by Rachael Craw
POOF!
The tightness in my chest disappears. Even the zip-zap of pins and needles dies down to a barely perceptible hum. The certainty I felt that everything Kitty said was right evaporates.
Oh crap.
I stand beneath the thick leafy canopy of Columbia Avenue, paralysed by dawning horror, my rational self clawing its way painfully to the surface. Whatever spell I’ve been under has lost its hold and I look back on the afternoon like a hung-over partygoer whose flashes of memory fill them with cringing regret. What the hell have I done, saying yes to this ball? Why did I let Kitty talk me into it? Now I’ve bought all this ridiculous stuff with Miriam’s money! Had I really believed I could get all dressed up and these rich kids wouldn’t see right through me? What on earth did I expect to talk about all night? How will I dodge questions about my family, my non-existent dad, my dead mom? And Jamie! Jamie, my living nightmare, will be there, smirking, indifferent and gorgeous. I’ll be the idiot trying to act like I don’t remember that he humiliated me in front of his asshole friends, breaking my fourteen-year-old heart.
The memory of crowing boys bursting into the secluded hollow beneath the willow tree, while Jamie and I were mid-kiss, makes my ears burn whenever I’m dumb enough to let it resurface. I remember Jamie’s face paling as his friends crowded in. While most of the boys cheered and money changed hands, one had said, “I knew we should have waited. I could have made another forty bucks.”
The aftermath was a blur. I ran. Jamie yelled at his friends and called after me. The boys’ laughter faded as I tore out of the reserve, blind with shame and fury.
The trouble is, three years ago, before the moment when everything was ruined, it was the best summer of my life. Jamie had shot up – a staggering six-foot-two. His wiry frame had filled out and his square shoulders broadened. Basically, he got hot. For my part, I finally got boobs; changes to catch both our attentions.
Over the months of that holiday, we circled each other with uneasy awareness and the bickering stopped. I was painfully self-conscious and he was less smug than usual. For me it was a big-time crush.
It all came down to that day by the river. We’d wandered away, found the secluded hollow, he’d even called me Evie instead of Everton. Then heart-racing silence, spectacular prolonged eye contact and the softest, sweetest kiss of my life. The price of humiliation.
Thankfully, the summers that followed were Jamie-free. He left his sister and his friends at Gainsborough Collegiate and returned to London. I’m not vain enough to believe it has anything to do with me. I understand there are family expectations surrounding the twins’ education. Though I noticed none of his holidays home coincided with my New Hampshire visits. Suited me. Once or twice I might have allowed myself to imagine a reconciliation, but the thought of having to actually face him tonight is a whole other matter.
“Grab the Nikon,” Miriam calls. “Not the grey case, that’s the Sony. The Nikon has the blue handle.”
The front door clatters open and I watch her from the hall as she goes down the path, two tripods and a crate balanced before her, trying to keep marks off her black silk dress.
Move, you coward. Panicked, I shoulder my way back into the studio, off balance in my high heels. I place the lens case on the counter, carefully, then turn to the darkroom and recite the access code as I tap the keypad. The light comes on automatically when I slide the door back. I push through the old blackout curtain, hoping I won’t get dust on my dress. Since Miriam has gone digital, the darkroom is simply a glorified storeroom. I scan the shelves, tempted to lock myself in and hide.
I should have blurted my change of mind when I had the chance, railed about Kitty’s voodoo manipulation. Miriam even handed me the very get-out-of-jail-free card I needed, “You don’t have to come tonight, not for my sake.” But she spends so much time worrying and looking after me, sacrificing work and freedom to make room for me in her life, give me a home, even her credit card, for crying out loud! Can’t I slap on a smile and make an effort for a change? So, here I am in high heels that make me feel like Gigantor, my strapless gown in charcoal silk and teardrop earrings, ready for a long night of dying on the inside.
