Ashleigh and Remy Brett 1982 Aged 20 #4
The girl lifted her chin in a greeting of sorts and slipped her arms around Archie’s waist, which was both galling and thrilling.
Galling because it was a clear message, letting her know that he was taken, and thrilling because such a display was only ever necessary if you felt under threat.
Tamara was clearly smart as well as gorgeous because her assumption was correct.
At times like this Ashleigh liked to remind herself of the St. Jude’s school motto – qui se applicat spoliis fruetur – which roughly translated to he who applies himself shall enjoy the spoils.
It was adopted long before the admission of girls, but she had always figured it applied to her too.
It had taken three weeks for her to win the spoils and for Archie to declare his hand.
Three weeks during which the anticipation of progression had crackled between them like electricity.
After a great night out, standing close to her in the kitchen of his grotty digs, with eyes half closed, a little unsteady on his pins, he tried, in his drunken state, to explain.
‘Just want to say, that Tamarara and I . . . we are not, not any longer, not.’
‘Not?’
‘Well, we were, but now we can’t be, because I think you’re gorgeous.’
‘Thank you,’ she’d whispered sincerely. ‘So, you and Tamarara.’ She smiled. ‘Are you saying you’re not a thing or . . .’
He had silenced her with a kiss, and as she had placed her hand on the small of his back, underneath his cotton shirt, touching her fingertips to his skin, it was like .
. . it was like igniting a spark, as flames leapt to life in her stomach.
Flames that she knew would never expire because it was all-consuming in the way that fire was.
She wanted to never stop touching him, never, even if it meant she got burnt.
Now, as she stood in front of the full-length mirror stuck to the inside of the Formica wardrobe door, she was warmed by thoughts she could never share with a soul, not wanting to be boastful, but knowing as she studied her reflection, her dyed blonde locks blow-dried into a bouffant flick, her shoulders and décolletage shimmering under a generous dusting of Body Shop bronzing beads, her make-up subtle and her faux-diamanté choker catching the light, that she looked beautiful.
Beautiful, unique and whole, no longer a half, but a new person altogether.
A girl who could meet someone and know that they would remember her face, hers, and not wonder which twin she might be, which half of the egg.
It had been a slow transition, the erosion of their closeness, the severing of the bonds that kept them tied together as one, completed around the age of fourteen, when she had properly discovered boys, and Remy had become fashionable.
Her twin and Tony had fortified their impenetrable gang of two with shields made of music, clothes and make-up.
She loved her sister, of course she did, but she understood it was different now, and had been different for a while.
Did Ashleigh miss her, miss what they had once shared?
Yes, especially at times like this, when she wanted Remy’s opinion, her approval.
How do I look, Rem? Will I do?
‘Archie’s here!’ Fran, her flatmate, called from the hallway.
‘’Kay!’ she replied, reaching for her dress, but then turning sideways, studying her slender frame in the mirror as she stood in her knickers and stockings, deciding the dress could wait.
They had at least half an hour before they had to leave and go meet the gang for pre-ball cocktails.
Ashleigh slipped on to her bed. ‘Send him in!’
She smiled and lay seductively on her side, hair over one shoulder, hand on hip, head tilted just so. They could do a lot in half an hour.
Dozy now and satisfied, calmer, Ashleigh lay back on her pillow.
She liked watching Archie get dressed, the care he took in his practised movements, slipping his arms into his shirt, pulling on his trousers.
It felt just as intimate as the sex they had just shared.
No longer paying heed to the clock, caring less if they made it for drinks, she sat still, hair tousled, her skin still singing with the memory of his touch.
Despite it being mere minutes since their union, in her gut rose a deep ache of want that was present whenever he was close by.
In that minute, if Archie had suggested they forfeit the ball altogether and spend the night in bed with crisps and wine, she’d have agreed in a heartbeat, no matter she’d miss the opportunity to wear her frock.
‘I have a little surprise for you.’ He spoke into her mirror, as he popped his cufflinks back into the double cuffs of his dinner shirt, fastened the bow tie that she’d hastily undone and thrown into the air, and smoothed his now tousled hair with his palms.
