Chapter 33 #2
“Don’t even think about kissing me or you’ll ruin all the makeup artist’s hard work.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Do you have any idea how long it takes them to do all this?” She circles her finger around her face. “And the hair? How do people who do this all the time fit it in?”
“Probably because getting ready for an evening is literally their job for the day.”
“Well, that’s a job I never want.”
And there we have it, yet another reason she’d never want to be part of the family I come with as a package deal, and therefore the reason she will never want to be with me.
“You’re happy with the shirt I picked then?” She tugs at the winged collar.
I shrug. “To me, a white shirt is a white shirt is a white shirt.”
“And to me, this is damn hot.” She bends her knees to duck her hand under the hem of my kilt. “Now I see why it’s survived centuries as the national dress.”
Her eyes latch onto mine as she runs her fingers up my outer thigh, sparks flying from them like a lightning bolt to my cock, which instantly stiffens.
“Fuck, Lexi. If you carry on like that, I’m going to have to drag you to our room for a quickie before the ceremony.”
When her fingers reach the hem of my boxer briefs, she slips the tips under the thick draft-excluding edge.
“Hair and makeup, remember?” she teases. “No messing them up.”
“Oh, we could totally do it standing and with no mouth- or face-kissing.”
A cough draws my attention over Lexi’s shoulder to where my father is approaching us along the landing.
“Oops,” Lexi whispers as she snatches her hand out from under my kilt and straightens.
“Why on earth did I have to see a hairstylist?” my dad says, running his fingers through his new ’do. “It looks no different. Total waste of time.”
“Maybe because Mum told you to?” I suggest.
“Hmm.” Dad sighs as he passes us to descend the stairs.
“You look nice, Lexi,” he says, without seeming to have even noticed her.
Lexi gives me an exaggerated look as she mimes shock, mouth open, hands flying to her chest.
“Thank you, sir,” she replies. “Your”—she points at my outfit and whispers—“what’s it called?”
“Highland dress,” I whisper back.
“Your Highland dress looks great on you,” she calls after him as he disappears down the stairs.
“See you both at the church.” He waves at us over his shoulder without turning back.
“May I accompany you to a royal wedding, miss?” I offer Lexi my elbow.
“Only if you promise not to take that kilt off until I say so.” She hooks her hand into my elbow, and I help her balance on her heels as we make our way down the stairs.
When we get to the front door, my mother’s there like a sentry guarding the crown jewels—if sentries were ever dressed entirely in lemon-yellow and had the featheriest of feathers in their hats.
“Ah, there you are.” She slaps the white gloves she’s holding together as Lexi and I approach. “Oliver, you’re traveling with me. And you”—she points at Lexi like she can’t even be bothered to remember her name—“you’re in one of the cars over there.”
She flaps the gloves toward the end of the row of shiny black vehicles lined up behind the large white beribboned one parked right outside the front door.
Is she for fucking real?
At this point, I’m more resigned to it than angry.
“Lexi’s traveling with me.” I place my hand on top of hers on my arm.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mum snaps. “Come along.” And she heads off down the steps.
Jesus Christ! After all my years trying to stand up to this nonsensical crap how can she still dismiss me like this, like I’m a silly child who doesn’t know right from wrong?
“Lexi is with me.” I say it firmer this time. “She travels with me.”
“It’s okay.” Lexi pats my hand. “Leave it.”
“I am not leaving it. I’m sick of fucking leaving it.”
Mum turns on the steps to look at me and sighs with disgust. “Oliver, could we maybe try to have just this one day, your sister’s special day, without any crude language?”
“You might want to have a word with Sofia about that, because earlier she stubbed her toe on a side table in the living room and yelled ‘fucking shit-twats.’”
She winces. “Bride’s prerogative. Now come on. We all need to be in the cars before Sofia comes down.”
“You take the front seat then, Mum. Lexi and I will have the back.”
“Oliver, I will say this only once more. Your friend here is traveling in one of those cars.” She flaps her gloves again. “You’re lucky I’m allowing her in a car at all.”
Okay, now I’m done with this particular variety of the bullshittery Flora and I were talking about earlier.
“I’m lucky that you will allow the woman I love to travel in the wedding party at all?” Lexi’s hand clenches around my arm. I think it coincided with my use of the word love, but I’m so furious with my mother it’s hard to tell. “What would you prefer she did? Get the bus?”
My mother shrugs. It’s only a tiny action. But the contempt it displays, as if that’s an excellent idea she hadn’t thought of, is like yanking the pin from a grenade that’s been rolling around inside me.
“Do you not think that you should treat Lexi with the respect her place in my life deserves?”
“I think, Oliver, that we shouldn’t be making room in an important family and state occasion for one of your whims.”
Where the fuck do I start with that ludicrous sentence?
“First, this is not a state occasion. We’re going to the local village church, not Westminster fucking Abbey. We are not the side of the family that matters, remember?”
The way my mother visibly bristles at my words makes the penny drop. Oh my God. Is this where all her problems stem from? That her brother is the heir to the throne? That his kids are in the line of succession and hers are not? That they get all the state occasions and we don’t?
“Second, Lexi is not a whim. She’s the love of my life. The woman I want to spend the rest of my days with.” Okay, that might be over-egging the pudding a little, but the sentence naturally fell out of my mouth and it helps me make my point of principle, so there we are.
“The only person that matters today, Oliver”—Mother pauses to sniff and clear her throat—“is your sister. Now stop making a scene on the steps and clear the way for her to come down and meet your father.”
She gestures over my shoulder, where Dad is chatting with the violinist from the string quartet, then continues her journey down to where a man in full livery is standing beside the open rear door of the first black car behind the bride’s white one.
“Lexi comes with me.” I lead Lexi down the steps, following my mum, who spins around, her shoes crunching the gravel, and stares at me with a face of stone.
“There is no place here, and certainly not in the photographs, for someone whose breasts have been seen by the entire nation and who will be in your life for only five minutes.”
Then she climbs into the car.
Lexi releases my arm, and instantly there’s a cold patch in the crook of my elbow where her hand had been.
“Let it go.” Her voice is quiet, her smile soft, her eyes full of support tinged with regret. “Mainly because your mother’s right.”
And she heads off toward the back of the line of cars, the fabric of the burgundy dress falling perfectly over her perfect ass as she wobbles slightly on the gravel.
It’s like standing on the deck of a sinking ship and watching the one and only life raft float off into the distance.
Now I’m alone with my mother and all the trappings and traditions and protocol of the institution I thought I’d escaped.