Chapter 51
I’m reading Wuthering Heights in bed, or trying to, doing everything I can to avoid going downstairs and facing Oscar. Because whatever is going on inside me is scaring me. I’d rather just avoid him altogether until I have to see him later. Then I’ll deal with it. Because tonight is New Year’s Eve.
Oscar is hosting another damned party.
And so I focus on reading. Or try to.
But then a familiar voice floats up the stairs: ‘Baby-V?’
Rupert.
They’re back. Finally.
Something to ease the tension. A cushion.
So I go over to the door, push it open and rush over to the banister.
Carmilla and Rupert are standing in the entrance hall with their bags; Mr Parker and Oscar are helping them. Rupert looks up and blows me a kiss. I wave back and Oscar glances quickly up at me, then turns to Carmilla.
‘Did you find Felix?’ Oscar asks. ‘The police came to ask about him. Do they think something happened to him?’
‘Nobody knows,’ she says. ‘His bags and passport were gone though. Arsehole.’
‘Yes, Aubrey and I had to get up in the middle of the day to deal with them, didn’t we Aubrey?’ Oscar says, looking up at me like nothing has happened in their absence. Our eyes meet and my breath catches—has he always been this beautiful? Did I just not notice?
I look away, to Carmilla instead. ‘Yes. I hope Felix is okay.’
She stares at me, thoughts I can’t read moving behind her eyes.
And then blessed Mrs Parker comes in from outside and heads up the stairs. She’s carrying a black garment bag.
‘Hello, Miss,’ she says as she gets to me. ‘I have your dress for tonight.’
We step into my room, and I relax as soon as I’m out of Oscar’s orbit. I must be insane to be staying here by choice. I’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll go back to London and my life. Although now an anxiety courses through my veins. Because that’s not without its own problems.
Mrs Parker is over by the wardrobe, unzipping the bag. She hangs up my dress cheerfully, asking, ‘Did you have a lovely Christmas?’
‘Yes. And you?’
She turns to me with a grin. ‘Yes, ours was wonderful,’ she says.
‘Lots of grandchildren running around. Mr Parker dressed up like Santa Claus and everything.’ She’s giggling at the memory, and that makes me laugh too, even though that familiar sadness is back.
I can feel it in every part of my body. ‘You’ll need to get ready soon,’ she continues.
‘Everyone is arriving in an hour and a half.’
I nod. ‘Thanks.’
Her eyes catch on the red dress, crumpled on a chair. She picks it up. ‘What happened here?’
‘I’m so sorry, I couldn’t get it off and I panicked.’
‘No mind.’ She smiles. ‘We’ll fix it.’ As she heads to the door, she says, ‘I’ll be back in half an hour to help you dress.’
As soon as she’s gone, I go over to look in the wardrobe.
The dress is long and soft gold with detailed embroidery—even more beautiful than the last. Of course it is, everything about Oscar is an illusion.
A beautiful, alluring illusion. I touch the fabric and I tell myself it’s not real.
This connection I feel to him is nothing. It’s just because he’s my sire.
But, even so, as I wait for Mrs Parker to come back, I put on make-up.
* * *
Half an hour later I’m dressed, sitting in front of the mirror while Mrs Parker puts up my hair.
As she escorts me down the stairs, people are streaming in and moving through to the ballroom, just like that first night on Christmas Eve, all in period costume again. It occurs to me that everything looks just the same, but it feels different.
We walk through to the ballroom then I turn to Mrs Parker and say, ‘I’m okay, thank you.’ She nods and leaves me there and I scan the crowd.
Tonight, the strings and piano of the Christmas party have been replaced by a DJ who is playing songs from the 80s, 90s and 00s.
It’s jarring against the period costumes, but nobody seems to care.
Everyone is smiling and chatting, and I spot Carmilla and Rupert nearby.
But as I scour the room, despite my best intentions, I’m only looking for Oscar.
He’s leaning against the far wall, wearing his habitual white shirt, talking to a young woman with light brown hair.
I recognise her—a flash of her scrunched up little button nose, the sound of her moans, Oscar’s face between her legs.
She looks plenty happy to be here. He doesn’t force these women to have sex with him, that much I’m sure of.
And as she looks up at him and smiles, something sears me.
Her hand is on his arm and he’s looking down at her intently, and here I am standing on the other side of the room, watching him as he touches her face with the back of his hand, his eyes on hers.
But this is good. It’s better this way. It’s not real.
And then I hear, ‘So what happened while we were gone?’
It’s Rupert’s voice and I turn to look at him and smile, thankful for the interruption.
‘Not much,’ I say, and his face crumples up in some weird smile-frown configuration.
‘Something happened,’ he says, swirling his glass and then taking a sip, his eyes trained on me. ‘You could cut the tension between you two with a knife.’
I shrug, grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray and take a gulp. Is it that obvious?
