Chapter 30
30
L unch the next day is in fact a tea. Like, pinky-fingers-raised kind of tea. The kind with tiny sandwiches and chairs draped in fabric. I pull at the hem of my shirt, now feeling underdressed for what I assumed would be an informational meeting about our event tonight. No such luck.
Clara, to her credit, doesn’t bat an eyelash as she steps inside the carved door of the sunny room. She is capable of looking comfortable in almost any social situation, something I’m sure came from her parents. And something of which I’m extremely jealous.
Six tables glitter in the room, scattered at recent intervals and set like we’re at a million-dollar wedding reception with formal place settings, several glasses per person and so many forks. So. Many. Forks. In the center of each table, set upon a silver riser covered in flowers, is a solid silver tea service and trays of finger foods. My mouth waters immediately. I’m starving, and the room smells like warm cinnamon and scones.
A woman greets us at the door, drawing my attention. She motions Clara to one table and me to another. We’re among the last to arrive, and I note familiar faces in the room—there’s maybe fifteen students from Oxford here? Irina, David, and the rowing twins being the first I recognize. But there’s a dark-haired girl I’ve seen at dinners and meetings that I give a small nervous wave to as I slide by her chair.
The rest of the people in the room are unfamiliar to me—already seated at the tables. It seems they arrived first, and students are being sent to tables, to sit with specific chaperones. “Dottie Howard,” I mutter to myself as I push through the tables to the one at the very back, toward the window. “Why does that seem familiar?”
The answer is clear, moments later when the woman at the table turns her iron-gray curls and I catch sight of her face. I barely make it into my seat, because I’ve stopped looking where I’m going. I slide in beside David at the only other chair at the table, and gape. I can’t say I’m proud of my reaction, but this woman was just very recently on my television at the gym in Oxford. She’s the head of communications for the Prime Minister of the UK. And she’s here. At my tea table.
“Dorothea Howard,” I breathe, unable to stop staring.
She cracks a smile, but under the table, David stomps on my toes. I gather I’m being ultra-American.
“Ms. Eades, or can I call you Helena? It is lovely to meet you. Dottie, if you’d please, since this is not a formal function.”
I look around the room dazedly. Not a formal function? There are two chandeliers. The waitstaff is wearing gloves as they bring out trays of fruit and cheese. Gloves!
When I finish my unabashed gawking, Dorothea—Dottie—is already engaged in conversation with David. He’s telling her how he’s interested in learning more about Trade relations with foreign nations, specifically India, China, and Viet Nam. I listen, still unable to form words as they talk back and forth using words I don’t even know. David seems to know so much already. I gather his father has made a lot of money brokering sea travel for imports.
“I don’t just want to do logistics, though. Knowing what I know about how things operate leaves room open for me to suggest regulation and legislation reform.” I look at him like he’s bananas. For a guy who seems just along for the ride here with All Saints, he sounds like he’s literally pitching himself to Dottie for the Prime Minister’s cabinet. I ponder stomping on his foot because I think we’re supposed to just be having tea with poor Dottie. Not selling her on our trade knowledge.
I clear my throat. “How was your trip here, Ms. Howard…er, I mean Dottie?”
David throws me a dirty look. I reach for a scone in the middle of the table, and sit back as a waitperson pours dark brown tea into my cup for me.
Dottie offers me a grateful smile. “The flight was a little bumpy, but short. Thank you for asking, that’s a lovely thing to do. Hopefully the flight tonight will be smoother.”
Take that David. She appreciates my civility. Her words catch up to me. “Wait, you have to fly out again tonight? That’s so… that’s so quick.”
Her iron gray curls bounce a little as she laughs. I’ve literally never seen her even smile on television. She’s so open and genuine, I can’t help but smile back. “Hazard of the job. I wish I could say this was the shortest stay, but it isn’t. And at least I get a wonderful tea out of it.” She bites into a finger sandwich for emphasis.
“Wait, so you’re only here for this?” I wave around. “Not anything else?”
David throws me another look I can’t read.
Dottie’s laugh tinkles again. “Just this. Just to meet with you both. Everyone here was invited specifically to meet with this group of fine students to offer real-world advice on career trajectory. David has told me about his interest in Trade, how about you? What specific area of politics interests you?”
I blink, absolutely dumbfounded. This is the All Saints version of a job fair. A career day. I am sitting at a fucking tea table in Ireland with the Director of Communications for the Prime Minister of the UK. Because of All Saints.
“There are so many,” I fumble with my words, trying to come up with a coherent answer. “Education is certainly one. Equality, as a tangential interest. Things like understanding what programs could be enacted at a young age to have the greatest impact of leveling socio-economic playing fields so that marginalized communities can access the same education and support as white, middle class students. Studying the impacts of a well-educated populace on other areas, like trade, manufacturing, and agriculture.”
Dottie’s face sinks into what I can only describe as approval. “Those are some lofty goals.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, well,” I stutter, unable to come up with a way to say “sorry for wasting your time” that sounds eloquent.
