Chapter 30
Thirty
Ally’s fingers tightened around Chip’s hand, and she allowed him to guide her through the cavernous hotel ballroom where the Encode gala took place. Her breath caught at the monochrome interior, all the ultra-modern black and mirrored surfaces in striking contrast to the white tables and chairs, and the chandeliers supporting linear-shaped crystals that hung like icicles from the roof.
This ballroom looked closer to an upscale nightclub. Not that Ally had been to one of those either, but she’d seen interpretations in TV shows and movies, and this was pretty close to those .
All around, people gathered into close groups, the dark and bold theme repeated in the clean lines of tailored suits and perfectly fitted dresses. A hint that even the lowest paid person here likely earned more than most anyone in Harlow.
Chip’s hand suddenly seemed no longer enough. So she clung to his arm instead, which prompted him to turn and tip her chin upward so she looked at him.
“You’ll be fine, Kid.” He smiled and landed a kiss to her forehead, the action soothing the churning in her tummy.
Even though she was supposed to be supporting him, he pulled away and slid his attention down her sapphire blue silk dress’s low neckline. “I know I’ve already told you you’re beautiful tonight—”
“About ten times, at least.” She matched his smile, hoping her joke would help him relax too.
“Then, make it eleven.” He touched his nose to hers but didn’t go so far as to kiss her. “And add to that, the blue of your dress doesn’t even come close to surpassing your eyes.”
He ran a finger where her dress met her shoulder, and although she opened her mouth to point out that she’d picked her dress specifically because it brought out her eyes, her chance to say anything never came.
“Hey!” Greg bound toward her and Chip, Chip’s expression shifting to a quick frown.
“Hi, Ally.” Greg gave her a quick wave and then focused on Chip. “You have to come meet my friends from work. They want to hear about Stonewall and what you’ll be pitching to the execs tomorrow.”
Chip directed a pained look to Ally, indicating that he’d be pulled into a conversation she’d not enjoy, much less understand.
“Can we have a minute?” He spoke to Greg. “We’ve only just arrived.”
As much as she breathed an internal sigh of relief, her stronger desire remained on not holding him back, which meant not getting in the way of him making new connections.
“No. Go.” She gave a short giggle, like being left alone in a strange room with strange people was all fine by her even as she backed away and pushed him toward Greg. “Go talk shop. I’ll grab a drink and find something else to do.”
Though his brows drew heavily, she smiled wider and nodded for him to walk on, not to make her the reason he shied away from the new life awaiting him.
Her smile began to wobble, and she spun away, pretending she knew just where to go in this huge room. A server stood ahead with a tray of champagne flutes, and she strode straight over, swiping up a glass, the delicate stem fittingly cold in her hand, the effervescent, golden bubbles inside, offering a somewhat unwanted cheerier vibe.
The crowd surrounded her, and the occasional person bumped into her, as though standing alone made her invisible. Or maybe because she tucked herself away so that Chip wouldn’t see her sipping and staring at the empty stage with two big, pull-up Encode banners on either side.
If he did see her, he’d drop whatever he was doing to save her, and she wanted his saving less than she wanted the awkward solitude.
“Now, here’s a new face!”
Ally startled and snapped her attention to a woman to her left, the woman wearing a loose white shirt tucked into her tight pencil skirt, the sharp line of her ice-blonde hair at her jawline, and her stark red lips, intimidatingly meticulous.
The woman lifted her hand and hooked a finger in a gesture for Ally to join the three other women gathered near her. Like a stupefied puppy, Ally did as commanded.
“Angeline.” The woman raised her champagne flute in welcome. “And you are?”
“Ally.” She stared ahead, not sure what else to say.
The woman looked her over, as though she hadn’t been the one to see Ally first, the muscles over her face slightly stiff. “You don’t work at Encode, do you?”
The question sent icy shivers through Ally’s veins, but she shook her head and answered anyway. “I’m here with a Graduate grant candidate. Chip Overton.”
