He still wasn’t sure how that happened, how a simple conversation had nearly led to him taking her, slowly, sweetly, carefully as he ever had, in the confines of his berth. In retrospect he blamed the sheer romance of the setting, coupled with Delysia’s soft vulnerability that evening.
However, this wasn’t real, he reminded himself. None of it was real. And the sooner they both faced that fact, the better.
I’ll talk to her tonight.
Now, she saw him and shot him the giddily dimpled smile he’d come to recognize as her social media–ready look. He couldn’t get to her because of all the cameras, but he was content to watch her in her element, for now.
“We’re so excited,” she was saying to the assembled throng, and he could see their celebrity guest at her side. They looked good together, Alexander thought morosely. The fellow was tall, broad-chested, with smooth, dark skin and wide-set eyes. She looked up at him, starry-eyed and flirtatious, and he was surprised that jealousy cramped under his ribs.
“She looks fantastic, doesn’t she?”
Alexander jumped. Faye, appearing as she normally did with no warning whatsoever, was standing at his elbow swathed in peacock-green sequins from head to toe, gloating. It wasn’t her best look (the green, and the gloat).
“I’m hoping to start some rumors tonight,” she whisper-shouted to Alexander.
“Isn’t he married?” If he wasn’t, the artist had done a very good impression of it, arriving with a substantially built young woman and two small children.
Faye huffed. “Barely.”
Alexander didn’t know what that meant and didn’t care. “Well. I should be taking her up to the senator’s box—we’re already late, and—” He could have gone to get her himself, but that would mean stopping to pose on the red carpet, and he...couldn’t. He simply couldn’t do something that ludicrous, not when the Philadelphia branch of the family would surely be squinting down at the throng below. “Anyway, she’s supposed to be dating me.”
Faye’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed. Then she settled her sharp features into a sweet smile. “Well. Yes. That’s right, isn’t it? I’ll get her for you.” She buzzed off, leaving Alexander in a tailwind of synthetic florals, and Delysia was at his side in moments.
“Sorry,” she said, then fixed her dark eyes on him. “Did you take a picture?”
“Dear God, no.” He’d walked in as fast as possible. “Shall we go up? I’ll need to know what to have them announce you as—”
“Announce me?”
“Yes, it’s tradition. I assumed Miss Delysia Daniels, but I didn’t want to presume...also, would you like Mendelssohn’s ‘Song Without Words’ for when we come in?”
“Mendle-what?”
“It’s a classical piece—”
“What is this, a wedding?”
That nearly caused a squabble, but they somehow managed to get themselves upstairs without any bloodshed. He offered Delysia his arm and she smiled, a tiny smile. “What?” he said.
“You’re excited. About this—” And she included the Grand Opera House in one sweeping motion of the hand. “It’s cute. You haven’t been excited about much since this trip started.”
Words of defense rose to Alexander’s lips, but she looked so good-natured he decided to smile instead. “I’ll admit to being a bit out of my element,” he confessed.
“But not with Mendelssohn and La bohème.”
“Faust!”
By now they’d reached the top of the stairs, and a black-jacketed usher took them in with one hitched brow. “Sir, madam?”
“Dr. Alexander Abbott-Hill and Miss Delysia Daniels.”
“Thank you, sir.” The man cleared his throat with one barely perceptible harrumph! and announced them. Alexander pushed the curtain aside, and the two stepped into the senator’s box.
The box was really more of a lounge with a seating area attached that overlooked the main theater. Couples dressed in long trailing gowns and white ties and tuxedos, like Alexander, milled about, sipping champagne and nibbling on a variety of fine hors d’oeuvres. Alexander felt rather than saw Delysia take a deep breath and draw her backbone straight. He didn’t have time to look at her, though, because he saw his aunt approaching. The woman resembled Eartha Kitt at the height of her fame; she was petite and fashionably bony, with her hair arranged high off her head. She gave them both the once-over before speaking.
