The World at My Feet

by Catherine Isaac

  ‘Your mum’s nice,’ I say pleasantly, as he returns to me and she marches away. ‘Can I meet your brothers?’

  ‘That’s an idea. Come on, let’s go and look for the gang,’ he replies, taking me by the hand. He leads me through the crowd, though at one point turns so quickly that I push into a woman and slosh her drink down her dress.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. I—’ But Guy still has hold of me and hasn’t noticed me stumble.

  ‘Guy! Stop!’ He turns sharply and looks alarmed. ‘Could I… just have a minute?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, frowning.

  Someone pushes past, elbowing me in the small of my back. ‘Nothing… I… does this dress look okay?’

  He looks at it, a touch bewildered, and says, ‘It’s absolutely fine. You look lovely. Now stop worrying.’ I restack my spine.

  ‘Was everything all right with your mum?’

  ‘Oh, you mean the private conversation? She just wanted to… honestly, it’s not even a big deal.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘The fact that Stella’s here.’

  I’m so unused to hearing this name that it takes me a moment to place it. ‘Your ex?’

  He nods. ‘She’s friends with Mimi. I didn’t know for certain but I assumed she would be coming. I’m not going to let that bother me though, I assure you.’

  I blink, wondering how I’m not going to let it bother me.

  Chapter 52

  The champagne helps. At least, the first one does. The next one just leaves me queasy and ill-equipped to keep up with the names of those to whom I’m introduced. There’s a Phineas and an Uncle Angus, two Hughs and a Fortescue. It starts to become like that memory game when you’re supposed to recall every item hidden under your bed. I hover on the edge of a group of three women. One does PR for Gucci. Another is a fine art dealer. A third – Arabella Something-Double-Barrelled – is following her father into politics.

  I’ve never been intimidated by the idea of privilege or money. Everyone I know started life with more than me and it never stopped me getting along with people, whoever they were. At eight years old, thrown into an unknown world, I did not sink – far from it. I swam. I tell myself I can swim again.

  But perhaps I was just braver then. Perhaps there is something inherent in adulthood that has weakened and chipped away at me. I tell myself to get a grip. They’re only people. It’s only a party. There’s nothing frightening about this. Yet the more I linger on the edges of the group, the less part of it I feel. I am a little girl standing on her tiptoes, trying to peek through a window at the grown-ups.

  ‘Is it the bride or groom who you know?’ I say randomly, but the woman I addressed is talking to someone else before I’ve finished the question, having apparently not heard me.

  ‘Sorry, did you want something?’ She turns and a wrinkle appears above her pale, freckled nose. Her companion, a tall man with skeletal cheekbones, glares at me from underneath an unruly fringe.

  ‘No, nothing,’ I mumble and slink into the background. Guy is on the other side of the group, deep in conversation.

  ‘Lovely venue, isn’t it?’ I try again, the moment one of the men on the edge of his group disengages from them.

  ‘Oh, it is. Some of the frescoes are a bit flashy though. The ceiling looks like the inside of a big Christmas cake.’

  I laugh. ‘It’s Hugo, isn’t it?’ I ask.

  ‘Hugh,’ he corrects me.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  He takes my hand and squeezes it. There’s something a touch sleazy about it, but at this stage I don’t care. ‘You must be Stella.’

  ‘Oh. No, actually… I’m Ellie,’ I say awkwardly.

  He looks over at Guy and raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Hugh! Come and get your photo taken for Insta!’

  Arabella ushers the group into formation: some kneeling, some standing at the back. It is a riotous arrangement, with jazz hands at the back, the odd rude gesture and one girl at the front who gives a peace sign. I hover again, until Guy calls out.

  ‘Ellie? Come on, get in!’

  I shake my head. ‘Oh… it’s okay, I don’t mind sitting it out.’

  ‘Ellie’s got fifty thousand followers on Instagram,’ he says.

  Arabella lowers her phone.

  I don’t bother correcting him that it’s closer to sixty.

  ‘Well, you’d definitely better get in then!’

