by Leick, Hera
"Shut up," James responds.
"No worries, James, maybe you can cut it up into like, ten thousand little squares and use them as drink coasters or something. You actually got off easy. You should see the monstrosity I had to buy once. Come to think of it, you have seen it. It's in the second guest bathroom, right across from the loo. The one that makes it hard to pee without thinking the thing in the painting is going to magically jump out and hack you to death with an axe."
I wish desperately I had something heavier to throw at Preston's head than the tiny clutch bag that Jessica had loaned me. Maybe if I manoeuvre the right way I can get one of my heels off and—
A petite woman, clicking in heels underneath her sequined silver dress, interrupts my GBH plot. Her hair is pinned up loosely, revealing giant diamond earrings, and I’m suddenly aware that my own jewellery was bought at a street fair and is probably made of glass and fishing wire.
Her dress is stunning. Strapless, slim, adorned with thousands of glittering silver pearl beads, a stunning column that reminds me that the peacock feathers on my own gown is held on with hot glue. Her skin is so fresh and dewy that it seems to sparkle pink and silver under the hotel lights as she takes my hand.
There is something really familiar about her face. . .
"I simply adore your dress." She reaches out unabashedly and brushes the feathers on my bodice, and my eyes are nearly blinded by the diamond solitaire, the size of a hailstone, sitting on her fourth finger. "The colour is absolutely dashing, I love the blue, it's so beautiful on you. Preston," she calls out suddenly. "This is the colour we should paint the guest bathroom."
Preston saunters over, the shit-eating grin having never left his face, with James by his side. "I don't know, dear, it may remind me of Adelaide standing there, looking at me with criminal intent in her eyes. Adelaide, I don't think you've met, but this is my wife, Camilla. Camilla, Adelaide is a friend of mine from way back."
"Pleasure to meet you," Camilla says, still clinging to my hand. "Really, my brother's told me so much about you and I couldn’t wait to meet you in person. I saw your painting, by the way. It's wonderful."
"Uh. . . " I can barely get that much out.
James comes from behind me and says, "That would be me."
I can’t believe it. The guy I’m obsessing over, the one who is currently and potentially very successfully getting into my knickers tonight—for the fourth time!—is indirectly related to Preston, and has been for some time. Preston, my friend for years, who knows everything about my past, including picking me up at late hours in sketchy places whilst in different levels of intoxication, and sometimes sobbing hysterically, including the times when I was flat broke and my heating was shut off and I was too ashamed to tell my family.
Including the disaster that was Ethan.
I straighten my spine. "I make a better first impression than my brother."
Camilla beams and links arms with me. "You look absolutely fabulous. We are going to make this a night you will never forget."
The booze is good.
Very, very good.
I’m drilling away through a third martini. The gin is so smooth that I could chug it down like an energy drink. I’m tempted, just to deal with everyone staring at me.
It had started with Camilla introducing me to the rest of the board, a cluster of women with smooth, straight hair and black Lanvin dresses, wearing gemstones worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.
"Lovely gown," one of them had said to me, an older woman with a name like Winny or Binky or something. "Who is it?"
"Uh," I’d stuttered. "It's nothing. It was an old dress of my friend's I took apart."
The Winnys had given their short condescending smiles, but Camilla had squealed. "You made it? That is so fabulous." She had turned to the women. "She is my brother's girlfriend. An artist. She is super-creative like that."
They had all smiled and nodded, barely able to conceal their disdain, while I had internally dealt with the new uneasy feeling that Camilla's words had shot through me.
She is my brother's girlfriend.
That is a little too fast. . . I mean, we haven’t even been on a proper date yet.
The second martini hadn't taken away that awkward feeling. Or the stares. But the third and current one is getting me there slowly.
James comes up from behind me without my knowing. He seems to be very good at that. One of his hands rests on the small of my back, and I shiver at the light touch.
"Having fun?" he murmurs deliciously in my ear.
"Uh. . .” I say through a tight smile. "I'm not really sure. How do you have fun at these things?"
