18. Chapter 18
C rispin
The week slid by like a lace glove peeled off a slender hand.
Crispin navigated it smoothly, as if on autopilot.
He woke up on time and shrugged on his clothes, laundered and pressed by invisible hands.
Smiled at his colleagues, made easy conversation in elevators, flirted harmlessly with Mrs. Trevelyan-the octogenarian shareholder who wore pearls like a medal of honour, a surprise gift from her late husband when they were on their honeymoon.
He crossed off tasks on his to-do list like a man winning a race he didn't care to run.
He attended back-to-back meetings, signed papers, laughed at the right times.
He took Helga to dinner at a new Japanese place in Mayfair, where the chef flamed salmon table-side and the waitstaff bowed low.
She looked stunning in her midnight-blue silk blouse, and she knew it.
Crispin gave her compliments mechanically, opened her door, listened as she discussed a recent art acquisition and her brother's upcoming wedding.
He played his part with the talent of a true professional.
But even as he nodded, his thoughts drifted.
It was time, he realised, to find someone new. Someone new to keep up this charade. Helga had grown sharp around the edges, more watchful. She made it clear that she wanted more, and he had nothing to give. All his secret moments belonged to Aria .
Still, not before the party on Sunday.
Dorian would be there. After his initial disparaging comments about Aria, he seemed more accepting, and their friendship have moved back from rocky to steady again.
He hadn't seen Dorian in weeks, and Alice had been moody as of late.
They needed a moment, the three of them, like in the old days, before the strain of the performance had sunk its claws into them.
The family house in Kensington still smelled like roses and old money. Columns and crown moulding, the sparkling crystal chandelier in the foyer. Familiar paintings. Familiar ghosts.
His mother greeted him wearing a soft cashmere shawl, eyes crinkling with delight. "Darling." She beamed, kissing both his cheeks. "You look thin."
"I'm fine, Mom," he said, smiling despite himself. His mom always tried to compensate for his absent, workaholic father.
They sat for lunch in the small dining room, just the two of them and Alice. His father was pulling another all-nighter .
The meal of carrot soup, seared duck, and a white Burgundy she'd been saving for just this occasion felt intimate. They ate informally, sitting on the barstools at the kitchen island. Like always, his mother nudged the conversation towards his future between forkfuls.
"You and Helga seem to get along beautifully," she gushed, watching him over the rim of her glass. "Her mother's very fond of you. And their company is growing, with offices in Bristol, Edinburgh, and Cardiff. It's a sensible match, darling."
Crispin made a noncommittal sound. His mother always said 'match' like she was arranging chess pieces, not lives.
Alice, seated opposite, was quiet as usual, but there was an unusual air of alertness about her.
She picked at her duck and chased her peas around her plate with her fork.
She'd always been intense underneath the surface, though few outside the family remembered what she'd been like in secondary school, withdrawn and fragile.
For nearly a year, she'd barely spoken unless spoken to.
Something inside her had shut down completely-until, almost as abruptly, she had shaken whatever was troubling her off like an old skin.
And when she'd come back to herself, it was as someone smarter, harder. Unapologetic.
"She's dating someone," his mother continued lightly, dabbing at her mouth, "from Dorian's company. Not quite our circle, of course, but educated, at least."
Alice didn't look up. "He has a name, Mom," she said coolly. "Emilio. "
The table fell quiet for half a beat before their mother gave a soft, dismissive laugh. "Of course, darling. Emilio ."
Alice met Crispin's eyes, and there was something penetrating in her expression. It was like she was about to throw down the gauntlet.
"Does it matter?" she asked in a strange voice. "Being educated? Having the right pedigree?"
It wasn't just a question. And somehow, Crispin knew she wasn't just talking about Emilio.
Her voice was steady, but there was a deliberate edge behind it.
Like she was asking one thing while meaning another.
Like she was holding up a mirror, waiting to see if he'd look into it or look away.
Crispin felt the gravity of her question, as though he were being tested.
