CHAPTER 17
‘I vote we continue the New Friends Game,’ Archie announces as we pull into the car park. ‘If you find yourself thinking murderous thoughts related to my headlines about Nancy Miller, then you wipe your memory blank and remember that as of tonight, we’re friends.’
‘Unlikely,’ I scoff. ‘You’re not getting away with a decade of psychological warfare by using some random game.’
Archie finds a car space and angles his head over his shoulder. ‘We don’t have to be new friends forever,’ he says as he starts reversing. ‘We’ll just play tonight. For Remi and Tyler.’
I exhale a deep sigh. We’re already late for the party. I guess the least we can do is be civil to each other and not make a scene (though the thought of forcing his face into a croquembouche is supremely enticing).
‘Okay,’ I relent. ‘I agree under protest.’
‘Great,’ smiles Archie. ‘Let’s go then, Ms Hatton.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got to change first.’
‘Why?’ asks Archie. ‘You look great.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Archie, you and the Barack Obamas and Karl Stefanovics of the world can wear your navy suits for twenty-four hours of the day and no one will blink an eyelid, but I can assure you that for women, the dressing-for-day-tonight concept is a total myth.’
‘Okay,’ says Archie slowly. ‘Where are you going to change?’
I instruct him to close his eyes while I grab my bag from the boot of the car and crouch behind the SUV to unbutton my shirt.
The sky is now inky black and the car park is silent as I stealthily slide on the green dress, pull off my bra underneath it, then kick off my heels and shimmy out of my skirt.
The emerald lurex dress skims over my hips like water.
The bitumen under my bare feet is rough but still warm from the sun.
I pluck my most dancefloor-friendly heels from my bag and wedge them on, stuffing my work clothes back inside my bag.
My day-old mascara will have to do, I figure, but on a whim I grab a red lipstick from my handbag and smear it on.
Emerald green and red. How accidentally festive.
I knock on the passenger door to let Archie know I’m ready.
‘This okay?’ I ask, as he climbs out and pulls on his suit jacket.
He walks around the bonnet of the car towards me, his expression inscrutable. ‘Uh, yep. You’re all good.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘I look like a Christmas tree, don’t I?’
Archie chuckles quietly, shaking his head. ‘Ms Hatton,’ he says, adopting his fake-posh voice. ‘You look better than all my Christmases combined.’ He smiles and presents his arm to me, as if I should hold on to it.
Frowning, I accept his silent dare. I gingerly place my fingertips on his sleeve. My face says: See? I can play this game. No big deal. My body says: Arm. Good.
I fasten my grip on his sleeve and his smile creeps higher.
With every lift of his lips, his words reverberate louder in the back of my mind.
You look better than all my Christmases combined.
Heat swarms my neck, and I am preposterously glad it’s dark, because is there anything more pathetic than having a physical reaction to a fake compliment?
I try to exhale the idiotic buzz from my ribcage.
‘Okay, real question this time, Archibald. Pausing the New Friends Game—is this dress too slutty?’
I step away to give him a better view, but mainly as an excuse to end the whole arm-touching thing.
Archie coughs. ‘I don’t know how to answer that.’
‘Be honest,’ I say. ‘I need to know whether I should wear a jacket during the photos. And I already know you’re completely unattracted to me, so I won’t be offended by anything you say.’
‘What the hell?’ splutters Archie. ‘Since when have I been completely unattracted to you?’
I wince, remembering that night in the pub under the frangipani tree. ‘I promise I’m not offended. All men have types, and I am obviously not yours, and that’s fine because we’re mortal enemies. But really, does it look okay?’ I take another step back so he can get a full top-to-bottom visual.
‘It’s fine,’ he mutters.
‘You’re not looking!’
‘Okay,’ yelps Archie. ‘It’s great. You look … You look …’
‘Like a desperate Christmas tree whose Hinge bio reads I have two modes: lights off and flashing?’
Archie closes his eyes and presses his fingertips to his eyelids. ‘Millsy, I swear …’
‘All right,’ I interrupt. ‘I get it. I’ll stand in the back row. Let’s go,’ I say, striding ahead.
‘Millsy, wait up.’
‘Let’s go back to Ms Hatton now. I’m a bit shitty with you for hating my dress.’
‘Millsy—’
‘Ms Hatton.’
‘Okay, Ms Hatton. Can you please wait for me?’
‘Why?’
‘Because I thought we could walk in together.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ I say, the realisation dawning. ‘You don’t want to be the last one to arrive.’
My eyes flick to the entrance of the building where the wide glass door is framed by ornamental plants in Grecian-style pots.
It’s thirty metres away at most. I’m pretty good in these heels too.
I start to shuffle backwards, aiming for the door.
Archie’s eyes widen and I see the lightbulb flick on when he realises what I’m doing.
‘Millsy—’
Now! I start running towards the entrance, and I can hear Archie running behind me.
‘You’re a fucking weirdo, Millsy!’
‘I just enjoy beating you, Archibald!’ I call over my shoulder. I lunge at the door to push it open, but Archie’s hand lands on mine and holds the door shut.
‘Either we arrive together or I arrive first,’ he says. His eyes look abnormally dark in this lighting.
I try to jostle the door open but he’s too strong. ‘Fine,’ I surrender. ‘But I will tell everyone that technically I was here first. And that you’re terrible at reverse-angle parking.’
‘Be my guest,’ says Archie, offering me his arm.
Scowling, I take it, and together we walk into the party.