Chapter 20
20
I t turns out blood red lipstick covers up lip bruises from an earth-shattering kiss. No one is the wiser as I walk into the glittering den nestled in the catacomb tunnels under Oxford. And by the reaction I know I look good. Beyond good. Heads turn, and Clara gives me a double take.
What isn't easier to cover up is the echo of Kendall's words. I can’t focus on what I’m supposed to be doing. I nearly drop my first small tray of gold-rimmed crystal champagne flutes—the recollection of how his eyes burned when he'd said you were born to be mine reverberates through my being so hard, I can’t feel my feet.
“Are you drunk?” Clara whispers to me, eyes raking up and down my person.
“No.” I steady the glasses. “Um, just nervous. These tunnels give me the creeps.”
Clara looked exactly how she'd looked yesterday after we'd picked out outfits together. Classy and elegant in a beaded white jump suit. She’s demure, and put together with her hair in a bun. She looks every inch the virginal, fresh-cheeked material All Saints says it wants. “You changed what we picked out for you to wear.”
“I spilled juice—wine. I spilled wine on my clothes.”
Her eyebrow goes up. “You spilled wine on yourself in the music building?”
“Li came to visit and she was enthusiastic about our conversation and sloshed it on me.” Enough of that is true that if she follows up on my story for any reason, it will hold water. “I had to, uh, trade with what Li was wearing. You know how she is.” I produce something aproximating a laugh.
“I mean, you look great. But. Wow. It's not what I expected.” She looks down at her own outfit and frowns.
“You look perfect,” I assure her as a waiter fills her tray. “I feel ridiculous but at least it's something to wear that doesn't reek of booze already, right?”
The Russian girl, Irina, shushes us. She's dressed to kill too in a velvet gown and a velvet choker necklace that somehow is both vampire and glam, and I wonder if she has had a secret heads up the way I have.
I lift my tray, a gorgeous purple flower nestled among the fancy glasses on top of it. I'm waved to a table and square my shoulders. I have to play this game. At least a little while longer. So for the next two hours, I turn every charm I have on. I am engaged with everyone I serve. I endeavor to be incandescent in a way that is almost farcical given my humble beginnings and my personal convictions that I don't belong in this room full of very rich people.
And rich people they are. I note Rolexes on wrists. Perfectly tailored suits. Vera Wang. Givenchy. Prada. Balanciaga—I hadn’t even known what Givenchy or Balanciaga logos looked like, Irina pointed them out to Clara and I like we were heathens. Gowns with beading so intricate, they have to be one-of-a-kind and hand made. The jewels on cufflinks and fingers are so big, they'd look fake if they...didn't. Diamonds the size of a quarter. Emeralds. Rubies. Everything short of tiaras and crowns. In fact, I am almost positive I saw a woman wearing a jeweled circlet in her hair.
If these are the donors sponsoring my scholarship, it puts the scope of this endeavor in stark reality. I swear I recognize several notable British politicians. I overhear Irina talking with an Australian news mogul. Whatever these people are here for, dressed to the nines, tension in the room is as thick as the mascarpone on the appetizers. The gazes and conversation is hungry for lack of a better word. Not just the men, but the women too. I’m a delicate fish, swimming in a pool with sharks.
Eyes rake up and down my body so often I begin to feel desensitized to it. Soon, I refill wine glasses with the full assumption that the man or woman I'm serving will ogle my breasts. Clara looks spooked after a woman runs her red fingernails over her bare shoulder. She and I exchange worried glances over the complete change of the vibe in the room from our other serving gigs. I have a brief moment of panic that this is some sort of sex cult and I'm about to be sacrificed to a room full of drugged up rich people. There are movies about that very thing.
And yet. While the air of sex and sexiness permeates the air, this is a room of people who want to talk about ambition. I manage to smile and gloss my way through explaining that my family is so broke that I can't attend Oxford any other way, but they seem aware of that. Their interest always piques when I tell them what I told Kendall. About my dreams, as far-fetched as they seem. I talk about my grandfather, who raised racehorses as a passion and who gave me my want to advocate for people on a bigger scale. About my dreams to study at Oxford with Professor Dusberry, and go on to a career in political strategy. Several nod as if they know Professor Dusberry well, a gleam in their eye. It’s at once validating, and unsettling.
I can’t help the feeling that they’re… feeding on my dreams. Inhaling my young passionate fervor like you scent a wine before drinking. One woman reaches out and drags her finger down my arm, while declaring my ambition reminds her of her younger self. Her dark eyes are still razor sharp despite the four drinks I've served her.
A brown-skinned man, some sort of dignitary from Thailand, I think, asks me probing questions about my studies and performance in courses so far. He’s very familiar with all my professors, and grills me about their quirks like it’s his job. It's perhaps the most intense four hours I've spent since coming to Oxford and that's saying something. Far more intense, even, than the rigorous interview process for Oxford itself. No, I’m not asked philosophy questions, or my own interpretation on how Brexit has shaped world macroeconomics, but I’m grilled about…me. My own passions. Where they stem from.