"It helps," he said eventually, his tone mild. "It's easier if someone understands this life and what it involves. "
Alice didn't break eye contact. For a moment, her disappointment was plain, almost too naked for a room like this.
She looked back at him for a second longer than necessary before she turned her attention back to her plate. "Right," she murmured.
Their mother carried the conversation forward like nothing had happened. Crispin said little. Something about the afternoon left a sour taste in his mouth.
The days passed. Crispin didn't call Aria.
He didn't message her, didn't walk by her café or ask her for her shift schedule like he usually did.
He imagined her walking home in the rain, imagined the way she wrinkled her nose when she concentrated.
He wondered if she was thinking about him, if she missed him.
If she saw the photos of him and Helga, arm in arm at the gala, and felt anything.
Jealousy? Anger?
Was she telling herself this was what she expected from him?
He told himself it wasn't betrayal. He hadn't lied, he hadn't promised anything. They had both gone into this with their eyes wide open.
But each time he turned away from his phone, each time he checked her chat window and closed it without typing anything, he felt that tight sensation in his chest get worse .
He showered twice a day. Slept less, ate even less. Smiled that close-lipped, practised smile.
Something was fraying at the edge of him, he just wasn't sure what it was yet.
Only that it had started with her .
Sunday crept up on him like a nineteenth century whalebone corset-expected, constricting, and stitched with the quiet panic of knowing you'd have to smile until it was over.
Crispin dressed in a tailored charcoal suit and a thin silk tie. The kind of effortless formality people expected of him. The kind that made him seamlessly blend into the company that mattered. He had been groomed for this from the cradle.
He glanced at his phone. He had to pick Helga up on the way.
No message from Aria.
Not that he expected one. She was hopeless with that thing-forever leaving it in her locker, in her bag, on someone's café tray. Then she'd panic and tear the flat apart, cursing under her breath, her hair in a messy twist, socks mismatched.
He smiled at the memory .
Once, he'd noticed the screen was cracked diagonally, like lightning frozen in glass. He'd teased her then, called it "more ancient than a Nokia."
She hadn't laughed, just kept slicing the tomato she was prepping for dinner, quiet, her lips pursed. There was that faint line between her eyebrows which said she hadn't liked his comment.
Those were the early days. He hadn't taken the hint and told her he'd buy her a new one.
She'd looked up and said softly, "I'm used to this one. I'll get a new one when it's time."
That had been Aria. Utterly stubborn and strangely principled. She was religious about not accepting anything from him-no phone, no flat, no money, nothing.
It frustrated him.
He wanted to wrap her in cotton wool. Buy her everything she needed, everything she deserved. But she wouldn't let him.
And yet...
On his last birthday, she'd handed him a small box wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside sat a pair of silver cufflinks shaped like tiny folded cranes. The memory hit him like the scent of her apple blossom shampoo, vivid and gentle .
She'd looked almost giddy when he opened it, nervous and delighted all at once.
"I saw them and thought of you," she'd said, biting her lip.
There had been a card tucked inside, written in her careful, looping hand.
In Japanese folklore, she'd written, the crane or Tsuru is a strong, majestic bird said to live for a thousand years. It symbolises honour, good fortune, loyalty, and longevity.
He hadn't known what to say. She must have saved for it.
Later, when they were curled up in bed and she thought he was asleep, she had whispered, "Cranes mate for life."
He wore them constantly. They were tucked in a small velvet tray beside his watches, too precious to bring to events where he might lose one.
He adjusted his collar in the mirror, trying to shake the unreasoning dread that had settled just beneath his ribs. Like he had a premonition that something bad was about to happen .
They'd had a blow-up a while back after he had suggested she move closer to his place. A quiet flat near the park, which meant less commuting and more safety.
She'd looked at him like he had slapped her. And then, she had told him no, using that low, restrained voice that only ever came out when she was truly furious.
They hadn't spoken for a week. Not until he caved, showed up outside her café in the rain, and told her she was right.
He never really won with her. But sometimes, losing to Aria felt better than winning anywhere else.