"Easy. You just keep drinking until you forget you're human."
"Well then—"I hold up my now-empty martini glass"—in that case, I'm having a fabulous time."
"Good." He bends down, and suddenly his mouth is against mine, and he is kissing me tenderly. We break apart, and my heart pounds so hard that it’s practically constricting my throat. "Want another?"
"Kiss or drink?"
"I can do both." He kisses me again, with more heat and pressure, and doesn’t stop, not even when someone clears their throat behind us.
When he pulls back, I pull the olive out of my empty glass and hold it up to his lips. "Like I said, fabulous time."
True to form, it isn’t long after being kissed by James that my night starts going down the rabbit hole.
For one, like I’d said, the booze is very, very good. A little too good. My head is starting to spin, and my inhibitions are definitely down, beaten, and left for dead by my hormones. I grab James' firm bum, which startles him, and I merely laugh in return. Every single thought floating through my mind for the past hour has been about how and when to shag him senseless.
Secondly, I’m starting to sweat. And molt. The heat from my increasingly intoxicated body and naturally occurring friction has rubbed some of the peacock feathers off. Preston points out just exactly where they are, suggesting a great deal are stuck down James' front.
The third strike comes near the end of the evening, during all the back patting and congratulating and picture taking. I deftly avoid the cameras—now that my dress makes me look like a peacock that’s been run over—when an older man wearing a Penguin tuxedo leans in over my shoulder, his breath full of whisky.
"Nice tits," he whispers, snaking one hand down and pinching my behind. "Would love to see them later."
In any other room, in any other situation, I would belt him without second-guessing my actions, but then a thought runs through my head: Who and what is this man? He could be the police commissioner, or a politician, maybe someone Chloe works with, maybe James' important boss. The possibility of the old leech’s power terrifies me. He is definitely somebody important, and I am a nobody. Just a pretty face attached to a pretty peacock body.
Camilla must have seen something because she’s at my side in a flash, elbowing the older man out of the way. "Are you okay?"
I’m not okay. I’m drunk, that’s for sure. And tired. And humiliated. I feel the colour drain from my face and I’m shaking a little. Camilla barks out orders and ushers me outside.
James' smile doesn’t last long when he sees me. "Adelaide, what happened? You all right?"
I take a deep breath. He looks furious. "I'm fine. . . I'm just tired."
"You mean shitfaced," Preston cackles. Camilla smacks him on the arm. "Ow."
"Do you want to leave?" James asks. He cups my face in his hands and lifts my chin so I’m forced to look at him. But I’m afraid to look him in the eyes, so I lower mine and nod.
I barely speak on the way home, scared that whatever I want to say is wrong and will add to the tension. He pulls in front of my flat and I notice the light is on in Bailey's workspace. James exits the car and opens my door.
"Adelaide." I turn to him. "I don't believe you're okay."
"I very much am, I'm sorry."
Most men would let it go and end the n
ight, whether it’s because they don’t want the burden or that they simply don’t pick up on it. James seems to have a knack for seeing past my exterior. He picks up on the little things, the things that sometimes gnaw their way inside of my head. He doesn’t see right through me. He sees into me. It’s terrifying like a sudden undercurrent appearing beneath me. Yet, I have no wish to swim away.
"I'm just acting like a drunk twit."
"No you’re not. I don't feel comfortable ending the night like this. Tell me what’s wrong."
I can’t leave it like this. "Can you come over tomorrow? Like, about seven?"
James nods. "I'll be here."
I manage a small smile. "You can dress down. Like, no neckwear, unless you really feel like it."
He smiles. "I’ll walk you upstairs."
"No it's okay, my brother's awake, anyway." I brush some errant feathers off his suit jacket.
"Okay, but I’m owed another kiss."
His hair is glowing under the sodium glare of the streetlights, and he’s not gentle when he brings his face to mine. I press my body against his, which is hard pretty much everywhere except his lips. His hands brush down my back, his fingers splayed and I close my eyes as my body undulates against his, teased with the hardness of his hot mouth, his groans.