She reaches out a hand and pats mine briefly. “We need people with big goals. It’s why we’re here. To meet with the best and brightest Oxford has to offer. And to help mold our tomorrow as they progress through school so that when they graduate, they can begin right where their impact will help the most.”
David leans forward then. “As in…”
Dottie sits back and offers him a smile. “My job today is to meet with you, answer questions that you have about the work we do in the Prime Minister’s cabinet, and we’ll follow your files. It’s certainly not unheard of that we offer summer internships to people we’ve met with. Or job offers to recent graduates with your background.” She turns to me again. “Do you know if you have a student visa that allows you to stay summers? You might want to get that ironed out before Spring.”
I blink at her. And then blink again. Dorothea Howard is asking me if I could potentially intern in the Prime Minister’s office this summer. I’ve gone from small town farm life to…this.
This is what All Saints has to offer me. It’s the brilliant pull of the curtain, revealing the tantalizing carrot at the end of this bizarre stick. This is what they offer. A direct path to my dreams. The shortcut. Dottie Howard is my Candy Land shortcut up the game board. Well, Dottie Howard, and All Saints. There is not even another world in which a member of the UK Prime Minister’s cabinet comes and sits down at a table with Helena Eades from small-town United States, and offers her a summer internship over all of the other more-qualified students she could choose from.
David is already rabid, asking questions about the summer work, and how to best get his information to Dottie to firm up plans.
My cup of tea has gone cold, my sandwiches uneaten. It’s like my brain has fallen out of my head. My gaze roves the room, falling first on Clara, in deep conversation with a black woman with close cropped curls, then to the rowing twins who fawn over a muscled man I’m pretty sure I’ve seen on soccer posters. This is the room where it happens. I’m in the fucking room where it happens. And then my eyes fall on a table where Kendall sits with Augustine. His eyes are on mine. It grounds me with a jolt of energy, even as he turns to talk to his father.
I come back to myself in a rush, just in time to hear Dottie’s response to David. “We have your information, and our offers are contingent on you completing at least a year under your scholarship advisory committee. I guarantee you, we’re keen to have people of your caliber join our team.” She winks at both of us. “Plus, you may get other offers. This is personal advice… you will likely be in demand with your credentials. I suggest you take the time to weigh your options. Now. Tell me about what you like to do for fun, David.”
And with that, the conversation turns casual, even though I’m aware that my own world has tilted on its axis.
“I’m beat, already.” Clara’s voice floats from the bathroom through my door, her voice echoing off the marble.
The luxurious bathroom now feels like a prison as we find ourselves having to shower and change again for tonight’s festivities. We’ve had an hour to rest, but now we’re to get dressed in our slinky black dresses for our event tonight. Beyond the windows, dusk has fallen and intermittently there’s a flash of headlights driving the winding cobble driveway. I guess we’re expecting more visitors than we’ve had. The night is just beginning. Apparently.
“I’m tired too,” I agree with a yawn. I reach down into my bag and pull out a Red Bull. “Here,” I offer her one. “They’re warm, but…”
“You blessed angel,” she says. We clink warm energy drinks and chug them in front of the marble bust in the corner of the bathroom. “Wonder if we should offer her some, she’s probably seen some stuff,” Clara says, motioning to the bust.
We both snort a laugh. “Life is weird. Never saw this one coming,” I say, looking around.
“Agreed. I never thought you and I would become friends at the very least, much less...”
I nod with another swig. “Thanks for being someone to go through this with.”
“I just hope we both get in,” she agrees, turning to look at the mirror. She’s applying gel to her already-perfect brows. “I guess we’ll know tomorrow.”
“Wait, what? Already?” I’m startled.
“From what Irina tells me, the rest of the trip is only for pledges who find a sponsor. Everyone else goes home tomorrow.”
My stomach sinks. “So we…what? Go back to Oxford for Christmas? Alone?”
Clara tosses me a look. “There’s no way you won’t get a sponsor. We were both at the luncheon, and I saw who you were seated with.”
“You don’t think you’ll get in? With Kendall’s father helping you?”
“Everyone seems disappointed in my answers when they ask me what I want to do with my life. I’ve started inventing things that sound fancy, but I think they can tell.”
I lean in toward my mirror and pull out the lip stain Li sent me with that lasts ten hours. I start applying the shockingly red color.
“That looks really good on you,” Clara says. I look up and find her watching me from her own mirror. “You have really nice lips.”
I flush. “Yeah, well, thanks. I’d kill to have your…” I motion to where her robe barely contains her ample chest.”
“Eh, some men really like a small chest. These things are honestly sometimes more of a hassle than they’re worth. I’d give anything to be able to jog without knocking myself out.”
We both give a little mirthless giggle.
When we slide into the slinky dresses, though, Clara fills hers out much better than me. Mine sags at the top. A lot at the top. I look sad and frumpy next to her.
“Hang on, I’ve got tape.”
“No tape!” I wince, viscerally remember how hard it was to peel duct tape off my chest. Which, of course, sends me right back to that mechanical closet with Kendall…his hands down my dress.
“Are you okay?” Clara’s eyes are wide with alarm.