  As the evening progresses, I feel stone cold sober. Adrenalin isn’t merely the antidote to the small amount of alcohol that I’ve had, it also entirely removes my desire to drink any more.

  ‘You actually make a living out of social media?’ Arabella asks later. ‘Aren’t you clever? I’m so impressed!’

  Arabella is quite sweet, even if we established immediately that we know none of the same people, go to none of the same parties, listen to none of the same music and, after she learnt that my Instagram account has a gardening theme, could only offer the information that she bought her grandmother some potting gloves from Liberty for Christmas.

  ‘I am totally addicted to Instagram, for fashion mainly. I do follow Guy though. I love the way he’s all about emotional empowerment and rebalancing of the mind.’

  The thought of what Lucy would make of that sentence makes smile into my drink, though who am I to scoff? If I had more emotional empowerment and rebalancing of the mind I’d probably cope with this evening better. Still, I remind myself that I am getting through this. At no point is it actually enjoyable but there is a sense of accomplishment in knowing that I’m hanging in here, however woolly and disconnected I feel.

  I briefly meet Guy’s eldest brother – William, the cardiac surgeon. He’s a nice man who is ten years older than Guy and we bond briefly over his passion for gardening, which he tells me is unfulfilled on account of his busy work and family life and the rather diminutive plot in his Putney townhouse.

  For much of the night though, Guy is elusive, drifting in and out of group conversations, occasionally stopping by to ask if I need a drink, before being swept away. He has a lot of people to catch up with. I see enough of him to know that he’s getting spectacularly plastered and, while I’m the last person to judge, at some point in the evening, his mood switches. He goes from being a happy drunk – the kind who laughs at anything and is loud, tactile and funny – to something more melancholy.

  It’s about an hour after the first dance, on a rare moment when I’m alone with him and the subject of his work comes up. It turns into an anecdote, bordering on a rant, about a disagreement he’s had with the owner of his yoga studio.

  ‘Do you know what he said? That I was “arrogant”. Fucking arsehole.’

  I purse my lips together sympathetically.

  ‘Do you think I’m arrogant?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘If I leave, he wouldn’t be able to replace me.’

  I look up. ‘What do you mean? Are you planning to leave?’

  ‘I’d love to. It’s been such a disappointing summer,’ he sighs. My chest contracts at this assessment of the time we’ve spent together, yet it’s clear that he isn’t saying this to be hurtful. ‘I just feel totally miserable that I didn’t get to travel. I can’t bear being cooped up for much longer. I need to get out of the country again. Staying here is stifling me.’

  Quite suddenly, he stands up, swaying as he almost spills his drink. I grab it and put it on the table for him. ‘Going for a slash,’ he says and walks away, weaving through the tables.

  As inebriated as he is, the moment Guy leaves, I feel as though I’ve lost my anchor. Arabella and Hugh are now engaged in a conversation with another couple, hooting with laughter. I pick up my drink and pretend to sip, feeling my spine slacken into an arc. I put my glass down and instead take out my phone, my crutch. I click on Instagram, where I’ve received dozens of responses to today’s post. As the disco lights flash above and the DJ plays something I vaguely recognise by Rihanna,
I reply to a comment about gerberas.

  That’s a lovely idea @gardendaydreamer. Nothing brightens up a winter display like

  Then I stop. I force myself to click off the sentence and instead text Lucy.

  At the wedding. Very sober. Dress looks crap. But in the words of Elton John, I’m still standing.

  She replies immediately.

  I’ve been dying for an update but didn’t want to text in case I was interrupting. First of all, send me a pic of the dress, because I don’t believe you. I know you look gorgeous. Also – and mainly – WELL DONE. I’m so proud of you, Ellie. Seriously.

  Three dots begin to undulate, indicating that she’s writing something else. They go on and on, before eventually disappearing altogether.

  Were you about to say something? You were writing something for ages then?

  Are you around tomorrow?

  Yes why? Is something wrong?

  I just need a chat, that’s all.

  Have you split up from Jakob?

  The three dots appear again, then disappear. I persist.

