Chapter Nine #3
We’d entered a packed room, with people in formal dress milling about with glasses, chatting and observing the free-standing works of art.
Dorian’s eyes scanned the room as a waiter offered us both tall glasses of something light and bubbly.
We each took a glass and wandered to a large sculpture of black stone.
It looked like a great craggy chunk of rock.
I sipped my drink and soured, the sharp bitter taste running over my tongue.
I’d never had much opportunity to get used to drinking alcohol.
It was supposedly forbidden in Heather House – although mother took to hard liquor in the end stages of her illness, and I knew father stashed some away secretly in the house, and would take sips from the metal cap when he thought nobody was watching.
At the village pub, and at Tom’s house, we’d managed to wrangle a few sips for ourselves here and there.
..but it had never appealed to me. I preferred to be sober, keeping my wits about me.
While Dorian continued on about the worth of Crowthorne House, my mind wandered. I imagined what Nick might have said about me to Dorian, for him to be so sure of what he saw in me. To know that I was an asset to the funeral business, as if I belonged there already.
The thought occurred to me that Nick might only see me as a business expense.
A cheap one, too, given he had more than enough room to keep me in the house, and my board impacted my salary.
I still couldn’t complain. I’d never been employed before, and hadn’t ever imagined I would be.
I thought my life would be spent in Heather House, managing our few livestock, living off the small amount of money the sale of cattle brought me.
I was tough, and capable, despite my size. I supposed that made me valuable.
Was that all I would ever be to him?
I wanted him to want me. To desire me.
My mind wandered, agonised, while Dorian prattled on. My eyes narrowed on something floating in the glass of champagne he held aloft. It danced in the fluid, writhing. Was it...was it a worm? The kind I saw on rotting fruit?
A parasite?
“...never mind the cost for the business. Oh, Grace, look – there’s Eugenie!”
I blinked and lost my focus on the small, worm-like thing in Dorian’s drink. He took a sip, and when I looked again, it was gone. I couldn’t tell if he’d swallowed it down or if it had been a figment of my imagination all together.
Dorian stood on tip-toe and waved frantically at someone near the entrance.
Moments later, a tall young woman with elaborate eye-makeup and a fluffy feather boa hanging over her arms approached, kissing Dorian once on each cheek.
She wore her hair in a short, tousled, wild style with black roots and yellow-gold ends, with two black feathers attached to a ribbon around her temple.
A sleeveless black dress hung from her flat body as if she were a coat-hanger, and her nails were long and beautifully manicured in a deep cherry red.
Glitter and heavy eyeliner surrounded her pale grey-blue eyes, so similar to Dorian, her skin a similar shade of brown, too.
It was immediately obvious that they were siblings by their resemblance, but now I realised they looked the same age, too.
“I’m sorry for staring,” I said, attempting an affable smile. “You just look so alike.”
Eugenie made a flourish with her hand. “Even with my dramatic dress-sense, while he looks so dull?”
Dorian rolled his eyes. “We’re twins, Grace – Eugenie’s younger than me by three minutes.”
“And yet I’m leagues ahead in knowledge and experience.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Dorian poked his tongue in his cheek repeatedly in a vulgar manner.
Eugenie’s eyes narrowed, her hand falling to her side. “You’re telling on yourself, pig.”
“And you’re projecting,” said Dorian, tipping his glass to her in cheers.
I watched them squabble back and forth, curiously, wondering if this was a good example of sibling behaviour. I wish I’d known what that was like – to have a sister, or even a brother, to share my life with. To tell my secrets to. An ally for life.
“Let’s take a look at the snack table, Grace, and see if there’s anything worth munching,” said Eugenie, dragging me by the shoulder away from Dorian.
“Hey – I’m about to introduce her to some people. Grace, stay with me.”
“No, she wants to come with me, don’t you Grace?”
The total lack of professionalism was so refreshing that I found myself creasing up with laughter.
I hadn’t been around people on the outside for so long, between one morbid house and the other.
A rush of euphoria came over me, to feel so wanted by two people that I could be the subject of their jealousy.
Dorian and Eugenie took an arm each and yanked me back and forth until I spilled my champagne.
“All right, all right – I’ll go with Eugenie,” I said eventually, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes.
Dorian pulled a face like a dejected child. “Fine. But don’t keep her long,” he said, eyeing Eugenie with a spiteful look in his eye. “She’s my guest.”