I’ve started to hyperventilate. “Yeah, fine,” I manage. “Just sort of having a small panic attack.”
She eyes me skeptically. “About tape?”
There’s a knock at the door, and I excuse myself from the bathroom. Pulling open the door open reveals Augustine, dressed in a tuxedo. He’s holding a large leather bag with a handle over his arm, and a small black velvet case in his hand.
He gives me a cursory glance, and his eyebrows knit. “I believe you have your dress on backward,” he says and pushes his way into my room without asking.
I look down. “What?”
“The piece you’re wearing. It has a long chain in the back. This dress looks hideous, but I think it’s only because it’s backward. Aoife!” He yells over his shoulder, and I jump a mile in the air.
Within a moment, Aoife appears, red faced and breathing hard from running up the stairs. “Yes, how can I help?”
“Help her turn her dress around while I get this piece out. I’m on a schedule.” He gives me a pointed look like this is completely my fault.
“I didn’t know. This looks just like Clara’s dress?”
I expect Augustine to leave, or turn his back, but it’s evident he doesn’t have time for courtesy. My cheeks heat as I slip my arms free of the slinky straps. Zero way I’m fully undressing.
Aoife understands and grabs the front of the dress to spin it as I raise my arms and hold my hair up. There’s a little slippage, but nothing too mortifying. I peek over my shoulder and see Augustine watching me intently. He definitely saw some side boob, but seems focused on the fit of the dress. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll reflect badly on the organization. Maybe an ill-fitting dress is just the sort of thing Kendall would do to have me thrown out.
“Ah,” he purrs as Aoife steps away. “Perfection.”
All I know is that suddenly I’m cold. Instead of a weird gather of fabric draping down my front, the neck is high; right across my collar bones. My back however? My back feels naked. I pivot to look in the mirror and gasp. Instead of frumpy and terrible, I’ve been transformed. The dress is chic and elegant in the front. My flat chest doesn’t even matter because the back drapes dramatically from the tops of my shoulder to just above my ass, a la Kate Hudson in How To Lose a Guy in Ten Days.
“You are exquisite,” Augustine says, catching my eye in the mirror. He doesn’t give me a chance to even stammer in response, he motions for me to turn around again. I hesitate, and something I recognize from Kendall’s face races across Augustine’s. Impatience. The “how dare someone not jump to do my bidding,” is apparently something inherited. I turn, presenting my back to him.
“Good girl,” he says, stepping forward and threading a hand around my shoulders. It’s a necklace. A sparkly one.
I pull my hair up, and wait as he places something heavy around my neck. I shiver in response as something cold and icy spills down my back, swinging from the necklace.
“There.”
I turn and he admires his work for a moment before nodding at Aoife. Without another word, he walks back through my door, Aoife trailing behind.
“It’s stunning,” she offers over her shoulder. “Really.”
I face the mirror again, holding my hair up in various positions. I settle on a simple French twist. Something that leaves my neck bare to showcase the delicate diamond band running across my throat. It’s elegant, and heavy . Three layers, almost an inch thick, straight and clean sparkling diamonds. Unimaginable wealth.
I touch the cool stones, then pivot to look at the back. A delicate chain swings against the fabric of my dress, settling into the curve of my lower back. At the end of the chain hangs a single, shining blood red ruby the size of a walnut. Nestled against my fair skin, it looks like a splash of blood—shocking, bordering on tawdry but ultimately fascinating to the gaze. I watch it swing, hypnotized by the feel and weight of my very own pendulum.
“Oh my God , is that a ruby?” Clara’s voice comes from the door to the shared bath. She’s standing in my doorway, staring at my back.
I blink up at her. “Is that a tiara ?” I ask back. Because where I’m elegantly, but subtly, dressed…Clara is iced . A cupcake with frosting. Everywhere. Two huge gold and emerald bangles grace her left wrist. A large, ornate emerald and diamond necklace covers most of her delicate throat and on her head…a tiara with a single shining emerald set among gold filigree.
She looks like a princess.
And suddenly, I feel like the lady-in-waiting.
“I…I think so?” She comes in and stares into the mirror beside me. “Or is it a circlet?”
“I’m not up on my European headwear,” I mutter.
We burst into giggles.
“Well, you look amazing,” Clara says.
“Thanks, you too.”
“I suppose it’s about time.”
I look around for a clock or a watch. “Yeah, probably.” I stifle a yawn. “I might need another Red Bull.”
“Miss Helena?” The voice is Aoife’s. “Miss Clara?”
“In here,” I respond, popping my head around the corner.
“Your escorts are here.”
Clara and I exchange looks. “Sounds good,” I tell Aoife. I feel a true moment of panic. What am I doing?
And then my eye falls on the white flower on my desk. Now propped up into a simple glass of water, it seems…friendly. A reminder that amidst all of this shit, there’s some sweetness.
On impulse, I pick up up, and stab a bobby pin through it. I press it into the top of the French twist on my head, and then pull open the door.
I’m expecting Kendall, but the hazel eyes I find belong to Teague.