32. Auld Acquaintance
Auld Acquaintance
STELLA
Iwas a New Year’s Day baby.
This very evening, exactly twenty years ago, Mum and Dad were at a New Year’s Eve party at Cal’s old flat. They were taking it easy, because Mum had been feeling a bit dodgy all day, but apparently it was Mum who insisted that they ‘let their hair down’ one more time.
The plan was never for them to last at the party till midnight, but they lasted less than that, because about ten o’clock Mum started having contractions, and the rest is history.
I was born around eight o’clock the next morning, as night began its slow shift change to a grey dawn.
I think about it every year. I think about that New Year’s Eve more than I think about the timing of my birth, and I pretend not to know why it hurts more than usual this year, but I know, really.
It’s because tomorrow, I turn twenty. Twenty-one is the big one, of course, and I’m sure Dad and Mads will throw me a gorgeous party and everyone will make a big fuss, but twenty is hitting me hard for all sorts of reasons.
Tomorrow, I’ll become a young woman for real.
I will officially be a twenty-something, even if there’s no something to go with the twenty.
I’ll be in the same decade that Mum was when she had me, and that Maddy was when she basically took over mothering us.
I’ll be an adult in a way I certainly haven’t felt since I supposedly came of age two years ago.
Whenever Dad tells me and Nance the story of my birth, he always does it in a jolly way, and he makes a really big deal out of how excited they both were that they were going to start the new year with a brand new baby daughter.
I can tell he really does have happy memories of it all, but it’s hard for me to hear about them, sometimes, because the fact that they didn’t know what lay ahead for all of us always hurts me so much that it gives me an actual stomach ache when I think about it.
So I find myself here, in Gen and Anton’s insanely gorgeous villa in the South of France, getting ready in my lovely room for what I know will be a beautiful—if dull for those of us under the age of forty—dinner, and thinking way too much about big, scary things like the circle of life.
It’s probably just hormones. Also, lots of people get reflective around their birthdays and lots get reflective on New Year’s Eve, so shoot me for indulging in a double whammy.
I tilt my head to one side as I survey my reflection in the mirror.
I’m in the little black dress that my parents bought me for Christmas, though I know Maddy was behind it, because only she knew how obsessed I was with it and how expensive it was, and it’s way too short for Dad to have okayed it.
It’s so unbelievably gorgeous—simple, and classy, but really sexy.
I couldn’t wait to have a reason to wear it.
I’m glad we’re eating in Anton’s dining room and not out on that lovely terrace, because I’d freeze my tits off otherwise.
Still, it’ll be totally wasted on everyone tonight.
The younger ones are in bed and there’s only Nance and me and the stupid Russell boys.
From what I’ve seen of Kit so far today, he’s still as annoying and up his own arse as he ever was, even if Nance has a massive crush, and I’m sure Pip is still boring as fuck.
The rest of us all turned up yesterday, but Pip and Aida have only arrived this evening, because she was hosting some live political review of the year on TV this morning and he stayed to keep her company.
I mean, she’s seriously cool. Anyway, I assume they made it here in one piece and will be at dinner.
And I don’t really mind having a boring night.
I had too many heavy nights in the final week of uni before we broke up for Christmas, so a few quiet weeks will do me good.
And, knowing what amazingly generous hosts Anton and Gen are, I’m sure the food will be delicious.
My reflection smiles at me and gives me the thumbs up.
My hair is tonged and a little darker than usual—I got all the dried-out sun-bleached bits toned down in a really nice session the week before Christmas with my and Mads’ colourist, so I look quite sophisticated.
I’ve kept my makeup light, because no one can pull off the white-body-orange-face look in the middle of winter.
And I’m wearing a thin strand of pearls that Mum left me in her will and which are my most prized possession.
I spritz on some perfume and smack my lips together. Time to go and play nicely with the grownups.
* * *
As I descend the staircase, I see most of them standing around, drinking champagne in Anton’s huge and very elegant drawing room.
It’s a gorgeous space, but cleverly enough decorated in neutrals and daubs of pastel that it doesn’t feel weirdly cold in winter.
On the contrary, there’s a tree perfectly decked out in creams and golds—definitely Gen’s doing—and the huge stone fireplace has a thick garland strung along the mantle and a roaring fire within.