“Off you trot,” said Eugenie, triumphantly linking her arm with mine.
She was taller than me, lanky almost, but it gave her such charm.
She looked like an exotic bird, with her slightly hooked nose and her rouged lips, with feathers in her hair.
Eugenie beamed with such light and life and her own dazzling personality that I warmed to her instantly, elated that she wanted to be my friend.
We approached the buffet and eyed it curiously, but it was obvious neither of us was interested in eating. Eugenie found a waiter giving out tall cut-glass mojitos with sprigs of mint and snatched one for each of us.
“Finally, we got rid of that dullard,” she said, taking a long sip. I followed suit and found I quite liked the light, refreshing taste, especially with the mint.
“He’s been lovely to me, really,” I said. “He was so kind to invite me.”
Eugenie snorted. “Oh bore off with that. He wants a date with you, no doubt – has he asked you yet?”
Heat rose in my cheeks, but only a little. It felt rude to talk about her brother this way, even if she was the one who raised the question.
“No, he hasn’t,” I said, taking a bigger sip of my drink. “Nick set us up. Nicholas Crowthorne.”
“Oh,” said Eugenie, cocking an eyebrow. “Did he. Dreamy Mr Crowthorne. I’ve met him. Quite a miserable man, mind you.”
“Oh he isn’t miserable at all, not once you get to know him,” I said, heat rushing back to my cheeks. Instantly I thought of his mouth on mine, how nice it was, how warm and –
Eugenie smirked in a knowing way that shut me up instantly.
“Oh, daddy,” she said, winking one eye. “Do let me know what that’s like.”
I cleared my throat, looking down at my shoes. When I took another sip of my drink, my hand was shaking. Eugenie elbowed me in the ribs.
“Hey, lighten up. Don’t be so bashful. We’re all friends here, Grace.” She took a long sip of her mojito. “I can tell you don’t fancy my brother in the slightest. That’s his problem, not yours.”
“How –” I was about to ask without confirming or denying it, but I realised the question itself revealed me. Eugenie and I laughed in unison. There’d be no denying it now.
“He’s handsome and kind and smart. I’m sure thousands of women would want him,” I said. But she was right – I wasn’t one of them.
“Oh he’ll meet someone who cares more about his wallet than his wits, I daresay,” said Eugenie, letting out a low belch. “With any luck he’ll get the message before he asks you out, but don’t count on it.”
I hoped he would. It would save me the awkwardness. There was only one man I couldn’t stop thinking about, and it wasn’t Dorian.
“So, are you an accountant too, Eugenie?” I asked, hoping to sound bold and sure of myself instead of the nervous shrew I felt like inside.
She scoffed. “God, no! I work in the theatres. I’m a costume designer.
I just tag along to these events with Dor for the free booze,” she said.
“And I’m a magician’s assistant, too. I can fold myself down into the tiniest box, among other things.
..it’s all smoke and mirrors really. We’re on again, off again, me and Bill. He’s the magician.”
We gazed around the room, watching the guests mingling in their finery.
There were a handful of older gentlemen, much older than Nick, gathered by a twisted metal statue of a stick-figure man digging with a spade.
They looked bored out of their skulls, and had an air of indifference about them, as if they'd been to far too many charity functions.
“Funeral directors,” said Eugenie, biting into an apple she’d picked from the fruit bowl. “Personally I’d rather a Nick Crowthorne curled my hair after I’ve snuffed it, rather than that sad old bunch.”
She seemed to defend Nick without mention of the rumours against him, as if she knew about his poor reputation. It comforted me to hear her defence of him.
“Why do they dislike him so much?” I asked, watching them as they stood there in their black ties, popping mini quiches into their mouths and muttering quietly. They had none of Nick’s style, or class. They certainly weren’t a threat.
“Envy,” said Eugenie. “It always comes down to that. Let them talk. Dor says you’re to be Nick’s apprentice, and that you’re hugely talented – a breath of fresh air. How did you get into the funeral business, anyway?”
I swallowed hard, trying to draw my eyes from the funeral directors. It was no use guessing what they might be saying. Part of me wanted to wander up to them and ask if they ever knew of a young woman called Louisa.
“Grace?”
I flinched. “Oh? Oh, it’s silly really. I needed a place to stay, and work, and I’ve got some experience with death...I’m hard-working, and I enjoy working alone...”