Chapter Two Bella
Chapter Two
Bella
Reece slides his arm around my waist, pulling me in close.
I’m not expecting it, but the warmth of his palm on my lower back calms the low-level tremor that’s been running through me all day, the anxiety under the general hum of party preparations.
He presses his lips just beneath my ear to that oddly sensitive spot on the curve of my jawline.
‘Great job, babe, everyone’s loving it,’ he murmurs.
It’s so distinctly intimate that I automatically brace myself, worried about being seen by someone – one of the waitstaff, a junior agent, my parents – but we’re momentarily alone in the far corner of the Skiff Hotel’s garden.
‘Thanks,’ I say, though my voice comes out in a breath, barely audible.
I tilt my face up and plant a light kiss on his mouth.
The kind that’s just short of dismissive.
I reach for my glass of champagne that I set down on a low wall, the stem slick with condensation.
I sigh. ‘Don’t know why, but this year’s party’s been, like, off-the-scale stressful to organise.
Maybe it’s the numbers, or maybe it’s just . . . everything.’
Reece, ever unflappable, shrugs as if this is a known, natural state of affairs.
‘Because you’ve got so much going on, Bells.
You do more than anyone else I know. Every year, the guest list gets bigger.
You’re always pushing for more. But I guess it’s what I love about you.
’ He smiles, and I wonder if he’s being supportive or if he’s just relieved that I’m the one micro-managing every detail, so he’s free to float and charm.
I stop myself from going down that track.
It’s not fair to Reece. It’s not his place to organise this.
It’s mine. Reece has a career in insurance sales, and he works hard.
But I’m always the one to manage our social affairs, so it would be nice if he offered to help out every once in a while.
Our annual summer party started out as a works do for the staff, but over the years it’s grown into quite the local event.
My parents always drilled into me that the property game is all about making connections.
So, the more guests, the better. Today is a chance for the staff to booze and schmooze with real-estate royalty, and hopefully even make a deal or two.
Out on the lawn, the Skiff’s garden is a soft chaos of bunting and glassware and laughter, the air tinged with the briny tang that always wafts up from Lymington Quay, just visible through the hedge.
Most of my staff are young and fresh out of school or uni, dressed in their best. My parents are here too, not quite fully disappeared into retirement, deep in conversations with old colleagues.
I also invited a lot of my friends, most of whom are well connected, with careers in travel, tech or art, or the various maritime businesses that thrive here; and of course Reece, my boyfriend of three and a half years, is here, his jawline and haircut as perfect as our surroundings.
Reece and I met through mutual friends at a house party.
I say ‘house party’, when what I mean is ‘stately-home party’.
A New Year’s Eve bash thrown annually by my school friend Madeleine and her husband, Monty.
Reece did all the running while I played hard to get, but I let myself be caught in the end, and we’ve been an item ever since.
Today’s event would be nice anywhere else, but here, in the epicentre of New Forest real estate, people treat these functions with the gravity of a royal wedding.
The Skiff’s garden has always been neutral territory, a space apart from the high-stakes rivalry of the high-street agencies.
When Dad ran Newbury’s, the summer bash was his way of declaring dominance, and the other firms sent in their spies disguised as ‘well-wishers’.
Everyone in Lymington pretends not to gossip, but the town runs on it as reliably as the ferry schedule.
I try to ignore the impostor feeling that sweeps over me, the sense that I’m a child pantomiming adulthood in a borrowed dress.
I can feel my family’s expectations lurking beneath my skin, as if my DNA itself has been animated by the scent of crab canapés and the thrum of distant jazz.
It doesn’t help that Mum has already texted three times today, each message a thinly veiled directive: Don’t forget the gluten-free puffs for Simone.
Did you remember to book the garden heaters for the evening?
You’ll be amazing – just relax and enjoy it, darling x
I wonder if everyone in their late twenties feels this permanent churn, the sickening mixture of luck and dread, as if at any second the dazzle of any momentary success will turn on you. I know how lucky I am. If I weren’t me, I’d probably hate myself.
A few tables over, I spot my new sales junior, Freya, deep in conversation with her boyfriend, who’s already sweating through his too-tight shirt, snagging more than his fair share of mini burgers from one of the trays as it passes by.
On the other side of the terrace, my school friend Tori is holding court over a crowd of the more laid-back set, the ones who claim they only do property in the summers between yoga retreats and sculpture residences.
I watch as Tori scans the crowd, eyes darting, and for a moment, she catches mine and grins.
She flashes the old sign, index finger to temple, then flicked outward – everyone’s crazy.
I smile, calmed by her reliable good humour, and raise my glass in a silent toast. The glass is lighter than I expected.
I glance down and realise I’ve nearly finished it already.
The garden is loud – all these people I’m supposed to know, each one a potential client, a possible old enemy, or a distant cousin I’ve long since lost track of.
You’d think I was the socialite of the year, but the truth is, I don’t ever have time to see friends and family on a regular basis.
My work consumes everything. Since I took over the property business from my parents three years ago, I haven’t had a moment for fun or relaxation.
So, although Tori and I were as close as sisters once, and although I know every single person here, I don’t think any of them are truly my friends. Not anymore.
It’s only been two hours, but already the heat of the day is giving way to the evening’s chill.
I see Reece has sloped off to talk to one of Dad’s golfing friends, who is somehow both three feet taller and three feet wider than everyone else, booming out what sounds like a joke at someone’s expense.
I duck away for a refill, queuing at the bar like everyone else.
I’m halfway through rehearsing a small-talk script in my head when my phone vibrates, a silent buzz in my pocket.
I know by the pulse pattern that it’s my work account, not personal.
For a second, I consider leaving it – just ten more minutes of being present, the way all the mindfulness podcasts recommend – but the twitch in my fingers is too strong.
I pull out the phone and glance at the notification.
The email is from an address I don’t recognise.
I open it, expecting a contract query or an apology from one of yesterday’s no-shows.
But it’s not. The words send a familiar flare of worry down the insides of my arms. There’s a moment of vertigo, as if the world has tipped slightly off its axis.
I feel like I’m watching myself from above, an actor at my own party, waiting for the next cue.
But the truth is, I’m not sure how I’m going to fix this.
I delete the message. It’s a stupid thing to do because ignoring it won’t make the situation disappear.
But I need a reprieve from my anxiety. Out of sight, out of mind.
I try to will myself back into the party, into the festive noise and the flush of Reece’s praise.
I’m not letting this ruin the night. I am in charge here. I am the grown-up.
I toss my thick, chestnut hair and shake out my shoulders.
I make a circuit of the garden, checking every table, pausing to greet a few members of staff and to introduce myself to a couple of the new hires’ partners.
I force myself to make eye contact and laugh in the right places, to compliment the bold choice of trousers or the vintage brooch.
I make a mental note to praise the catering on the cheese straws, which are genuinely the best I’ve ever tasted.
In the lulls between greetings, the email replays itself in my mind, the way a bad song gets stuck in your head.
Eventually, the sun dips below the hedge, and the garden is suddenly twinkling with fairy lights.
There’s a louder hum of music now, and a more raucous buzz of chatter and laughter as the alcohol kicks in and inhibitions are lowered.
I feel my mind settling, a little, in the twilight.
For a while, I believe my own performance.
The party is a success, Newbury New Forest Property Group is thriving, everyone’s loving it. Nobody’s worried.
But as I drift past half-empty glasses and bits of bunting that have blown on to the grass, I can’t shake the feeling that things are about to change. And not for the better.