Angeline raised her chin in a that figures sort of way. “My firm has been sifting through the legalities of his Stonewall idea. Impressive. And what is it you do?”
Stalling for time, Ally took a long sip of her drink, the years having taught her that most people didn’t know how to react when she talked about her art, Chip’s dad’s reaction being case in point. “I’m a potter.”
Four silent and blank stares pointed her way before a shorter woman with red curls swept into a high up-do spoke. “As in, clay?”
Relieved to at least have something to respond to, Ally shrugged. “Vases and plant pots, mostly.”
“Oh, how delightful.” Angeline squeaked with an overly bright tone, her gaze darting between her friends, like she shared a secret Ally wasn’t in on. “I thought they had machines for that stuff these days, but good for you!”
“You’re right. Pottery has been very good for me.” Ally lifted her posture because, unlike in the past, she finally had a weapon to defend her life choices. “In fact, I’m in the process of signing a distribution deal with Argyles. Have you heard of them?”
A tall brunette to the redhead’s right gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “ Heard of them? I love Argyles. Congratulations.”
Maybe it was the show of enthusiasm, but right then, Ally decided the brunette’s face was much kinder than Angeline’s.
Ally took another sip of her champagne, her body far more relaxed now that she’d stood up for herself—for once in her life—finding a place in what was an otherwise ill-fitted situation. Enough to address the group at large. “And what is it that you all do?”
“Corporate law.” Angeline spoke and tilted her head to the redhead. “And Sandy here does tax law.”
The tall brunette gave a sheepish wave. “I’m in final year med school, hoping to specialize in cardiology. The name’s Andy, by the way.”
“And I’m Janice.” The fourth woman, one of Asian appearance and brave enough to wear color in her magenta pants suit, smiled and added, “Biochemist. I work in cancer research.”
Each woman’s life seemed so different from hers, each profession not something she would have ever considered an option. Not growing up in Harlow, where there were no lawyers, much less biochemists. The women here appeared to serve loftier purposes, their paths clearer-cut than her own.
Janice—in all her brilliant magenta glory—seemed to see Ally’s doubt and reached out, patting Ally’s elbow. “You know, I wish I had at least one creative bone in my body, and I do adore handmade art. Do you have a business card? I’d love to see your work.”
Ally bit the inside of her cheek. Why had she never thought to make business cards?
“Heck.” She gave an apologetic cringe. “Not yet, but I probably should.”
Janice giggled and swatted a hand. “Never mind, I’m sure I can find you on social—”
“Must be nice”—Angeline’s flat tone cut straight through Janice’s lighter delivery, obliterating Ally’s last doubt that this woman might like her—“spending your days quite literally pottering around.”
Angeline directed a little chuckle to her friends, all of whom now stared at the ground, their wide eyes saying, Here we go again . As though they encountered each other at these events at times, and this backhanded comment was Angeline just being Angeline.
Ally, unwilling to sink beneath the intended shame, rolled her shoulders back and made no effort to hide her frown. “Well, no, it is really hard.”
Janice shook her head. “Ally, don’t worry about her, she’s—”
But weeks, maybe years of frustration overflowed, and Ally had no desire to hold back now. “It’s hard working other jobs while living for the next chance to do what I actually want to do. It’s hard sacrificing what little money I earn for materials and equipment, all so people who don’t care to know any better can belittle me. So, they can bargain down the price of art that uses techniques that took me years to perfect. Oh, and it’s hard fronting up to conversation after conversation with people who imply I’m a few braincells short of a tomato and too damn ignorant to even notice their condescension. Or worse, those who compare my work to the mass-produced, unethically made items they probably saw on some iffy-looking website for less than the money they’d impulse spend on a takeout coffee.”
Though her eyes pricked, and her cheeks burned, she raised her chin and stared Angeline down, daring her to talk back now.