His hand moves up to caress along my spine, and I start to feel hot sensations begin to burn between my thighs.I feel like dying when he breaks away first. His eyes are dark and heated as I bite my lip lightly.
"If I don't stop," he says, his voice a strained rasp, "I won't be able to." I brush my thumb against his lips, and he takes my hand and kisses it. "I'll be here at seven tomorrow. No neckwear."
"I'll see you then," I reply, gathering my skirts. "Goodnight."
"’Night, love."
Bailey is at his workstation when I enter our flat, clicking on dual monitors with iPod buds stuck in his ears. He pulls them out when I lean back against the door and slide down to the floor, my head tucked into my arms.
"Hey." He is at my side in three strides. "Adelaide, what's wrong?"
It all comes out in an emotional geyser; the stares, the smirks, the helpless, lost, alienated feeling of total alienation in visiting a world so unlike my own. I leave out the part about the old perv groping me. There is no reason to start drama and wake Chloe up.
"Bailey, it’s just weird. Like, any other girl would shave their head and crawl to date a guy like this, but the way he lives is just so different from where I live. I wasn’t comfortable the entire night." I sigh. "Okay, I lie. I had fun in the car when it was just me and him and he let me do the shifting. . . "
Bailey sits down next to me. "Wow. He let you touch something in his car that wasn’t the seatbelt? Jesus. Listen, do you feel weird because of James, or because of other people? Because he can't control other people, you know."
"I know. And it isn’t him, it’s just. . . what if that's how his life is, how he really is?"
My mind races back in time. He had wagered me in a card game for God knows how much, which suggests money and power have no meaning to him. . . Could I be okay with that? I’m not really sure I could be.
Bailey runs his hands through his unruly hair. "Really, Addie? Do you really believe that?"
I look at the floor again. "Honestly? I don’t know."
"Stop the neuroses, okay? You're just dating a guy, one person, and not being formally introduced into high society. Just focus on that and block out all the other bullshit."
I lift my head and smile at my brother. He really gets it sometimes. "You're right."
"I know I'm right. And Christ, if you don't want him, I'll gladly take over for you."
"Bailey?”
“Yeah, shorty?”
“Love you, bro."
“Love you back, you big pain in the arse.” He helps me off the floor. "Yeah, I talk big, but he's still not good enough for my little sister." He playfully pings me on the nose. "No one is."
13
Hatter
“JAMES. WAKE UP.” One of Camilla’s bony feet connects with my side. “Come on."
I pull a pillow over my head, instantly regretting the day I gave her a key to my place.
"Wake up, we brought scones," Camilla continues, shaking my motionless body. "It's like, noon, anyway, and—wait, how many sleeping pills did you take?"
"One," I mumble.
Why won’t she piss off?
"Oh great," she mutters. "You weigh like five thousand pounds when you're sleeping."
"It’s all muscle. Now go away."
"No. Preston's making tea. Plus you kind of need to shower."
I push myself into a sitting position and try to focus past the heavy fog in my brain. Camilla finally pisses off, and after a shower, I find both her and Preston in my kitchen, sitting at the island and eating scones, drinking tea.
"Sunshine," Preston bellows, holding up a flat object. "I brought you a present."
I rub one of my dry, aching eyes underneath my glasses. It’s a painting, sort of abstract, with a black misshapen figure with hundreds of teeth strangling a wooden tent pole. . . or something. Maybe I’m holding it upside down.
"What’s this?"
"That, my friend, is the masterpiece that was hanging in our guest bathroom. We figured since now you're intimately involved with the artist in question, you'd rather have it here terrifying you instead of causing evacuation problems to guests in our house."
I grunt and push it aside, reaching for a cup of tea. Preston passes a look to my sister before continuing. "Right. . . Adelaide, huh? Didn't take you for an art lover."
