Chapter 12
12
Sometimes in life, the universe comes along and metaphorically knocks you in the head so hard you see colors for the first time. This is what happened when I saw Iris Fender, dressed in a sparkling black halterneck dress, sitting in a dark pink velvet booth slumped over a green marble table surrounded by empty bottles of champagne and cocktail glasses. Finally, it clicks that this is who he was photographed with weeks ago. I knew he had a sister, but he’d never mentioned her by name. Of course, discovering information like this is the exact point in time I also notice their similarities: their tall frames, the shape of their mouths and their icy blue eyes. Like cleaning an old, smeared mirror until you can finally see a reflection. As Bancroft sits down next to his sister and gently lifts her floppy body off the sticky table I try to figure out why he seems to be keeping his younger sibling’s similar socialite status hidden.
The dimly lit bar glows a deep orange, with gold pleated fabric drapes over the ceiling as though this is some sort of royal circus tent. It’s Saturday night and the place is heaving. The scent of sickly-sweet cocktails and salty dark liqueur fills the space. I can’t help but also notice the grandeur seeping from everyone’s pores, smelling it in the air like a perfume that costs way too much to smell this bad. I physically shrink, attempting to take up less space as tall men and women in perfectly tailored suits and dresses glide by without a second glance; if they could walk straight through me they absolutely would. Bancroft seems annoyed at everyone, glaring at anyone whose eyes shift in his sister’s direction. Anybody in the sea of faces could have seen she needed help, but instead, they scrunched their perfectly plucked eyebrows and snarled their silicone-filled lips at the inconvenient mess in the corner booth, and continued to sip on their espresso martinis.
Despite insisting on attending this rescue mission, now that I’m here, I have no idea what I should be doing to help. I feel like an umbrella you bring on a cloudy day “just in case” but end up having to carry all day for no reason. On the way here Bancroft hinted at having been in this situation before, so I stand a few meters away letting him handle things and giving them some privacy. Well, as much as they can get in a bar full of people who all likely know who he is, if not her too. My gaze moves to a group of tall, slim, good-looking people who look like children. One girl (who if I was ten years younger I would be utterly terrified of) sniggers while taking a video of Iris, her head lolling back as Eric encourages her to drink a glass of water. A man in a sharp navy suit with a slicked-back dark brown haircut I can only describe as “Lego hair” strides toward them. He swiftly hands over a small brass tray with a piece of folded paper on it; Bancroft sucks his teeth resignedly and pulls out his wallet. Iris’s head rolls onto his chest with a thump like a bowling ball hitting the gutter.
The girl taking the video is several inches taller than me so I lift my chin to her to meet her eyes. “Hey, are you one of Iris’s friends?”
The girl’s hazel eyes travel lazily from her phone screen to look at me. Not at my face; instead, she starts at my shoes and scans my entire body as though she has an outfit price-checker in her brain, deciding whether I am figuratively and literally worth a response.
“We’re not friends. We’re mutuals on Instagram.” She turns back to her phone.
“Right. But you’re here with her? How long has she been like this?” She ignores me, the light from her phone reflecting glassy spots in her eyes. “Jesus, can you stop filming her?” I put my hand in front of the camera lens. “How long has she been like this?” I repeat.
She rolls her doe eyes and lowers the phone. “Like an hour and a half—she’s been in and out.” Her golden-blonde hair bounces on her bony shoulders as she laughs. “Such a fucking lightweight.”
A wave of anger hits me, and before my brain can catch up my feet are already moving toward Bancroft, Iris and the bar manager. Bancroft sees me first, and I can feel the shame radiating off him as I approach.
“Can I see that?” I ask bluntly, holding my hand out to the manager. He sighs exasperatedly and places the long paper bill in my palm. My eyes run down the list of drinks until they reach the total. Jesus Christ. Three grand: that’s more than I pay for three months’ rent, spent in a matter of hours.
Bancroft must notice my eyebrows raise. “It’s fine, Hastings. I’ll deal with it.”
He looks so deeply uncomfortable he’s probably willing to pay that much money just to get out of this situation. I scan over the receipt again, trying to work out how many drinks Iris could have had before passing out.
“I need another card—hers bounced,” the manager snaps, pointing a bitten-down fingernail at Iris.