I spot the grey Nikon case, the one she doesn’t want, but where is the case with the blue handle? It isn’t lying out in the open. I turn to the utility cupboard. When I was a kid, going anywhere near it had been a big no-no because of the developing chemicals she stored in it. It has a keypad too, but I don’t know the code. I try the handle. Surprisingly, it gives. I open it with an uncomfortable sense of breaking taboo. The chemicals are gone. There are shelves of filed negatives, clients’ names on the tabs. There’s the case with the blue handle. I lift it down as Miriam comes in behind me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She pushes past me and the scene changes. It flashes with bright colour that stings my eyes and stops my heart. Again, I see a memory that isn’t my own: a metal rail under my hand, a row of mirrors disorientating me with the reflection of my aunt moving in a circular blur across a blue floor.
Then, snap!
The vision disappears, plunging me back into the dimly lit room. Miriam doesn’t notice my “episode”. She shuts the cupboard door, a sharp clap of sound in the small room, and resets the lock on the keypad.
“I was looking for the–”
“There’s a lot of expensive equipment in there and you can’t go poking around.”
I pass her the case. “I wasn’t.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m just – we should go. They want photos of the guests arriving.”
ANTICIPATION
It’s my third trip to the car. We parked around the back by the service entrance to unload, and my new shoes are killing me already. Carrying Miriam’s last tripod and extension cord, I navigate the high-traffic corridors, dodging caterers and waiters who file back and forth with trays of canapés and bowls of flowers.
Governor Dean’s mansion is big on marble: the steps out front, the colossal columns by the front doors, the gleaming floor in the grand foyer. From what I glimpse of the house and grounds, the Deans’ fancy statuary, fountains and gilt frames, everything about the place seems self-conscious, as though it has to shout and bully to impress. I wonder how they came by their cash.
Afraid to slip, I take it slow across the foyer. Miriam’s up on the first-floor landing, where there’s room to set up for a wide shot of the scene below. At the bottom of the staircase two young men stand talking. They aren’t staff. They wear tuxedos and look about my age. The one with his back to me leans on the banister with proprietary ease. He gesticulates and shakes his head, laughing like the other guy has said something stupid. His friend, if he is his friend, is a square-shouldered guy about my height with dark precision-combed hair. Not bad looking, in an understated way. Something about the freckles on his nose and Playstation tan draws my sympathy. As I come near I can tell he’s annoyed by the guy leaning on the banister but controlling his expression. He meets my gaze with startling hazel eyes, gives me a polite nod then notices what I’m carrying. “Here,” he says. “Can I give you a hand?”
“I’m fine,” I begin, but he’s already reaching for the tripod and it seems rude to pull away. I let him take it. “Oh, all right. Thanks.”
The banister guy straightens up and regards me boldly. “You’re the photographer?” He’s a similar height to the helpful guy but narrower through the shoulders. Light brown hair. Slightly receding chin. An air of self-assurance.
“My aunt is.” I nod up the stairs. “I’m helping her.”
He follows my gaze and his eyebrows rise. “Excellent.”
I’m not sure what’s “excellent”. I glance at the guy holding my aunt’s tripod. He looks resigned to waiting.
“You’re not at Gainsborough?” The confident young man cocks his head like he’s trying to pick me from a memory.
Here we go. I shake my head.
“Didn’t think so,” he says, all blue ey
es and white teeth. “I would definitely remember you.”
“I’m from out of town.” Why did I say it? It only invites more questions. “Um, I better–”
“I’m Richard Dean.” He stretches out his hand, expecting to be known. I catch a whiff of stale breath.
“Oh, right.” Dean. That fits. I heft the extension cord under my left arm and take his hand. The bees in my spine give an angry buzz. “Nice place.”
He chuckles, narrowing his eyes, appraising me, head to toe and back again. “Well, thanks. I’d be very glad to show you around the place if you’re not busy later. There are some nice quiet spots if you know where to look. What’s your name?”
“Richard?” A gorgeous, caramel-skinned girl with sleek dark hair crosses the foyer. She eyes me with outright suspicion, and Richard makes a show of rolling his eyes like he’s been caught out.
