22. Sloane
Sloane
It’s blowing a gale as I step out of Bond Street tube station and land on Oxford Street. As ever, hordes of tourists flock to this corner of the West End, and I know I’m a true Londoner now because I hate coming to this part of town.
Bond Street – the newer end that butts up against Oxford Street – is full of arrogant little shops with hawk-eyed doormen capable of wealth-screening a passerby from twenty paces away.
I put my head down and make my way down towards Old Bond Street – which is no better but at least it’s got the history to have earned its snobbery.
It’s hard not to be captivated by the grandeur once you get to the stretch that houses Cartier, Boodles, and Van Cleef & Arpels.
It’s in this end that I find the boutique where Margaret, my father’s long-suffering assistant, has sent me.
I step through the doors of the shop – named after some woman I’ve never heard of – and three sets of eyes snap over to me.
A sharply dressed woman behind the till raises a single eyebrow, while what I assume is a junior staff member merely blinks.
I’m not sure if it’s the Doc Martens or the fact that my bangs are all askew, but I instantly feel the eyes of judgement.
I lift my chin and give the manager a smile.
It’s just then that I hear a loud voice trilling my name.
“Sloane! Cooee, darling, over here!” Aggie stands, a glass of champagne clutched in her talons, and beckons me over.
Her nails are always sharpened to such a point that I genuinely wonder how she manages to wipe her own ass.
I keep my insipid smile in place and walk over to her.
She pulls me into a bony hug that’s all angles – our bodies barely make contact before she’s standing back to appraise me.
“Hi, Aggie,” I say, mustering my best attempt at warmth. “Congratulations on the engagement.”
“Thank you, darling, thank you. I’m so thrilled you’re here.
We’ve picked out the most beautiful selection of dresses, but it’s so important to me that you feel comfortable on the day, mmmk ?
I’d love to have a proper catch-up, but I’m expected in Belgravia in an hour, so let’s do this efficiently.
Petunia!” She clicks her fingers and the store manager appears at her side. “Champagne for my stepdaughter please.”
“Of course, Ms Kendall.” She gives me a barely-concealed glare and disappears out the back, returning with a glass of fizz.
“Thank you,” I say, accepting it with a warm smile. Petunia does not defrost, and I do all I can not to roll my eyes.
“Let me show you what we’ve selected, darling. Then we can get you out of this little… ensemble…” She gestures at my outfit, which consists of an old band tee for The Dresden Dolls and ripped jeans. Did I dress down on purpose for my own amusement? Who can say?
It’s important to have a hobby.
She tugs me by the elbow and I follow her out to the back, where the room – which is about the size of my whole apartment – is furnished exclusively in cream velvet.
Two huge changing rooms sit at either side, with a chaise longue in the centre next to a rack of identical dresses in different shades of beige.
“As you can see, darling, we have gone for a real variety, so you can choose what you like best.”
I blink at her.
I can’t help but say it: “They’re all beige.”
Her laugh is sharp and grating.
“Oh, you do make me laugh. Such a quirky sense of humour. This one is latte, and this one is stone.” She flips through the rack, angling the dresses to show me. “And of course this one here is much closer to Elephant’s Breath. And this one makes me think of Mouse’s Back.”
Is she having a stroke? Is this what a stroke looks like?
She looks over at my confusion and laughs again.
“Oh, darling , the Farrow and Ball colours. I thought everyone knew those.” She glances over at Petunia, who gives her a smirk.
I swallow and plaster on another smile while I dig my fingernails into my palm.
“Oh, no, I’m afraid I’m not one for paint colours.”
“It’s just basic knowledge, dearest. Now let’s get you into the cubicle. I’m on a tight schedule.”
I duck into the world’s largest changing room with an armful of ugly dresses and strip off my clothes.
“Do you know who you’re bringing as your guest, darling?” she calls as I struggle into dress number one.
“Er, not yet. I have a couple of options though,” I reply, as I finally get the zip up and step back out so she can see.
“Really, darling?” She sounds surprised.