I quickly scan the bill again, running my finger down the items. “It says here this tab was opened with her card about two hours ago?” My chin lifts to meet the group of spectators. “They said that she’s been unconscious for an hour and a half. So did you not notice a girl passed out on a table in the middle of your bar, or were you happy to let random patrons add four-hundred-pound bottles of champagne to her tab without her consent?”
Bancroft matches my raised eyebrows as the manager sucks in his cheeks, flicking his eyes from Bancroft to Iris to me.
His Adam’s apple bobs. “She’s only been like that for a few minutes. This was all her! You need to pay now or I’m calling the police.”
I steady my voice, trying to stay calm against his escalating tone. “Yes, let’s! I’m sure one of the people here with their phones out has evidence of her that would prove you’re lying.”
The manager side-glances at a huge, bald-headed man in a black T-shirt who looks as if he’d be better suited to a career in WWE than this bar. As the bouncer paces over to us, adrenaline starts to pound through my veins, making my blood thick enough to hold up my shaking legs like stilts. Glancing back to her “friends” so I know they can hear me, I point a shaky finger at the manager and double down.
“You’ve been racking up a bill while she’s been passed out. From what I can tell”—gesturing with a sweaty palm to Iris—“this isn’t the first time this has happened.”
I pause to wait for a response that doesn’t come, so instead, I continue with this new self-confident persona: “Do you do this to all your customers or just the young women? I don’t think you want a reputation for taking advantage of unconscious girls.”
He rips the bill out of my hand with the alacrity of someone who’s just been told it’s a winning lottery ticket. The bouncer steps between us and I freeze: a deer on a tight country lane about to become roadkill. This guy looks thrilled to be getting into his first big confrontation of the night. I’m briefly sucked out of my righteous tirade and forced into the reality of getting punched by a human freight train. Bancroft pushes to step between us and gives me a gentle nudge out of the way, blocking my body from the bouncer with his.
The manager turns to us and sighs dramatically. “Just... get out. Make sure she ,” he spits, pointing a harsh finger at Iris, “doesn’t come back.”
“With pleasure,” Bancroft interjects.
We each put one of Iris’s arms over our shoulders. She’s a rag doll, half walking, half being dragged through the bar toward the exit, her heels scraping against the wooden floor like chalk on a blackboard. Her “mutuals” are still stumbling around the room, giggling with cocktails in hand. As soon as they see Bancroft, a look of pure wrath on his face, they scatter like bugs, heading toward the door on to the next stop of their champagne crawl. We make it out of the building and into the taxi Bancroft had kept waiting outside.
“That’s not Margeaux.” Iris’s hand flops like a freshly caught fish toward me as I sit down on the other side of the cab, facing them both in stunned silence.
Bancroft’s lips push together, suppressing a smile as he pulls Iris’s seat belt over her and plugs it in with a click.
“No, that’s Grace,” Bancroft corrects. My face creases: Is this first-name basis becoming a regular thing now? My name feels new when it’s on his lips, as though it’s the first time I’ve heard it from anyone.
Iris lets out a quiet gasp, her hot breath creating a momentary fog against the window. “Oh, that’s Grace. Hastings... like the battle...”
A flash of panic whips across Bancroft’s face; he runs a palm across his mouth and the look is gone. Iris’s flushed face smushes against the cab window, and she falls asleep. I’m tempted to ask what “ that Grace” means but decide against it; he’s probably complained about me or talked about me behind my back to his sister too.
Instead, I ask, “Not to sound like a dick but... isn’t your family like rich rich? Why did you have to come to settle her bill?”
The taxi pulls out, making all three of us bob in our seats until we turn on to the road. Bancroft sighs, considering for a moment before answering me.
“Our mother likes to cut us off whenever she’s feeling ‘unloved.’ She does it for attention... or if she doesn’t feel we’re being as appreciative as we should be.” He looks over at his dozing sister with a mixture of love and pity. “Since I have a full-time job it doesn’t affect me much, but it still works like a charm with Rissy.”
Thinking of my own mother, I feel a twang of guilt; there have been so many missed calls and canceled visits over the past few years, because life, work or William got in the way. But I’ve never received anything but love in return.
“Is that why you took the job at Ignite? To stop being controlled by her?”
“Maybe at first, but I like what I do. I’d do it for a lot less.” Detecting my awkwardness, he shifts, looking at his lap. “I’m sorry we had to cut your date short.”
