara’s desk.
“I’m Mara Fairfax. And I’m sure you’ll have heard of George, here.”
Was this a test? There was really only one notable George in the British magazine photography. I’d seen what I’d assumed to be his name credited on so many fashion and editorial shoots. Time Out. Skin Two. Vogue. Milieu. “George…Chase? You’re George Chase?”
“It’s so convenient when one’s reputation precedes one.” She reached into the pocket of her trousers and pulled out a card case. Flicking it open, she extricated a business card and held it out to me between two agile, knotty-knuckled fingers.
It was matte black, faintly textured under my thumb, a barely visible circular pattern that suggested the shape of a lens. All it said was GEORGIA CHASE: LIBERTINE, ROUÉ, PHOTOGRAPHER. And then a website.
“Anyway,” said Mara, effortlessly reclaiming my attention, “thank you for coming in, Arden. You’ve sent us some quite interesting pieces.”
“I have? Gosh. Thank you.”
Mara Fairfax wasn’t what I’d expected. But then my expectations had probably been thrown off by too much Meryl Streep. She was about five years older than George, maybe more, not exactly beautiful, but classically English: all strong bones and clear skin, and the sturdy athleticism of having spent most of your life on horseback. “Why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?”
I glanced from Mara to George and back again, still not entirely sure what was happening. After a dithery couple of moments, I decided to risk a direct approach. I mean, what was the worst that could happen—apart from excruciating personal embarrassment, that is. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why am I here?”
“I’m deciding whether I like you.”
“And what happens if you do?”
“Then I offer you a job.”
I successfully managed not to fall off my chair. Go me. “At Milieu? OMG. I mean…uh…holy shi—that would be a dream come true. But I should tell you, I…I just got my degree results and I sort of…I got a 2.2.”
There was a silence. I waited to be escorted from the building.
Tabitha laughed. “I got a third.”
“And Mara here,” said George, grinning, “was sent down.”
She shrugged. “If I hadn’t been, I would never have met you.”
“Oh please God no.” That was Tabitha. “No more stories about New York in the eighties. It was a golden age. You once threw up on Andy Warhol. We get it.”
“Alas, poor Tabs. The most exciting thing you’ve ever vomited over are your Jimmy Choos.” George climbed lazily to her feet. “But, in any case, I should leave you all to your chat.” She began gathering up her photographs, pausing only to glance my way. “I do hope we meet again, poppet.”
And, with that, she sauntered out.
Leaving me genuinely unable to figure out whether I was relieved or not. She seemed kind of into me, which probably meant she was my ally in whatever was happening here. But, at the same time, she had legs for miles and a fantastic rack and she kept smirking at me distractingly.
So I guess I was overall grateful for her absence.
Especially because, so help me God, I was not fucking this up. It was the opportunity of a lifetime and I wanted it so badly it was making my throat tight and my mouth dry. My brain, of course, was a flurry of uncertainties. It wanted to tell me I wasn’t good enough. That I didn’t deserve this. That I’d only end up disappointing everyone.
But I wasn’t listening. I wasn’t.
I’d earned this chance. Worked for it. Milieu and me were made for each other. And I was going to land this job.
Because, let’s face it, I was likeable as fuck.
* * *
Fifty minutes later, I emerged flayed, dazed, giddy, and job-having.
Junior Assistant Editor. I was a junior assistant editor.
Truthfully, I was still a bit shaky on what that actually involved. But, whatever it was, it was a real thing and I was going to be paid for it. Not, y’know, much. But I’d never been paid for anything before. Unless you counted that time Caspian had established a scholarship in my name after I’d given him a blow job.
I lurched past one of the Pitts and into Hanover Square. Slumped onto a bench, amid the swirling green, and messaged everyone I knew with shaking fingers. Caspian first, of course. And he was the first to get back to me, signing his congratulations off with an x, which was incredibly effusive for him, squeaking in before my family, who sang to me as follows: We knew you could do it / Just call it a hunch / Ardy’s delicious & nutritious / For dinner, breakfast, and lunch. Rabbie and Hazel wrote music for adverts, and pined after the days of the unironic jingle, so most of my accomplishments were celebrated via cheesy earworm.
Tucking my feet onto the edge of the bench, I hugged my knees and watched the shadows of the trees dancing over the grass. I was half expecting to jolt awake and find myself back at Oxford, in my single bed, under my crappy duvet, on the morning of my first exam. Having desperation-dreamed this whole absurd fable: being with Caspian, meeting Ellery, not completely fucking up my finals, landing a job at Milieu.
Except no. This was my life. This was really my life.
I bounced up, flung wide my arms, and wheeled in circles, accompanied by a few startled pigeons. Well. I figured I deserved my very own Disney princess moment. Even if I did look slightly bonkers.
From there, I headed home, where I found Ellery and a bottle of scary-expensive congratulatory champagne Caspian had contrived to send me that she’d mostly drunk. Her pink tulle skirt and leather jacket combination made her look like Tinkerbell gone bad.
“Came to be all yay and shit,” she explained.
I twitched the champagne from her hand and took a swig. The bubbles rushed up my nose and down my chin and left me sneezing. Gosh, I was just the coolest. “It seems like you’ve started the party without me.”
“Haven’t you heard?” She gave me her flattest stare. “I am the party.”
Laughing, I went to shed my coat and shoes. When I came back, she was standing by the fridge and tearing the foil away from another bottle of champagne with her teeth.
As ever, I was mildly qualmish about taking advantage of Caspian’s largesse or whatever. But technically Ellery was the one taking advantage. And I really did have something to celebrate.
Pulling herself onto the edge of one the gleaming marble counters, she popped the cork with upper-class ease. Foam surged upward, splashing onto the floor and running down her hand. I would have been squeaking and flailing for a cloth, but she only laughed and licked the champagne from her arm, spilling even more as the gesture tilted the bottle downward.
Mustering some of her insouciance, I skirted the puddles of champagne and hopped onto the counter next to her.
She nudged my knee with hers and passed me the bottle. “I’m happy for you.”
<
br /> “Thanks.” I swigged—didn’t choke myself this time—and kicked her gently back.
“Is this…what you want to do? With your life or whatever?”
“Yes. I mean, ideally at some point in a less tea-making, better-paying capacity. But this is a super exciting start.”
“Cool.”
We passed the bottle back and forth for a while. Ellery, though, seemed restless, her heels catching against the cabinets below.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She shrugged. And, then, after an uncomfortably long pause, “Just thinking about shit. I was quite busy dying for a while. And then I had to not die. Now I guess I have to do something else.”
“Well. Is there anything you like?”
“I liked dying. I was into that.” Her mouth curled into a rare smile. “Good at it too.”
I reached out and ran my thumb across the bumpy, wrong-way scar on her wrist. “I’d say you were mediocre at best.”
And she threw back her head and laughed the rough, throaty laugh that reminded me so much of Caspian. Not so much the sound of it, but the way it tore itself free, like a butterfly from a cocoon. It made me want to hug the shit out of both of them.
“So how about,” I said instead, “we back-burner suicide for the time being?”
She rolled her eyes. “If you insist.”
“Is there anything else you enjoy?”
“Coke?”
“Seems to me you’d make a very successful investment banker.”
“Nahh.” She took another swallow of champagne. “My dick’s too big.”