I’ve been ignoring Kendall all night. I make an effort to keep many people between us. And yet, every time I look up, he’s watching me.
I have no idea how much time passes, though things seem to wind down eventually. Fatigue slows my reactions. My smiles get more forced. More than one patron has nodded off in a cozy corner, victim of the open bar. I watch in envy as a dark-haired Korean woman sashays toward the door, giving Kendall's father a regal nod. I want to go home too.
“Are you okay?” It's a quiet, dark-haired man with an Irish accent. Clara has been serving this table, but at the moment I don't see her in the room. In fact the room has mostly cleared out. I frown. Have I missed some signal to leave? I sway a bit on my feet.
“Here, have a seat, you look pale.” He pulls out one of the plush seats next to him. “It's vacated. These English can't hold their liquor. The trick is to go slow and steady. I find that the most interesting time is to be had late in the evening. When everyone has put the cards on the table, so to speak.”
“Ah.” I say like I get it, even though I don’t. I’m wary about sitting down before my job is over, but my legs have no such compunction. I sink into the chair he offers.
“Helena isn't it?”
I eye him, alarmed I should know who he is. “Yes?”
“One of the Americans.”
“Guilty as charged.” I take a deep breath, steadying my body. Across the room, Kendall's father beckons to me. Immediately, I push back away from the table. “I should get back, thank you.”
“No, I insist. Five more minutes, your color is returning. We can't have a rumor being spread that we injure our scholars, can we?” His hand reaches out and pats my arm. In a fatherly way, but there's steel under that grip. “I rarely come to these things,” he says conversationally with a sip at his small glass of amber liquid. I’m surprised, given he looks vaguely familiar to me. Have I seen him around campus, does he teach here maybe?
“Not a party-goer?” I ask, because it seems I'm supposed to talk now. My brain feels sluggish after my long night of performance.
“I find some other supporters of this fraternity... distasteful." He admits. "I much prefer being home among my own comforts. When I do go out, I prefer the orchestra or the opera. How about you? Do you like the opera?”
I’m too tired to continue performing, so I go with honesty. “I’ve never been to an opera, but I think I would like it. Actually, I'm in a choir here.”
His gaze sweeps over me, and I see him perk up with the discovery of common interest. “Marvelous. I did a little singing in my time here, and my son too. How are you finding it?”
I lean forward, feeling like for the first time all evening, I can be myself. “Honestly? I love it more than I ever thought I could. I know it's supposed to just be volunteer hours. Service. But...it brings me a sense of peace I didn't know I was missing.”
His eyes glint. “There is something magical about musicians working together.”
“Yes, exactly that.” I tap the table. “It's well, if you forgive the term, divine?”
He swishes his drink thoughtfully. “Your appearance on our roster was a surprise. I am pleased you are here, however, and found our conversation refreshing. I look forward to talking with you more at a future date.” He uses his drink to motion behind me. “I believe your company is being requested. It seems I have monopolized enough of your time.”
I glance behind me to find Kendall stalking toward me. Does he ever just walk?
“Until our paths cross again,” the man says, helping me up. The warmth of his large hand engulfs mine, granting me a sense of security despite Kendall’s deadly gaze. I hope I am the only one who can read the wild look of jealousy that flashes across his face. By the time he reaches me, he's in control again.
“Your shift is over,” he growls before grabbing my elbow and propelling me into the tunnel.
Clara is waiting out there, as are the three goons that grabbed me. I rip my arm from Kendall's hand and turn to face him. "Stop manhandling me." I try with all my might to tell him with my eyes that his jealousy is an asshole move. He was the one who told me to be charming. I’d been charming.
His eyes blaze down at me. “You're playing with fire." He’s so quiet, I don't think Clara can hear. He covers his actions by yanking the small apron off of me, undressing me yet again, like I’m a toddler in need of tending.
I'm so tired of feeling powerless. So tired of Kendall acting like he knows everything. So tired of being a pawn in a game I don't even understand. “No, you're playing with fire. You said you needed me, well you're going to have to stop messing with me if you want me to cooperate. I have my limits. You’ll have to actually model some self restraint.”
His glare cools and he steps back. “We'll talk later.”
“No. We won't,” I say, turning to Clara, snatching her elbow and dragging her down the tunnel.
She totters on her heels before falling in step beside me. “What was that about?”
“Nothing. I swear.” Nothing that she needs to be jealous of at any rate.
“What do need to cooperate with?”
“He’s pretending like he’s trying to help me—us,” I hasten to add. “But really, Kendall is being an asshole and trying to manipulate the situation. You know how he is.”
