Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
ISABELLE
Ilooked at myself in the mirror. Even from my rooms on the top floor, I could hear the party in full swing in the main hall downstairs.
Our family home in central London was unnecessarily large. Generational wealth.
Normally I considered it far too large. How the government got away with pretending to be part of the people when they lived as we did was a mystery to me.
Since the grandeur of the house so often offended me, I offended my family in return by utilising the old servants’ quarters in the attic, offering me my version of luxury by having service stairs to move around the property, even a small kitchenette.
By anyone’s standards, it was a great flat in central London, but not for my family, and it was another concession Father allowed, to the irritation of Mother.
Today, instead of condemning the outrageous size of the house, I wished it were larger, perhaps a few hundred miles wider, so I could be as far away from the two-faced lies and well-frocked duplicity happening below me.
The dress my mother had made for me was beautiful.
I detested it.
Flowing silver fabric, silk, wrapped and draped around my body, hugging every curve.
The undergarments squeezed and compressed me into the desired shape, the shape being ‘slim elegance’.
My figure, much to Mother’s dismay, was not ‘slim elegance’.
It curved, big hips and a full chest with a smaller waist, but not as small as it ‘needs to be’, Mother’s voice echoed loud in my head.
Ester was tall and slender, graceful, as was the fashion these days.
The male gaze led the female beauty standard, and that was slim, composed, beautiful to look at, and likely silent.
I was anything but. Ester’s tall grace was a harsh contrast to my curvy five-foot-three.
Her long, flowing auburn hair and rich brown eyes emphasised the odd grey tones of my hair, which only made my light hazel eyes stand out further.
We looked nothing alike. Father minimised the naturally grey hair I inherited from him, he argued this to be the cause of the notable differences in our appearances.
Something I heard from his colleagues and political allies on an endless basis.
Perhaps most infuriatingly of all, my sister conformed, and I did not. Where she sought to fit in, to be praised for representing everything a woman should be, I, well, I just couldn’t.
For years I tried, chastising every thought I had which went against the grain, starving myself to try to fit in, dyeing my hair. Anything to feel better, to feel less like I was an anomaly, somehow always half a beat behind the dance that was life.
But it hadn’t worked, and many years later I gave up. I could accept those around me for who they were, so they could accept me just the same. I didn’t judge them, so surely they wouldn’t judge me.
That belief was another miscalculation. My differences were used by people around me to shame me into behaving differently, challenging myself, and questioning myself. And tonight would be no different.
The silver silk complemented my hair beautifully, perhaps finally a concession from Mother on my appearance. But the body-shaping slips crushed me, a contrasting small punishment.
My hair fell in soft waves over my shoulders, resting on my covered cleavage. My eyes were rimmed in a soft, sparkly brown liner, lips a matte blush. I looked beautiful. It was everything I didn’t want to be, dressed up and squeezed into a form I didn’t fit, all to please others.
The clock struck nine. The agreed time at which I was to join the party.
I had negotiated hard with my father, who conceded two hours would suffice, part of which was required to be spent with my ‘betrothed’ as he called him.
Slipping on the black stilettos and wrapping the jewelled straps around my ankles, I gave myself a last look over. Bracing myself, I recited my new mantra. Five years and seven months.
My entrance to the party was received with polite applause and mostly sincere compliments on how I looked, the elegance of my gown, and how striking my hair was.
My sister swooped in immediately to deliver her counterblow, allowing for the beauty of my dress, but what a shame it had been that I hadn’t had the opportunity to slim down ahead of the wedding.
Her husband leaned in, kissing me gently on each cheek, whispering to ignore her before sharing a conspiratorial wink and whisking Ester away.
Father swiftly took my hand in his and began gliding us around the room, introducing me to friends and colleagues, some of whom I knew, others I didn’t, and the expected conversations began. I had prepared myself, predicting each question.
How does it feel to turn thirty? I don’t know, how did you feel?
Are you excited about the wedding? It will be the event of the season. I’d rather undergo wisdom tooth extraction without pain relief every single day until I die.