“Alexander, how good of you to join us,” she said in a dry imitation of a high-society matron. She gave him one cool, Shalimar-scented cheek to kiss. “And you, of course, are Delysia Daniels. How are you, darling?”
“I’m fine, ma’am.”
“Please, call me Sylvia, all the children do nowadays. Alexander, your uncle is over there.” She nodded in the direction of an iron-gray head hovering in the corner, bobbing indignantly while in conversation with another. “But for God’s sake, don’t disturb him now. Something about the Giants and a bad trade, from what I could gather.”
Laughter spilled out from Delysia’s lips—barely a giggle, but his aunt caught it and smiled. “Have fun, children,” she said, and was gone, leaving Delysia staring at the place her feet had been.
“She liked you!” Alexander said, lips twisting up. “Well done.”
“And you figured that out how?”
“If she hadn’t, she’d have ignored you entirely. Now, let me take you round and introduce you to everyone.”
“Everyone?” she muttered, eyes scanning the silks and satins and the throng of mostly older, conservatively dressed men and women. She looked trapped.
He frowned. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I just didn’t know they’d be so...” Her voice trailed off.
“Old?” he said, trying to lighten the mood a bit. “I know. The real party is downstairs. I’m sorry you’re stuck up here with me. Best seats in the house, though, and an usher was hinting about seafood later.”
Delysia barely responded. She was tugging at the neckline of her bustier instead, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.
“What is it?”
“I should have changed before coming up, I think,” she muttered.
“Well.” He’d told her, hadn’t he? “They’ll just see you as either very eccentric or very young,” he said cheerfully. “Neither is bad in your line of work. Now, to show you round...”
“Oh God,” she muttered.
“It’s not as bad as all that.” He mentally sorted the crowd into categories: his aunt and uncle of course, the patronages of the opera club, their friends, and the two Philadelphia cousins who had shown up. Figuring his cousins to be the easiest of the three, he steered Delysia in their direction. Poppy Abbott-Hill and her brother Bertie were middle-aged, dour, and sour, but they loved the opera—and were kind enough to soothe Delysia’s nerves, he was sure.
“Oh, Alexander!” Poppy said brightly. She’d seen him coming across the room, and navigated herself through the crowd with all the skill of a caboose dressed in mustard-yellow silk. “Is this her?”
“This is her,” Alexander said dryly. “Whatever that means. Delysia, this is my cousin Poppy, and her brother Bertie is over there—” He gestured as Bertie waggled his fat fingers wearily in their direction, mouthing how do you do before burying his nose into his program.
“Well, aren’t you something!” Poppy uttered with a slight scream, then slid her arm around an alarmed-looking Delysia’s waist. Alexander stifled a laugh. “I very nearly died when Mother told me you were dating an internet actress, Alexander. Still, you seem perfectly respectable, darling,” she added quickly. “I hear it’s quite the thing these days. My Molly is constantly recording some kind of video to put online.”
Delysia murmured something inaudible.
“Perhaps you could give her some tips! Anyway, do come with me, I’ll introduce you t
o everyone—you don’t want to be stuck with this old fogey all evening when you’ll have him all night! Ha! And you must tell me where you picked up your outfit. So interesting...” Poppy solidified her hold on Delysia’s waist and steered her away into the throng. The last thing Alexander saw was her shooting him a pleading look over one shoulder.
* * *
Being carried off consisted of Delysia being led by Poppy into a group of middle-aged ladies more or less dressed identically to each other, in the sort of evening-wear that would have been at the height of fashion around the time Bill Clinton was in office. They clustered in an area of the box that Sylvia called the ladies’ lounge. It was furnished with padded velvet seating and partitioned from the rest of the box by heavy curtains that were looped back tonight by a gold velvet rope. An enormous framed portrait of Marian Anderson loomed over them, a heavy autograph scrawled over one corner.