“I better keep moving.” I turn up the stairs. The guy with Miriam’s tripod steps beside me.
“Hey, nice move, buddy,” Richard calls after him. “But don’t be too long; the boss might have some files for you to organise.”
The helpful guy’s jaw tightens but he doesn’t react.
I glance over my shoulder.
“I’m kidding.” Richard smirks and lifts his palms. “He’s so serious.”
I turn back and nearly trip on my dress.
“Here,” the helpful guy says, slipping the cable from my arm, the brush of his hand coinciding with a brief muting of the bees.
“Sorry.” I hitch my dress a few inches to allow myself a proper stride.
“No problem.” He looks like he’s about to say something then presses his lips together.
Make an effort.
“So, you know Richard?”
“I work for his dad.” He shrugs. “We’re not friends.”
“You have to see him much?”
He exhales wearily. “Every day.”
The staircase narrows and curves near the top. I can’t see Miriam though her case lies open on an ornate table. “Bummer, I mean, if you don’t get on and you have to see him all the time.”
“Suppose it could be worse.” He props the tripod against the table and slips the cable underneath, straightening up with a rueful expression. “Could have no job. No Gainsborough scholarship and be stuck at BCH.”
I bite my lips to keep from smiling. “I’ll be at BC this year.”
He cringes. “I hear they have a great, um, arts program.”
We both chuckle.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m an ass.”
He has nice eyes.
I look away.
Down at the bottom of the stairs, Richard watches us. He has his hand on the girl’s waist but she looks sullen and annoyed. He gives me a knowing smile and winks even though she stands right there beside him. I can’t help turning in disbelief to the helpful guy. Had he seen that?
“Yeah.” He nods. “That’s Richard.”
“He’s kind of a dick.”
“Yep.”
The view from the first-floor landing is dominated by the chandelier, beyond it the wide front doors stand open where the governor’s wife greets her guests. Either side, triple-height windows look out on the drive, where a queue of limousines slowly deposits guests onto the marble steps. My stomach knots. The Gallaghers might be out there in one of those shiny black cars.
“Wish I could’ve stayed home.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.
I heave a sigh. “Same.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me.
I shrug.
He grins. “Suppose I better go and see if the governor needs me.”
“Hey, thanks for your help.”
“Aiden.” He reaches out, a self-conscious gesture.
“Evie.” I take his hand. Again, the odd muting of the zip-zap in my spine. I need this guy to follow me around all night to keep the pins and needles away.
He releases my hand. The bees crackle back to life. “Evie, I wouldn’t recommend a tour with Richard.”
“Way ahead of you.”
He smiles and nods before taking quick steps down the stairs.
Behind me the French doors open and Miriam steps in from the outside balcony, looking frazzled, camera around her neck. Music floats up from the band rotunda. She disconnects her lens with a practised flick of her wrist and deposits it in the case. “Where’s my wide angle?” She finds the lens and attaches it. “How are you feeling? Pins and needles? How’s your wrist?”
“I’m fine.”
“Promise you’ll tell me if you’re not feeling right.”
“Sure.”
She glares. “I’m serious.”
“I’ll tell you.”
“Make sure you eat.”
I nod.
“And no alcohol.”
I roll my eyes.
“Hold this.” She gives me the camera and lifts the tripod, releasing the legs and clicking the locks. She then scans the foyer and moves to the right, waiting for the perfect spot to reveal itself. “Here.” She plants the tripod and holds her hand out for the camera. “You want to take some atmosphere shots for me?” She nods at the case where her old Pentax sits. “Good practise and you won’t have to talk to anyone.”
I must have been about eight when Miriam bought me my first camera – a sweet instamatic point and shoot. Mom had disapproved, the extravagance, the responsibility. She relaxed when I was confirmed as having “a natural eye” and by seventeen I was on my third SLR, heir to Miriam’s cast-offs. Tonight, a camera could give me something to hide behind. I could always fake a dead battery if I needed a quick getaway. “Yeah, okay.”
