Chapter Twenty-One Adrianna
Chapter Twenty-One
ADRIANNA
I’m in the leather-scented safety of my car, being driven to the Plaza for my fitting. Ophelia is sat across from me, keeping a respectful distance, since she has gauged my black mood. Ophelia is my emotional barometer.
‘I think my forehead is shiny,’ I say, catching a glimpse in the window reflection.
She darts across obediently, and powders. I relax under the sweep of the soft brush.
‘There,’ she says proudly. ‘Beautiful.’
Georgia organizes my schedule, and Ophelia organizes my feelings. I should probably treat her better, but something about her is like a puppy wanting to be kicked.
At school, Ophelia was an insipid chatterbox.
Freckled pale skin and ordinary features.
Somewhere along the way, she reinvented herself as one of New York’s most talented make-up artists, with a palette of primary-color make-up and designer jumpsuits.
Her hair is a bright orange, faded to platinum blonde tips, in an artistry that speaks of a thousand-dollar-an-hour hairdresser.
The makeover never stopped her talking, though. Today it’s a high-speed stream of animated chatter about maximizing security that matches her bright-colored geek-chic clothes.
She’s clearly freaking out after Simone’s death, but unable to voice her real feelings.
I nod along to the suggestion of doubling the bodyguards, my thoughts entirely elsewhere.
‘It’s OK not to be OK,’ Ophelia says earnestly, her freckled forehead crinkling.
‘I’m fine,’ I snap.
Ophelia nods in deep understanding, ever the willing emotional punchbag. She hesitates. ‘You’re really sure you want to go to Elysium two days early?’ Her voice sounds strained.
‘We’ll be safe there,’ I repeat. ‘Ten thousand miles of ocean between us and the crazy person who killed Simone.’
But even as I’m saying it, Mark’s words are coming back.
Are you sure you can trust your bridesmaids?
I press my lips together tightly.
Yes. I can trust my bridesmaids implicitly. None of them would want to hurt me. None of them would dare.
I see Ophelia react to something out on the street. Her eyes widen.
‘There’s Petra Morka,’ she says. ‘Outside that restaurant your dad likes.’
‘We’re picking her up,’ I explain, and I see Ophelia’s rainbow fingernails curl inward.
Even when she isn’t posing, Petra’s striking features draw the gaze. I wonder if Dad bought her the chunky gold necklace at her pale throat. A flash of rage burns and is gone.
‘Should we pretend we didn’t see her?’ I make the tone completely neutral, so I can spin it as a joke or not.
She giggles nervously. ‘Can you imagine?’ Her amber eyes are sparkling. ‘How angry she would be?’ There’s a wistful edge to her tone.
‘Let’s do it.’ I press the intercom button for the driver, walled away behind his glass panel. ‘Could you drive on, please? There’s been a change of plan. Petra doesn’t need a ride.’
‘Sure thing, Miss K.’
The car accelerates. Petra, who is watching the familiar limo expectantly, takes another step toward the road. Ophelia and I start laughing. Helpless schoolgirl giggles. But as the car reaches the end of the street, Ophelia wipes the corners of her eyes.
‘OK, we should go back now,’ she whispers, with a timid grin.
‘No way,’ I tell her. ‘Let her take a cab.’ The image of famous Petra Morka, being mobbed as she attempts to hail a New York cab, is too funny. But Ophelia’s face is grave.
‘Don’t,’ Ophelia’s face is strained. ‘She’ll be so mad. You know how she was at school.’
‘So? I’m not scared of Petra.’ I fold my arms, look forward, and pretend not to care. In the rear-view mirror I catch sight of Petra’s face, screwed up in rage. ‘Look at her,’ I say, trying to recapture our earlier moment. ‘She looks furious.’
‘Please, Dri.’ Ophelia is looking over her shoulder. ‘Please. She’ll get us back. She always gets her own back.’
‘She’s not the older girl anymore. She can’t do anything to us.’
Beside me, Ophelia is trembling. I relent and press the intercom.
‘Can you turn back around and get Petra,’ I say.
Ophelia sinks back, relieved.
We can both see Petra’s furious face now, as the car loops back toward her.
I take out my cell, and angle toward us.
‘We should have a picture. Two friends on the way to the fitting,’ I decide, turning to highlight my cheekbones. As the happy girl smiles back at me, I feel the tension drain away.
‘Don’t you remember what Petra used to do?’ insists Ophelia quietly. ‘Those awful games. Saints and Sinners.’
I twist in surprise. It’s an unspoken rule that no one ever talks about what happened to us at school. What is she thinking?
I make a fake confused face. Just enough to signal she should drop the subject. Then replace the smile.
‘I really don’t remember,’ I say, pointedly. ‘Could you shuffle to the left?’ I add. ‘I actually think it would be better if this picture were just of me.’