She's quiet a while and when I glance at her in the strip lighting, I see her chewing her bottom lip. “I thought I knew him.”
“Well then, you should be well acquainted with his assholery.”
We turn a corner, prompted by the goons in suits. Ahead of us Irina’s heels catch in a crack in the flooring and the rowing twins catch her. Their own guides don’t even offer to help.
“It's more than him just being an asshole. Though he is doing that.” Clara grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. I face her reluctantly. “Is there something going on between you guys? He's... he's never that worked up. Ever.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Have you met Kendall? He's got a stick up his butt, like, every day of every year.”
She considers that. “He’s always been aloof, yes. And entitled. But really steady about it, if that makes sense. Nothing rattled him. This is new. His... intensity. And it seems like it’s only around you.”
Well shit, I can't deny that part. Kendall’s current behavior is reminiscent of a rabid dog, a stark contrast from his aloofness as the high school king. And yet “we hate each other but he swears we’re meant to be together” just doesn’t seem like something I can explain.
I pat Clara's hand and turn back toward the tunnel. “I overheard an argument. He's all hot and bothered over something with his Dad. He's using me to get even with him, they put a wager on it or something, and I'm sick of it. End of story.”
“That's not end of story, that's—” she trots on her heels to catch me.
“It's all I know, and I swear. Tonight in the tunnel, we overheard Kendall arguing with his Dad.” I motion around to the goons. “They heard it too. It seems like Kendall’s father is using our success in All Saints as some sort of test for Kendall.” There. All true. Even if I’ve left out duct tape and bruising kisses. I don't need to hurt Clara any more than she's already hurting.
“We’re…a test for Kendall?”
I glance at the henchmen. “I’m not sure what it means. Kendall was mad I overheard it, and then mad at what I planned to wear.”
“Because you had to switch with Li.” I can feel her eyes on me.
I nod. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Yeah, I guess. I gather that Kendall is tasked with getting us through the tests as some sort of proof he’s earned his Prefect spot or whatever.” I shrug.
Clara is quiet longer than I deem necessary. “That’s so weird, because Augustine has been nothing but welcoming to me.” She shoots me a sideways look I can’t interpret. “I thought he was helping me through some of the events so that Kendall and I can be together at the end of all this, not that he had wagered we’d fail.”
It’s my turn to stare. “Kendall’s father is… helping you?”
She shrugs. “Not outright. But like, he’ll ask what I’m planning to wear and I use his advice. And tonight he suggested that I serve the table that Kendall was also serving. Just little stuff like that. And tonight he told me to talk a lot about what I want out of life, if I could wedge it into conversation. To play up my wholesomeness, and my want for children, and a successful family. To talk about my Grandparents. I never think I’m that interesting, so I worry that I would have failed tonight if he hadn’t warned me to amp it up.”
I’d received almost the same coaching from Kendall. Albeit with an upsetting amount of sexual tension. And now I have to wonder if he and his father are pitting Clara and me against each other. Do they each have a horse in this race—and if so, what is the prize? “And how do you think it went tonight?”
She shrugs. “It was odd. Everyone wanted to know about my grandparents. The ones on the East Coast,” she clarifies. When I nod, she cast a glance at the goons, and then moved in toward me in confidence. “What was even weirder is the really specific questions they asked. What charities my grandmother supported. How much money she raised. Whether or not I was a debutante. How often I see them. Who their friends are. Who my grandfather golfs and sails with.” She pauses. “Literally almost all the questions were about my family, and not about me. Except for the woman who invited me to go sailing with her. I had to tell her I’d only done two or three summers of sailing camp, and I’m not really confident enough for the water around here.” Clara paused. “She didn’t seem off-put. She said it was something we could work on. As if she and I were going to hang out as friends sometime in the future. It was…odd. Did everyone ask you about your family?”
“Some. I did get questions about my grandfather and his racehorses. But when I told people that he’d passed away basically penniless, they asked me more about my coursework here. And yes, I had someone invite me to the opera. Kind of like we’d somehow end up going. Tonight was odd indeed. I wonder if it was like a mentor match up?”
“Well I kind of thought Augustine was already my mentor. He’s the one that keeps telling me to give Kendall time. To just wait out this process. But yes, maybe.”
My mind is whirling. Games upon games. Augustine is actively encouraging Clara’s affections? And coaching her performances? I desperately hope Clara has never had her boobs taped by anyone over the age of twenty.
Clara continues. “I’ve been hopeful that all of this would settle out. It's just... it's just Kendall never looked at me that way. With that intensity. Not even once.”
The door opens in front of us, and the goons usher us forward. I have to try to salvage this. I’m not ready to talk about it. And definitely not with Clara. “Be glad he never looked at you that way Clara, we hate each other. Be glad he’s never hated you like he hates me.”
“Yeah. Right. I know.” She says, but I can tell she's not convinced.
Neither am I.