“Great. Table settings, candles, flowers, whatever. Be creative.” She attaches her camera to the tripod and adjusts the angle. “If it gets too much, you can hide in the library.”
She leans down to peer through the viewfinder.
I pick up the Pentax and check the memory card.
“Gallaghers have just pulled up.”
“Shit.” I swing around. “Already?”
“Evangeline.” Miriam purses her lips.
I scoot to the side and hide behind the edge of the corridor, wondering if there’s a back staircase I can nip down. “What are they doing?” Why am I whispering? I hug the camera to my chest, back pressed against the wall.
Miriam shakes her head. “They’re getting out of the car. Barb’s in salmon silk, off the shoulder, perfect. Leonard … that man is gorgeous. Here’s our girl, Kitty, in baby blue … chiffon, I think. Some serious diamonds on that child’s neck.”
I brace for it.
“And here comes the enemy.” She falls silent a moment then stands slowly upright to look at me with wide eyes. “Holy smoke.”
I grimace. “Really?”
She nods and bends back over her camera, adjusting the zoom. “Jamie’s eighteen, right?”
“Miriam!”
She chuckles. “You could go out through the balcony and hide in the garden? I want photos of the lanterns on the patio and the dance floor on the lawn.”
“There’s a dance floor on the lawn?”
“Parquet. They had it installed.”
I slip across the landing to the French doors.
“Don’t forget,” Miriam says, suddenly serious. “If you’re not feeling up to it–”
“I know.” I raise my hand and nip out into the humid air. My staccato pulse races the up-tempo number being played in the band rotunda below and I take the two-tiered stone staircase to the patio on wobbly legs. It’s going to be a long night.
CONTACT
“Filigree.” A petite almond-eyed girl fingers the black lace on the bodice of her dress, her black hair coiled high on her head. “I think that’s what she called it. Filigree lace?”
“What’s the difference between filigree lace and regular lace?” A tall girl hunches beside her. The bronze sheen of her dress matches the highlights in her hair and she keeps her freckled arms cr
ossed around her waist.
The petite girl screws up her nose. “Seriously, no clue.”
I try not to grin behind my camera, sizing up a row of champagne flutes on a patio table, bringing the first one into focus, letting the rest blur. I click a couple of shots and straighten up to examine the LCD screen. Not bad. I glance around, hyper-vigilant. I’ve dodged the Gallaghers for a good hour. Thankfully, most of the guests have arrived, a buffer of bodies to hide behind.
I’ve had two glimpses of Jamie so far. A back of the head and a profile. I snapped sneaky stalkerish shots. Miriam was right. Holy smoke. My chest flutters and I breathe through my mouth for more air.
The two girls watch the doors like they are waiting for someone. “Imogen.” The petite girl nudges her tall friend and nods at the patio steps leading up to the balcony.
The tall girl frowns.
There are Richard and his date. His date doesn’t look happy. Her mouth shapes fierce words. Richard darts a nervous glance at the crowd and touches her arm. The girl flings her hand up. He strokes her shoulder, leans in and whispers. She shrugs. He brushes his knuckle under her chin and whatever he says seems to dampen her anger.
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne. Richard takes two glasses and I watch to see if the waiter will demand some ID. There’s a hesitation. Richard says something, his expression scathing, and the waiter backs away. I bet he played the “do you know who I am?” card. None of the guests seem to notice. I shake my head, partly disgusted, partly impressed. Richard sips from one glass before passing it to his date. She drinks it down, a defiant look on her face. He smiles, sips from the second before handing it to her also, his expression goading. She doesn’t hesitate, bringing it to her lips. He’s trying to get her drunk? I abandon partly impressed for completely disgusted.
“She needs to be careful,” the petite girl says, genuine concern in her voice. “Honestly, what does Kaylee see in him?”
“Dollar signs?” Imogen says.
The petite girl purses her lips. “She should have held out. Could have tried her luck with Jamie.”
I turn my back, not wanting my face to give me away as an eavesdropper.