“It’s OK. Mellie seems really keen to partner. I’ll call her to lock it down on Monday.” Sensing the need to lighten the mood, I lean back in my fold-down seat and cross my legs. My calf lightly brushes against his knee in the confined space, a touch we ignore. “I am livid I didn’t get to finish my clay masterpiece though.”
“And what were you making? It looked like you were going for a...” He pouts, searching for the words. “... gray-brown blob?” He takes off his jacket and lays it over Iris’s lap, covering her riding-up dress. As he moves his shirt separates between the buttons, revealing a hint of golden skin and a smattering of hair a shade darker than his sandy locks.
I glance at his chest, then swiftly move my eyes down to my hands, examining the clay still residing under my fingernails. “It was a statue of you. I thought it was pretty realistic.”
“Of course. Who am I to misinterpret a master?” He smirks at me, eyes weary. “Was this statue for worshipping purposes or are you planning to put a curse on me? Because if it’s the latter, I’d love to know in advance.”
I laugh through my nose. “I was hoping it would be like that movie Life-Size and I would have an enchanted version of you to do stuff for me.”
“You weren’t concerned about this turning into a Pygmalion scenario?”
I fake an excited gasp, raising my hands in revelation. “Maybe that’s the solution to my dating dilemma: creating the perfect man out of stone!”
Iris shuffles in her seat, her face pressing against the fogging glass as she falls fully back to sleep.
“And that perfect man would be me... minus the personality?” He throws me a theatrically offended look, pushing his hand across his chest as if he’s been shot in the heart.
I lower my chin. “Maybeeee... I would be willing to take a few traits into consideration...” I lightly tap his shin with my foot.
The passing streetlights cast Bancroft back and forth from gold to black. “Like what?”
“Well...” I pretend to ponder. “The part that felt compelled to order us expensive sushi during late nights at the office?” I point to him for emphasis. “ That part of your brain could stay.”
“Ahhh,” he says, nodding. “The tempura lobe.”
I snort a laugh and he leans forward, hands clasped between his thighs. “Want to know what part of your brain I would keep?”
I raise my eyebrows in question, signaling my willingness to play ball. His eyes gleam in the dark. “Whatever part turned you into a fucking badass in there.”
As he moves closer I catch the soft scent of his cologne; it wraps around me like a warm duvet on a rainy day.
Instead of immediately reacting, I run through the script of my entire life to check, but... “I think that’s the first time anyone has ever called me a badass.”
He grips me in an icy stare. “Maybe you should be like that more often, then.”
Iris grunts softly in her alcohol-laced slumber as the taxi lurches over a pothole.
I let out a quiet laugh at the advice I know is 100 percent correct. “Want to know a secret?”
“Always.”
I lean forward, meeting him in the middle of the cab, my chest pressing against the seat belt. “I was channeling you .” His eyebrows raise to match mine as I continue, “How you are in meetings and with your team. It was like I could feel you inside me and I—” I snap my mouth shut, thanking the moon for masking my red cheeks in darkness. The sound of the whirring engine and beeping traffic permeates around us, as though the fabric-lined walls of the cab are slowly pushing us in toward each other.
He licks his lips and then purses them, trying to suppress a smirk. His voice lowers an octave, making me shiver despite the hot night: “You know, a much lesser man would respond to that statement in a very undignified manner.”
My stomach feels heavy as his eyes squint at me; they look almost black in the shadowed cab. I have to actively remind myself that we are not alone in this tiny taxi. Actively stop myself from saying I wish you would and asking What would you say?
My seat belt digs into the side of my neck as my body is drawn toward him like a magnet; for a brief second I imagine the pinch against my skin is the drag of his teeth. The feel of the nylon strap against my waist is his hands pinning me down as his tongue glides up my legs.
I blink back to reality as the car rolls over another bump. “We’re soooo past the point of dignity.”
When I can make his smirk turn into a full-fledged grin I feel like a master chef successfully cooking deadly puffer fish: turning something that could kill you into something delicious.
“I think we are too,” he agrees, scanning my cheeks, my jaw, my lips and then back up to my eyes, making me feel as if I’ve swallowed a cannonball. We sit in a comfortable silence punctuated by laughter flowing from passing restaurants and our seat belts creaking as we lean further forward in the center of the cab. Two planets slowly drawn into each other’s orbit.
If you vomit onto a fire, would it put out the flames? Because in this scenario it does, as Iris, woken up by a wave of hot nausea, violently upchucks into her bag. The heated air building between Bancroft and me turns into regurgitated champagne ash.