“Yes,” I reply, as she frowns at the dress, then snaps her fingers at Petunia again.
“Not this one, get a bigger size. She needs something that will minimise the weight ,” she says in a stage whisper, gesturing at my hips. Petunia purses her lips and nods, then disappears as I take a moment to neck the rest of my champagne.
“I’m seeing an artist,” I say, placing my flute down next to her. I’m not really sure why I’m telling her – I just desperately want a distraction from these hideous dresses and their obvious intent to make me look plain and respectable at the wedding.
“ Really , darling? How interesting.”
“Yup.”
“Well, you must bring him to the wedding. Your father is very insistent that you are accompanied by a plus-one. It’s only proper, at your age.” Her gaze slides down my body, as if she’s cataloguing every possible shortcoming.
Aggie’s performance as a doting stepmother is just as bizarre as Quentin’s insistence that we still have lunch together. I’ve no idea why either of them keeps up the charade.
And while it kills me that I’m reliant on him for my apartment and my education, it’s the only reason I keep up my end of the bargain. I’m still trying to figure out how I can afford to live independently in a city as expensive as London once I graduate in the summer.
No one knows about the arrangement, and I’d die of embarrassment if anyone ever found out.
Emmy’s always praising me for being so sure of myself, so confident and independent.
How could I burst her bubble and tell her that I’m essentially living like a trust fund princess on Daddy’s money? I feel a pang of shame at the thought.
Aggie’s voice snaps me out of my spiral.
“So how long have you been seeing this artist?”
“Oh, a little while,” I say absently, holding up another silky number while I try not to grimace. “He’s really talented.” Ok, I know I haven’t seen Cole’s work yet but I am 100% sure it’s beautiful.
“How cute,” she says, her mouth flattening into a line. “And have you invited him to the big day? I could get him a pocket square to match your dress.”
I give her a saccharine smile.
“Well, I’d have to choose. Because I’m also seeing a man who works in the City.”
Her eyes instantly snap to mine, widening as she consumes this morsel of gossip like an owl eating a mouse whole.
“Well, aren’t you modern …” She gives me a smile that doesn’t meet her eyes.
I know this information will be passed straight back to Quentin.
This is the dance we’re doing and we both know the routine.
Agatha is the kind of woman who’d smile as she slid the knife into your belly.
“Shall we try the parchment gown next, darling? I think it will look wonderful with your skin tone.”
Parchment, as it turns out, does not look wonderful with my skin tone. Every single dress has the uncanny ability of making me look like a Victorian child slowly dying from scurvy.
By the time I escape Aggie’s clutches, I am sweaty and riddled with tension.
It’s Friday, and despite telling Freddie I was busy – can’t be too keen after all – I have no evening plans.
Em’s away with Luke this week, so there’s no one at home to chat to or watch an old episode of Bake Off with.
And I know I don’t really want to be alone tonight.
Normally, I’d head to Salt and catch up with friends, maybe find a playmate or two. But as I stride back up Bond Street, I realise I don’t really want to go to Salt. I kind of want to hang out with Freddie and Cole.
I blow out a breath. Can I just text them on the off chance? I’ve had a shitty afternoon and I know I’d be able to blow off some steam with them. Plus, I want to see Freddie’s place. I spend a good few minutes arguing with myself before I pull my phone out and get over it.
Tonight’s plans have fallen through. Don’t suppose you fancy that movie night tonight instead?
I pocket my phone as I arrive back at Bond Street tube station, nerves jangling. By the time I’m through the ticket barriers, my phone is already buzzing with a reply.
FREDDIE
I’m afraid I’m very busy and important.
I raise an eyebrow and wait for a few beats before his next message pops in, like he could hardly restrain himself.
FREDDIE
But given it’s you, princess, I think I can squeeze you in.
COLE
I’m still free.
Excellent. Shall I bring popcorn?
FREDDIE
Perfect. 7pm?
COLE
Good for me.
You’re on. Text me your address.
When Freddie’s address arrives moments later, I have to laugh. The boy lives a mere ten–minute walk from my apartment in Bermondsey.