  Seriously – what is it? You’re worrying me.

  Just, I love you okay? We’ll talk tomorrow. For now, get a drink down you and don’t fret about the dress.

  Lucy, I want to know what’s going on.

  What’s going on is you need to go and have fun. Over and out.

  Chapter 53

  I look up across the dance floor and see Guy in the midst of a heated conversation with a woman. I don’t need to be told that it’s Stella, I already know. She’s the most striking woman in here, though hers is a different kind of beauty from the immaculate grooming around us. Her thick, dark blonde hair tumbles around her neck. One spaghetti strap of her lipstick-red dress has fallen off a shoulder. She is barefoot, having abandoned her shoes at some earlier point. They are in semi-darkness, illuminated intermittently by the lurid flash of disco lights.

  I am mesmerised. By the way she tosses her head furiously and his eyes burn when he looks at her. This does not have the mundane air of a squabble about next month’s diary commitments. They are like two dancers clinched in an Argentine tango. Sweat beads at the bottom of my spine and I take a mouthful of wine that does nothing to help.

  When he grabs her arm and she shakes him off, I lower my head, taking out my phone, seeking another distraction, hoping that Lucy has texted again. But she hasn’t. I click it off and look up, but Guy and Stella have disappeared.

  ‘Coming for a boogie?’ Arabella is tugging me by the arm and before I can argue I’m on the edge of the dance floor trying to remember how to move my feet in time to the music. It doesn’t help that it’s the worst song ever – after ‘Baby Shark’ of course. But even with the delirious squawk of ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ pounding through the speakers, people are bouncing about enthusiastically. I pretend to enjoy myself, hoping to fake it till I make it. ‘Love this one!’ Arabella giggles, as the bars of another song open.

  ‘You Are The Best Thing’ by Ray LaMontagne. Track number 6 on Jamie’s not-a-mixtape. A song full of rousing trumpets and soulful lyrics and a drum beat that makes you remember why you’re alive. I’m hit by a shot of pure, white-hot regret. By the thought that if I was here with Jamie everything would be all right. More than all right. It would be luminous and easy and filled with laughter.

  Instead I’m here with Guy and it’s none of those things. I take a lungful of dry ice and excuse myself from Arabella, before heading away with the song strumming my breastbone. I need air. I need a cigarette.

  But the exit isn’t where I thought it was and after several turns through corridors lined with princely portraits of men in wigs and racehorses in ornate gilt frames, I find myself in a drawing room. Its dark olive wallpaper is dotted with tropical birds and flowers. There is a flamboyant antique rug, a stuccoed ceiling and an abundance of ornaments, lamps and piles of books that sit upon heavily curlicued sideboards. I register a lingering scent of burning cedarwood when a footman appears at the door with a silver tray. ‘Are you lost, madam?’ he asks pleasantly.

  ‘I… yes, I think I might be. Sorry. I wanted some air.’

  ‘Of course. Let me show you the way.’

  He leads me through a series of rooms with sprigged wallpapers, chintz, checks and panels. Everything, everywhere is grand and old – ugly in parts and beautifully, scrumptiously English. A door finally opens onto a stone terrace at the side of the building and, after asking if there’s anything else I need, the footman leaves me to lean on a lichen-patterned balustrade and breathe in the night.

  ‘Oh. Sorry. Do you mind?’ A woman appears behind me, holding up a cigarette.

  ‘Not at all,’ I say and she lights up.

  ‘I’m giving up tomorrow.’

  ‘Hard, isn’t it?’ I say, gazing longingly at the glow on the end of her Marlboro Light.

  ‘Oh… do you want one?’ she asks, after a languorous drag.

  I plan to say: ‘No thanks, I really shouldn’t’, but the words that actually come out are: ‘Oh go on, you’re a life saver.’

  She passes me the packet and offers a light. I lean in and suck it up.

  I’ve thought about this moment endlessly since my last cigarette, as if it was some tantalising, glorious, unobtainable thing. Something far bigger and better than the reality, as it turns out. I only have to take the first puff to recognise it for what it is. A monumental let-down.