‘Is Carmilla okay?’ I ask, needing to change the subject.
‘Oh, fine,’ Rupert says, ‘but still pissed off. She got a text from Felix this evening. He’s apparently in Portugal. Felix will be Felix . . .’
‘Oh,’ I say. Oscar must have sent it from Felix’s phone. ‘Good.’
Then Rupert leans in towards me, his eyes over my shoulder, and whispers, ‘Incoming.’
I turn to follow his gaze.
‘Aubrey,’ Oscar says, reaching for my arm but not meeting my eye. ‘We have to dance the first dance.’
He’s still not looking at me, but I let him lead me onto the dance floor.
His hand finds my midback and a jolt runs down my spine; his other hand folds over mine and we start to move.
And even though it’s modern music, he’s dancing like it’s 1880.
And I can feel a charge between us, in the space between our chests.
Or is it just me? Am I imagining it? His grip on my hand softens just slightly, becomes tender.
I can feel myself melting forward into him, my heart is beating in a way a vampire heart shouldn’t beat, and I’m barely breathing as I let myself look up at his face for just a moment.
His jawline, his stubble, his mouth, and then . . . his deep-green eyes.
He’s looking right at me, the amber around his irises glowing, and as I meet his gaze, my throat catches.
It feels like he can see straight to my core.
Then he looks away, over my shoulder. I try to read his expression, but I can’t—is that vulnerability, boredom, nothingness?
We don’t speak. Not once. It feels uncomfortable even swallowing.
As he twirls me around the room in seemingly slow motion, all I want is for this dance to end.
And then, at last, it does. The music fades.
In a cold voice, without looking at me, Oscar says, ‘Have a good night.’
He heads back to the woman he was talking to earlier. Another song starts up and I watch as he leads her onto the dance floor.
I want to look away, but I can’t. I watch as he twirls her, and she shrieks with laughter. Then he pulls her close and his mouth finds hers and something inside me cracks. The world tilts off its axis, reality stutters and slurs.
‘Just breathe,’ Rupert says.
‘I’m fine,’ I say.
‘No, you’re not. I told you to be careful of him. Love is a motherfucker, even if it’s not with bloody Oscar.’
‘I don’t love him,’ I snap, frowning at him. ‘He’s just my maker. Of course I have feelings for him, but they’re not real.’ I say this as much for my sake as his, grabbing another glass of champagne and downing it, even though it does almost nothing to numb me. ‘That’s why it’s forbidden,’ I add.
Rupert frowns. ‘What’s forbidden?’
An unease rises within me. ‘Being with your maker,’ I say, my voice small.
‘Huh? No, it’s not,’ he says, gulping his drink.
‘It is,’ I say.
‘Baby-V, I have a maker too,’ he says, ‘and I do NOT want to fuck that guy. I have to see him sometimes, but what you’ve got going on with Oscar is not the same.’
My lip quivers, but I clench my jaw so I don’t cry.
Right. Okay. I get it.
It all makes sense. Oscar told me that so I’d let it go.
Intense humiliation washes over me; I’m so stupid.
I need to get away from here.
‘I’m going to do a quick lap,’ I say.
Rupert nods and I turn around, push my feelings down, and walk towards the door. When I get to the gallery, I start to jog.
Because there are moments in life where you have to choose which version of yourself you want to become: the light or the dark.
And I don’t want to become what Oscar will make me.
What I’m already becoming. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself, that’s the reason I’m giving for why I need to get away.
But beneath that is something else. Something I can’t quite name.
Because what the hell happened? When did he start to win?
When did I become like every other woman under his spell?
I’m just like all the others to him. Because Rupert is right.
I do love him.
I hate it, but I do.
Oh god . . . how could I? He’s slept with half this room. Probably more than half. He lies all the time. He kills people. And . . . he doesn’t love me back.
NO MORE.
I need to leave. Now.
* * *
When I get to the library, my phone is still there in the kaleidoscope box.
I reach for it with shaky hands and frantically plug it into the charger.
As soon as it’s on, I check my messages.
I’ve never needed a message from Jonathan as much as I need one right now.
To tell me it’s me, that someone loves ME.
There are a bunch of notifications, but none are from him.
I scroll through them, needing to be wrong. But I’m not wrong. At least Es has replied about Riley: Well, I told him you were in Australia seeing your mum and I didn’t know when you’d be back! WEIRDOS! Btw, have you heard from Jonathan over the holidays?
And no, I have not. Because it seems my soulmate doesn’t want me and my maker doesn’t want me, and clearly I was right all along: I am entirely unlovable.
I run upstairs with my phone, go into my room and close the door. As I look around, breath heaving in my lungs, I think, Don’t feel it, don’t feel any of it, just do what you have to do.
I pull out my suitcase, find my phone charger, plug my phone into a wall socket, and then fling open the wardrobe and, with trembling hands, I start to pack.