This house is seriously sick. We’ve been lucky enough to have had a few invitations out here, but I haven’t been recently. We mostly go to our house in Ramatuelle, near St Tropez, when we head to France.
When I grow up, I want to make enough money to have a pad like this, but I’m not sure women’s football is going to cut it. We definitely don’t get paid crazy money like the guys do.
All my thoughts of ambition and fancy French mansions go out the window a second later, because as I cross through the big archway from the hallway to the drawing room, a guy breaks away from the cluster and makes a beeline for me.
It’s Pip Russell.
But it’s not.
Because the Pip Russell I last saw maybe two or three years ago was tall and nerdy and gangly, and this guy, the one walking towards me with his eyes fixed right on me and a serious, open look on his face that is strangely engaging, is tall and broad shouldered and perfectly proportioned, and even as we walk towards each other, I can feel my face heating.
Fuck fuck fuck.
‘Hi,’ I say, less casually and more breathlessly than I intend.
‘Happy New Year, Stella,’ he says, stopping in front of me and bending so he can kiss me on both cheeks.
He’s always been seriously intense. I put it down to social awkwardness, even if he had a creepy habit of staring when we were younger.
He still stares, it seems…
It’s just a lot less creepy when he looks like this.
‘Happy New Year.’ You’ve filled out. ‘How, uh, was your flight?’
He screws up his face. ‘Pretty painful. Anton very kindly offered to send the jet back for us, but I wouldn’t let Mum accept.’
I laugh. ‘Let me guess. It would give you a Yeti-sized carbon footprint?’
‘Yeah. So we came on BA instead. Mum now officially hates me.’
‘I’m sure she’ll get over it,’ I murmur, trying and failing not to take in that lovely broad sweep of his shoulders under his smart navy blazer. His pale blue shirt is open at the neck. I’m pretty sure his adoring mother couldn’t deny this guy anything.
‘I hope so,’ he says, his eyes lingering, it feels like, on my mouth. ‘She says principles are great in theory but less so when they involve ninety minutes of being kicked in the back by a restless toddler.’
I swallow. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s a first world problem.
’ I don’t know where he picked up the art of staring from—or maybe it’s more like heated gazing these days, but it’s certainly…
effective. I feel entirely more naked than I did in the privacy of my room, more conscious of my bare shoulders beneath the tiny straps of this dress.
‘You’re absolutely right. Anyway, we’re here now, so you don’t have to rely on my brother for sparkling conversation anymore.’
I can tell he means it as a joke. Still, there’s an assurance there that I’ve never seen from Pip before. Uni has really made him blossom, and I don’t just mean physically.
It seems the awkward little nerd is all grown up.
‘Thank God,’ I tell him. ‘He’s still a cocky little shit. He’s spent the past twenty-four hours mansplaining every aspect of football to me.’
‘He never could read the fucking room,’ he says with a grin. The F-bomb gives me a little frisson, for some reason, and his smile is just lovely. It has the immediate effect of tempering that intensity of his.
‘But I’m being rude,’ he continues, ‘keeping you when you don’t even have a drink. Let’s get you sorted out. Anton’s got the Dom Perignon out already.’
He puts a light hand on my lower back—just his fingertips, really, brushing the curve of my spine through my black silk—and I find I’m oddly disappointed when he leads me through to where the others are mingling.
* * *
Dinner is delicious, obviously, cooked with great aplomb by Anton’s hilarious chef Jean-Jacques, who insists on coming out to introduce each course in rapid, completely unintelligible French.
Anton does the translating for him. I sit between Kit and Pip, though Kit focuses mainly on Nancy, thank God.
I think he’s worked out she’s an easier audience for his bullshit.
Pip is reading Environmental Change and Management at Oxford, which sounds seriously hardcore.
I think I knew he was at Oxford, but had forgotten.
I suppose it’s not a surprise. He went to Eton, after all, and he’ll be Lord Russell one day, when his dad dies, and you can’t tell me Oxford isn’t still totally elite at heart.
Anyway, Pip was always that kid who signed up for the Model UN and stuff like that, and I remember he wrote for Eton’s environmental magazine.
I’ve also found out that he’s become obsessed with rowing in the past year, which I guess explains the excellent shoulders.
Still, he spends most of his time asking me about my degree—I’m studying Sports Science at Loughborough—and my football training schedule. He knows a weirdly large amount about both already. Someone’s been doing their homework, but it’s less creepy than sweet.