How wonderful it was of your father to permit such a broad education. Do you plan to help support his policy work going forward? If by help you mean burn to the ground, then absolutely.
On and on, pleasant smiles, droning conversation.
Each time a server slipped past, I snuck another glass of champagne from the tray, Father watching me carefully. I smiled wide, hoping to convince him how much I was enjoying myself.
“Isabelle.” My blood turned cold at the voice. Moira Fairchild, Teddy’s mother.
Turning us around to face them, my father released me, shaking the hand of Teddy’s father. “Archi.” He leaned in, kissing Moira on each cheek.
Moira blushed, greeting my father in return. Where Archibald Fairchild was short and stocky, my father was tall, had coiffed silver hair and an athletic frame, and Moira blushed every single time she saw him.
“Isabelle.” Her voice was like silk as she gripped me by my upper arms, looking me over. “You look beautiful.” She was sincere. She always was. “We are so very excited for the wedding. Theodore has been waiting for this day for so very long. You really are such a lucky girl.”
Am I indeed? I schooled my face.
“We told him, Teddy, you can marry whoever you choose, but he wanted you, dear Isabelle, even after all these years away at school.”
She wasn’t being wilfully unkind; the problem was that she simply didn’t think, and her comment reminded me that if he had just lost his patience with the whole thing, then my future would look entirely different.
“Isabelle.” My father placed his hand on my shoulder. “You and Theodore should spend some time together. You may use my study.”
He turned to Teddy’s parents, ignoring my pleading eyes. “I don’t think there’s much risk to propriety at this stage, do you?”
Their titters of agreement rankled me.
Teddy stepped forwards. He was tall and slim and his charcoal suit fitted his body like a glove. His physique was clearly toned, outlined by the cut of the jacket boxing his broad shoulders and thick biceps.
Raising my eyes to his face I took him in.
His sandy hair was styled short at the sides and slightly longer on top, stubble trimmed neatly.
The deep blue of his eyes sparkled in the light of the room, his full lips tipping up into a smile before he offered his elbow, and I accepted, allowing him to sweep me through the room towards the study.
He knew my house as well as his own, our families having been friends for decades.
Taking a deep, calming breath, I caught my sister watching me from across the room. I extended her a nervous smile, and she returned a small snarl, eyes moving to Teddy and softening. A smile for him, but not for me.
Sliding open the doors to the expansive study, Teddy ushered me through, pulling them closed behind us and shutting out the music and murmurs of conversation entirely. The soundproofing of a politician’s private rooms.
Nerves tickled across my skin. I felt warmth building in my palms. I pinned them to my sides, trying to avoid touching my dress and leaving a mark.
Teddy moved to the front of my father’s desk, perching on the edge, his long legs slightly parted.
He slowly ran his eyes over me, my hair, lips, over the curves of my dress, to the heels peeking out of the split in the side, before returning to my eyes, a contented happiness taking over his features.
I recognised this man; his face seemed open, his smile genuine. We had been friends. This man had always been kind to me growing up. I never felt the need to perform around him, to be different. He regularly defended me to my sister, countering any attack on my appearance.
I had liked him.
I remembered the flutter of excitement when he told Ester that he thought my grey hair was beautiful, or when we were teens and the son of one of Father’s colleagues commented on my body, the way he told them my figure was sexy.
He made me feel seen. He had made me feel special.
The look he was giving me now, to fifteen-year-old me, would have caused heat to crawl over my body and desire to settle low in my belly.
But not now.
Over the years, kind, considerate, sweet Teddy became entitled and demanding. His compliments, once gentle, acquired a possessive edge. He transitioned from words of appreciation to a defensive tone, speaking of my body as if it belonged to him to defend.
When we were betrothed, the word rankled even as I thought it; he had been excited. We were such great friends, never taking life too seriously, and although we knew what our futures had in store for us, we talked as if we would tackle the future together, shielding one another.
I had naively thought I’d be in a marriage of love, with my best friend, sharing in our challenges.
However, in his early twenties, once Teddy moved into political office, his talk of our supporting one another shifted subtly to my role supporting him. Our marriage became his family.