Delysia had mixed with people with money before, of course. Growing up in Dubai had brought her into contact with locals worth as much as small nations, and attending the swanky parties that were the norm for her as an influencer did the same. Alexander’s family was different; this was more about quality. Their straightened hair was invariably either teased into Dynasty-style waves or French twists—beauty parlor hair, to be sure, and not a hair extension to be found. Gold diamond rings and wedding bands adorned their knobby fingers. Equally good diamond solitaires shone in saggy ears.
“Ladies, this is Alexander’s lady-friend,” Sylvia announced, and six pairs of mascaraed, eye-shadowed eyes widened, and heads began to nod, “Delysia Daniels. Delysia, this is Agnes Abbott-Hill, Vivian Abbott-Hill, Beverly Abbott-Hill, Matilda Abbott-Hill...”
Sylvia’s voice blurred into a tangle of names, surnames, and family connections that Delysia knew she’d have to have Alexander explain to her later. She nodded, smiled, and restrained herself from checking to see if her bustier was sliding downward.
The ladies migrated rather naturally over to the bar, where there was plush seating in the form of overstuffed, red-velvet booths. Some of the older ladies sat, but most stayed upright so as not to wrinkle their dresses. Delysia was handed a small glass of whisky and water—“Have a taste, darling, it’s from our own distillery”—and was allowed a single sip before the bombardment of questions began.
“Now, honey...” This was from Beverly. “What a beautiful name you’ve got.”
“Thank you.”
“Is it French?”
“I believe so.”
“Enough, Beverly, I’ve been eager to talk to this young lady,” cut in a third woman. “You’re going to have to tell me...” Agnes, maybe? Delysia thought. Never mind. It wasn’t like she was going to call any one of these dowagers anything but Ms. Abbott-Hill. “My husband is the head of Africana studies at Philadelphia County U, and Alexander mentioned you’re Eritrean?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Fascinating,” the woman said, and patted the seat next to her as if Delysia was a very small girl, and she obediently lowered herself to sit. “Tigrayan or—?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you speak it?”
“Yes, but with a deplorable American accent, or so my mother tells me,” Delysia laughed, and the woman chuckled.
“Have you visited? My husband made a three-country research tour of that part of Africa, several years ago, before the situation became dire...”
Agnes began to prattle on, and Delysia relaxed. She was used to her nationality becoming a subject of conversation anywhere; this was nothing different, and at least, she thought somewhat sardonically, this bunch wasn’t too patronizing about it. This kind of conversation required she do little but nod and smile. In a strange way it made her miss her own aunties in Dubai. At least Agnes didn’t ask her “how to say” any items in the room in Tigrinya. Aunties were the same everywhere, Delysia thought with a rueful smile.
The tension began to seep from her body, little by little; she even began to be a little less self-conscious about her outfit. Sylvia declared it virtually identical to a white pantsuit she’d worn to parties at Studio 54 in the very late ’70s, and the other women began to tease her about the massive platforms and hair she’d favored during that period of her life. The women were kind to Delysia, and attentive. She gathered from the conversation that Alexander hadn’t brought many girls around—“You’re quite an unusual occurrence,” Agnes said, and the group laughed kindly when Delysia blushed.
Time passed quickly, and the lights flickered; the women groaned audibly.
“If I’ve seen this damn show once, I’ve seen it a million times,” hissed Sylvia in a stage whisper, taking Delysia companionably by the arm.
“Alexander said that you practically run this place.”
“Did he? Well, Alexander was always a flatterer.” The older woman laughed. “We do a massive production twice a year. You’ll have to come back for Christmas—we’ll be launching Aida. That was Alexander’s father’s favorite.”
“He seemed quite an extraordinary man.”
“That he was,” Sylvia agreed. “Alexander’s a lot like him. Educated to a fault, but not quite of the real world, I think...oh, there go the men. Last chance for a cocktail before all the caterwauling, honey.”
She slipped her arm round Delysia’s waist in a motherly sort of manner, and the women began walking slowly toward the main seating area of the box.