‘Ooh, I like surprises!’
That wasn’t strictly true; she found the thought of them to be agony, wary of being unprepared for any event or happening that might require preparation and planning.
The idea of being whisked off on an unexpected sunshine break with hairy legs and a lack of personal grooming was enough to bring her out in hives, but any surprise from Archie was going to be wonderful.
Plus, a little surprise was going to be just that, a bottle of something cold he’d popped into her fridge, flowers he’d asked Fran to arrange?
Her smile broadened at the possibilities.
‘My parents are coming to the pre-ball drinks.’
‘Your parents?’
She sat back against the pillow and took a moment to let her pulse settle.
This was huge, nothing little about it. It was a big deal, and it was too much!
She wasn’t ready to meet his parents, not yet!
They’d only been dating for a short while, and while she knew it was love, she found herself completely thrown by the thought of having to make a good impression on his mum and dad.
In her mind she would meet them eventually after asking lots of pertinent questions and building a picture that would help her chameleon her way into their favour – if they liked Greek architecture she’d gen up, if they favoured cinnamon over lemon she’d bake cookies awash with the bloody stuff!
This felt a lot like going in blind and she was instantly petrified.
It was another way in which she missed Remy, knowing that in her early years, when she had been one half of the little doves, she’d rarely had to face anything alone and nothing was ever going to be that awful because her twin was within reach.
And the one thing she hadn’t been able to face, Remy had taken care of.
This thought, as ever, a pill coated with shame and guilt that was still very hard to swallow. The prospect of Archie finding out that she’d effectively stolen her sister’s scholarship left her a little clammy, with that tingling in her limbs and a feeling like she was in freefall.
Her body shivered at the thought of having to make small talk with the Fitches.
It was always there in the background, the unpalatable thought that she felt less than, when compared to someone who had grown up as Archie and Guy had.
Not for her a country house in Gloucestershire, a London pad for when they were in town, summers spent idling on the Amalfi coast, a low red sports car waiting on the gravel driveway when she passed her driving test, a love of sailing, a chunky gold signet ring bearing the family crest gifted to her on her eighteenth birthday; no trust fund, no attending a truly prestigious public school like Clifton because it was where her father and grandfather had gone, and therefore no membership of the Old Cliftonian Society that held meet-ups worldwide for its alumni.
None of that. Attending St. Jude’s held some weight locally, but it wasn’t one of the public schools that people knew of.
It shouldn’t have made a difference, of course it shouldn’t, but it did.
And it wasn’t entirely about money, but more about the things money allowed you to do, the access it gave you to other worlds!
The things you learned on your travels, the freedom and confidence that came with such a life that meant you were comfortable asking questions, stating an opinion, exploring, and expanding your horizon beyond the corner of the street where Mrs Jenkins lived in a house with three spare bedrooms. Three!
It was far from pleasant, living with the fear of meeting new people and having nothing of value to say.
She wasn’t ashamed of how and where she had grown up, not even a bit, but she was acutely aware that it might matter to others, specifically Archibald Oxton Fitch’s parents.
‘Gosh, that’s . . .’ She swallowed, not wanting to dim the light of excitement in his eyes.
‘You’re going to love them. Elaine is a hoot! And Dickie will rib you, he does all my friends, he’s known for it, but he’s great fun. There’s no harm in him.’
‘And is that how you’re going to introduce me, as one of your friends?’ She hated how much she craved his words of reassurance that would in turn fuel her confidence to go and meet Elaine and Dickie.
Archie twisted his cummerbund until it was sitting neatly over the waistband of his trousers, before taking a seat on the edge of her single bed.
He reached for her hand and the two locked eyes.
She held her breath, unsure if he was about to offer the reassurance she craved or if he’d had a change of heart and was about to break up with her.
It was torturous, waiting. He shook his head.
‘No, I’m going to introduce you as Ashleigh Brett, my girlfriend.’
She tightened her grip on his hand, as relief and a rush of breath made answering impossible; a nod would have to suffice.
‘Truth is’ – he licked his lips, took his time – ‘I love you, Ash. I do, I love you. You are under my skin and inside my bones, part of me.’