  My thoughts turn to Guy again. These days, it’s as if he’s a different man from the one who came to visit me at the start of the summer. The way he’d look at me then, with desire in his eyes, is not something I’ve seen recently. In bed, he’s never anything less than technically proficient, but there have been times when I’ve felt more like an outlet, than the subject of any true passion.

  I feel an urge to stub out the cigarette but don’t want its original owner to know I’ve wasted it. So I merely stand with it redundantly burning down between my fingers.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asks. I realise my hands are trembling.

  I nod. ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re sure? I need to get back but if you want me to get someone for you…’

  ‘No. I’m fine. Thanks for this.’

  ‘No problem. That dress is fab, by the way.’

  I feel my heart lift. ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Amazing colour on you.’ She smiles.

  As she disappears, her words bolster me. I’m grateful for the solidarity, repeating her sentence silently as I walk to the steps at the end of the terrace and drift downwards, without knowing exactly where I’m going.

  I reach the bottom and turn to look at the manicured gardens. I feel chilly. I need to get back. I’m about to retreat when I hear something a little further along the wall, coming from behind one of the turrets. I realise how much I don’t want to be here. I turn around and take the first three steps up towards the terrace, when I hear it again. A groan, a sound like someone is hurt or in pain. I instinctively think of Tabitha and my stomach twists.

  But I close my eyes and ground myself firmly in the present day, balling up my fists as I gallop back down the steps and around the corner.

  There, I find Guy and Stella.

  Her back is pressed against the wall, her hand on the space between his shoulder blades as he buries his head in her neck. Their kisses are breathless and primitive; they are devouring each other. Her chiffon dress is split to the thigh and his arm has disappeared under its ruffles all the way to the inside of his elbow. I back away silently and I run.

  Chapter 54

  Dawn breaks like a knife blade in my head. I’ve had less than an hour’s sleep, instead spending most of the night reliving the events of the party.

  I sit up and push away the covers as I spot my dress, my beautiful dress, puddling on the carpet. There is a streak of filth on the hem and my shoes lie next to it, scuffed with a dirty tide mark. I stand up and realise with a wobble that I feel hungover, though that’s hardly possible. I
pick up my phone to see if Guy has texted. There’s just one message, from Lucy, telling me she’ll be over at eleven.

  I’m hit by a tidal wave of contradictory emotions.

  I never want to see him again. I want him right here, right now.

  I need an explanation. I know there isn’t one.

  I hate him for what he did, for his casual cruelty. But most of all, I hate myself.

  I can feel myself slipping down a spiral of self-loathing. Why wasn’t I good enough? Or irresistible enough? Or just enough?

  The thought that Jamie might ever find out about what happened last night is even worse. He’d be within his rights to gloat, and if he didn’t – if he was sympathetic – that would be worse still. Gertie jumps on the bed and I bury my face in her fur as another thought occurs to me: Guy never even liked my dog. He thought she was a pain in the neck, which she is, but she’s my pain in the neck and I love her. I give her a protective squeeze and head to the shower.

  The water is too hot but I stand until it stings my skin then emerge into my bedroom to find my phone ringing. It’s Guy. I consider ignoring it, but swipe the screen and answer before I can stop myself.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, coldly, clutching my towel around me as I sit on the edge of the bed, my thighs damp and pimpled.

  ‘Morning,’ he replies.

  It’s only one word but I can already tell he’s not sorry. Mildly sheepish. Hungover. But sorry? No. At least not enough.

  ‘So… last night was a bit weird.’ I say nothing. ‘I had way too much to drink and… oh, Ellie. I know I was bad. Was that you at the back of the hotel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you saw…’ He’s clearly not going to finish his sentence.

  ‘You and Stella? Yes.’

  ‘Ugh. That sucks. I’m cringing,’ he sighs.

  It becomes apparent that this is all he has to say on the matter. I’m aware I’ve had moments throughout my life when I’ve felt out of my mind. But I’ve always known the difference between right and wrong, understood the concept of common decency. It feels appropriate to point this out.