Delysia felt her nervousness slip away completely. These people weren’t bad at all. Alexander’s worries had been groundless.
* * *
“Damned good crowd you managed to collect tonight,” Bertie said, then gave Alexander a slap on the back.
Alexander smiled. He hadn’t seen his cousin regularly since before his parents had died. Bertie was quite a bit older, and busy with a family of four in Mount Airy. “Thank you, Bertie. How are you? Are the children here?”
“Oh, they wouldn’t be caught dead.” His cousin’s small eyes surveyed the room rather piggily, then lit up when he spotted waitstaff carrying a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops. “Bring that here, dear. Ah. Thank you,” he said, offloading three for himself.
The woman offered Alexander the tray. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Bertie snorted, almost inhaling the toothpick holding the canapé together as a result. “You should have something, Alexander. You’re as small as ever you were,” he added, patting his own considerable girth.
“Yes. Well.”
“Although I suppose you’ve got to keep yourself trim for the cameras and all. I nearly died when Maisie showed me your social media pages. This is a serious thing, then?”
“Photos don’t lie, do they?” Alexander said, a little acidly.
Bertie’s guffaw grated on Alexander’s ears, and the hearty slap on his back that followed irritated him even more. “Very well. You’ve been far too serious since Cambridge. I’m glad to see you finally having a little fun. And she’s—” His cousin’s left eye drooped in an approximation of a wink.
Alexander immediately felt ill.
“She looks ready for a good time, any time.”
“Excuse me?” Alexander laughed, a little nervously. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“You need that, cuz. Reminds me of this girl that used to follow my band around when I was in university,” Bertie reminisced.
“Oh. Rather. Well, we probably should—”
“Exotic girl, too. All tits and legs. We used to—”
“Alexander?”
Both men pivoted to see Poppy, Aunt Agnes, Sylvia, and Delysia right behind them, holding champagne coupes and wearing noteworthy expressions—sour in Delysia’s case, mortified in Poppy and Agnes’s.
“The lights blinked,” Poppy said a little breathlessly. “We should go in. Lovely seeing you, Delysia. Alexander, we’ll catch you after, I suppose,” and sh
e grabbed her brother, none too gently, and hauled him off.
Alexander bit the inside of his cheek and peered into Delysia’s face. It was completely blank now, save for a muscle jerking in her cheek. The skin was flushed underneath her copper undertones, but he supposed that could be because the room was warm.
“I’m going to go,” announced Agnes, and gave Delysia an absentminded smile. “Have a good time, dear.”
When she left, silence reigned for a long moment.
“So, you met everyone,” he said, a bit idiotically.
“That I did.”
“How was it?”
“Oh, everyone was lovely. Very nice,” she drawled without looking at him, and at that moment he knew he was in deep shit.
“Delysia, I—”
She shook her head, and abruptly. “Don’t. Listen, let’s just say that we move in different circles and call it a night, okay? I’ve heard worse than what he said.”
“Oh.” So she had heard after all.
They fell silent. The quiet was broken only by the din of chatter and clanking dishes. Delysia was staring at her feet.
“Delysia, I—”
“You know, I don’t mind people thinking I’m some—internet slut,” she said, almost spitting out the word. “What they think is what they think. The ladies were nice, anyway, God knows what they really thought. But every boyfriend I’ve had—even the shittiest—would have punched him in the face for saying something like that.”
The wounded look on her face had Alexander catching his breath even more than her words had. “Delysia, I—please don’t take it personally. They’re not used to someone like you, that’s all, and you do look very conspicuous—”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He saw he had misspoken. “It means you’re not in white tie!”
She actually took a step back, as if he’d pushed her, but she recovered so quickly he wondered if he’d actually seen it. She took a deep, shaky breath, and lifted her chin. “Forget it, Alexander. I’m not—God. We’re not even dating, what’s the point of a fight?” she added, more to herself than to him. “Let’s just—get in there, okay?”
The Sweetest Charade Page 14