Chapter 34
Ivy
Xav and I are messaging, like we do every day that we don’t see each other.
I’m going to this thing with Flora tonight.
A twenty-first. Some posh guy called Harry. Will it be full of wankers?
Aren’t they all called Harry?
I don’t mention that his little sister is sizing Harry up as the bloke who might relieve her of her virginity.
She did manage a cheeky snog with one of the Belvedere under-gardeners outside the pub when we were there last month, much to my delight and pride, but apparently she’s working on expanding her pool of eligible males.
Nor do I mention that this is the last fucking thing I need.
I’m exhausted. Dawn’s sundowning has been getting worse, and I’ve been called into the care home three times in the past week.
The girls have exams coming up before Christmas and are absolutely not applying themselves as hard as they need to, not without me around each evening to hold a proverbial gun to their heads, anyway.
And I’m feeling pretty fragile about the fact that I’ll never amount to anything more than the girl Xav fucks in the shadows, that my life will never, ever get better than these brief moments of incandescent happiness and rightness.
So I absolutely do not need to go and be Flora’s designated wing woman at some godawful party full of posh young tossers.
Except she begged me. And I promised her.
The man in question replies straight away.
XAV:
Oh shit.
What?
Well…
WHAT?
Good news is I’m going along. Bad news is Selena will be with me. Harry’s her second cousin once removed, I think.
Are you fucking kidding me right now?
How the hell did Flora not know this?
We don’t discuss our social plans. I’m not even sure she knows they’re related. I certainly didn’t know F I felt powerful.
Now I just feel like I’ve gatecrashed, or like I should put on an apron and help hand out the canapés.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Flora’s looking at me with dismay, and I realise what a misery-guts I’m being.
‘Honestly. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.’
She grimaces. I don’t think I’ve convinced her. ‘If it’s any consolation, your boobs look amazing. I’m sure he won’t be able to take his eyes off you.’
I give her a little smile. My dress may be on the tarty side—it’s indecently low-cut, after all—but of all the worries in my life, my boob situation is one that never keeps me up at night. These girls are gold.
‘Thanks. Now, tell me what the plan is with Harry.’
‘Well,’ she begins, ‘Imo should be here around nine—she’s coming straight from supper—and she’s promised she’ll get me dancing with their group, so I’ll just have to take it from there.’
I nod. Imo is Flora’s friend from school, who is apparently at another London university.
She’s been dating Harry’s younger brother.
Flora met Harry one night when they were all out on the town together and interested looks were exchanged, but nothing more.
It’s something like that, anyway. The story was quite convoluted when she told me.
But there was enough chemistry to ensure an invitation to Harry’s birthday shindig was extended to Flora.
The bottom line is that, although Flora knows Harry, the mutual friend is Imo, and she didn’t feel comfortable enough coming on her own.
So here I am: wing woman and spinster companion and whatever else you want to call it, feeling a million years older than these gorgeous, glossy, entitled twenty-somethings intent on partying the night away.
I really must make an effort to be more wing woman and less spinster companion.
I take a deep breath and plaster on a smile.
‘Excellent. Just remember the plan. Get into the centre of the dance floor and dance like a stripper, and you’ll bag him in no time.
And if not, you might make a bit of cash. ’
She howls with laughter, and I feel a twinge of amusement.
She has no idea just how well qualified I am to advise her on this front.
The moves I used to pull in Alchemy’s Playroom.
My friend Darcy, who used to dance on stage there and ended up marrying not one but two of the rich, gorgeous members—jammy bitch—had serious form, and she taught me everything she could.
The floor show I could put on for these little blue-blooded innocents.
They have no idea.
A model-grade male server approaches us at the bar with a tray of something that I assume is raw fish and which looks seriously slimy.
I shake my head as politely as I can, but I’ll be screwed if all the food is like this.
I’m pretty basic when it comes to what I eat—I’m not good with posh food and never have been.
I wish I’d had a sarnie before I came out.
A quick swivel to glance around the bar tells me there isn’t even any popcorn or nuts, nothing to take the edge off.
I’ll need to take this vodka tonic slowly, in that case, if—
‘Evening.’
It’s Xavier’s voice. I’d know it anywhere now. And even though it sounds as authoritative, as perfectly well-bred as ever, I can pick up its undertone of hesitation. I steel myself and turn around from my snack search, and oh, dear Lord.
He looks dashing and impeccable and heartbreakingly perfect in a navy blazer and jeans with a crisp white shirt, his dark hair combed neatly off his face.
Selena’s beside him in something short and red, but they’re not touching, thank God.
My eyes meet his, and we speak what feels like a million words to each other, before his face relaxes into a grin and he pulls Flora in for a hug.
As they embrace, I brave a proper glance at Selena. It’s easy to do because she isn’t even looking at me. She’s looking off to the side, her face a blank mask of what I would guess is expertly concealed boredom. I can’t imagine this is her scene.
But she’s beautiful, just beautiful, and she’s flawless in that way that great genes and a fuck-tonne of money produce when they procreate.
Her red dress is A-line and vaguely sixties in style, but it’s made from some weighty fabric that screams class.
Not like my crappy high-street synthetic number.
Also unlike me, she doesn’t have her tits out.
Her skin is creamy enough that she could advertise face serums or collagen or, I dunno, vitamin drips.
She has fantastic legs—she’s definitely a few inches taller than me—and she’s wearing elegant little flats. You know, because she can.
I take her in, my greedy little brain milking my view of her for as much information as it can possibly get in the few seconds that it takes Xav to greet his sister.
Aesthetically, she and Xav make sense together.
They look like the type of couple you’d see on a Pinterest Life Goals board, casually descending from their private jet or hanging out on their yacht or walking the red carpet.
They’re both gorgeous, tall, and old-money elegant.
But here’s the thing: what they do not look like is the type of couple that would stop and make out in the street because they’re physically incapable of making it somewhere private without touching each other. Not like me and Xav.
They’re a model couple, not a real couple.
Xav pulls away from Flora and takes a step towards me. He nods briskly. ‘Ivy. Good to see you again.’ The bland, disinterested pleasantness of his voice fucking crucifies me. But when he steps forward to kiss me, he whispers, ‘Hi, sweetheart.’
This time it’s not disinterested. This time it bleeds interest. And a part of me dies a little more.
He smells incredible, by which I mean he smells exactly like himself.
My favourite scent on earth. Eau de Xavier.
Our eyes lock as he moves to kiss me on the other cheek, our faces inches apart, and I see the absolute proof that this is destroying him, too.
‘So beautiful,’ he murmurs as he hits the other cheek.
By the time he pulls back, he’s collected himself, and I’m trying so hard to smile nicely that I probably resemble the village idiot. Selena has gone in for a double kiss of her own with Flora, and Xav clears his throat as she steps back.
‘Ivy, this is my fiancée, Selena. Selena, meet Flora’s friend, Ivy.
’ The disinterest is back as he says the dreaded F-word.
There’s no affection, no pride whatsoever when he calls her his fiancée.
And she certainly shows zero interest in me, apart from a half-hearted once-over of my choice of outfit that ends with a vague look of distaste.
As far as she’s concerned, I’m a nobody, a total random in a substandard dress. If she thinks of me at all, it’ll probably be to wonder how the hell I got past the doormen.