Camilla swallows a mouthful of scone before machine-gunning statements at us. "She is so cute. I like her. I like how she makes her own clothes. Her hair is really shiny. I feel really bad about what happened to her. Are you going to see her again?"
We both look at her, my head nearly snapping off in the process. "What happened to her?" I say slowly. I knew something wasn’t right when I’d dropped her off.
"You boys really didn’t see?" Camilla looks to Preston first, then me. Her expression tells us that she thinks we’re the stupidest people to have ever existed. "Seriously?"
"Camilla, shut up and tell me what happened."
"Don’t tell me to shut up, James, I’m older than you.”
“Don’t tell my wife to shut up,” Preston cuts in, shaking his head at me.
“You can definitely shut up, Preston,” I shoot back. “And you’re only older by one year. Now tell me. . . Please.”
Camilla sighs and puts her scone down. “I guess it all started when Wenny Gunderson was really rude about her dress. . . "
Preston barks out a mirthless laugh. "That's balls. Wenny Gunderson has had enough Botox in her face to paralyze an elephant."
"Yes well, anyway, after that, Wenny and Lindy Hewitt went around telling everyone that she is probably an escort, or a University student that James is slumming it with, even though I had already told everyone she is an artist, and get this—Russell Thomas actually has a painting of hers that his son bought him. Isn't that just neat?"
I drop into a chair. "Why, Camilla, did you not tell me any of this while it was bloody happening so I could do something?"
"So you could do what? Get all rude and Godzilla-like? Punch someone and cause a scene at a charity event where we are trying to raise money? Plus embarrass your date? Adelaide was really freaked out when Sir Philip Moor felt her up, that jerk. He is really getting out of control when he drinks."
I feel my pulse start to pound in my ears. Preston glances at me nervously. Finally I let out the breath I’m holding in. "That's why she was so upset. . . I'm an idiot."
"Yes," Camilla agrees. "I think she was too polite and ashamed to tell you. She had a pretty bad night."
I grind my teeth, my blood simmering in my veins. "Philip Moor is dead, you hear me? Dead."
Camilla rolls her eyes. "Okay, whatever, Badass. Sir Philip Moor is a High Court judge. Are you
just going to run up and punch him in the face the next time you see him?"
"Yes."
Camilla's expression hardens. I’m not the only one in the family with stones. "Leave him to me, okay? I won't let him get away with it, I promise. Honestly. All those stupid women are just jealous of Adelaide. I wish they would just let me organise the ball by myself. Then I can stop having it at that tacky Wonderland place. Now," she says, settling back and spreading jam on her scone. "Are you going to see Adelaide again?"
"Yeah, tonight. She told me to wear something casual."
Camilla pauses, slathering cream on top of her scone. "Wonderful. That means we are going shopping. Go get dressed, James—Oh, and you should bring her flowers to say that you are sorry you dragged her into such a viper pit.”
Queen
If there is any good to come out of my night of horrors, it’s four sketches and an acrylic, with slashing strokes, born out of pure anger. One of them is even good enough to come out at my next showing.
I use my cheek to hold my mobile to my shoulder as I put some finishing touches on my painting. Cheshire watches me paint from my bed, yawning occasionally.
"Why didn’t you tell him?" Jessica has parroted this line several times, like I’m going to give a different answer if she keeps asking.
"I told you, I felt bad and weird enough just being there, and I didn’t want to force him to leave or cause any drama with those people."
Jessica sighs heavily on the other end. "Maybe you should tell him tonight."
Keeping it inside has been my way of coping with the aftermath. If I don’t talk about it, I can pretend it never happened. Pretend it isn’t real.
"Maybe. . . I'll see how it goes."
"What’re you going to do tonight?"
"No idea. I guess we'll just wing it and see what happens. There's a new installation in South Bank, but I don't know if it will be too weird for him. Although he’s getting very brave."
"Um, Adelaide?"
"Yeah?"
"It's six o'clock already. Didn't you say he’s coming at seven?"
"Crap. Stop talking to me, Jessica."