Chapter 20
I stare at myself in the antique mirror.
I can hardly believe it’s me. Becca has worked some sorcery with make-up brushes and hair tongs.
My eyes are huge, subtly lined and my cheeks glow with peachy blush.
My hair is swept into a loose up-do with a few curls trailing over my clavicles.
The dress holds me firmly, boned at the midsection, and the fabric shimmers to the floor like a petrol spill.
Becca dusts a flick of bronzer over my décolletage and I fasten a plain, slightly tarnished gold chain around my neck.
‘I have necklaces you could borrow—’
I shake my head. ‘I’m wearing this one.’
She peers at the locket. ‘Oh. Was it Gen’s?’
‘No.’
I own nothing of hers but a book with a broken spine, and salt-stained pages from reading on the beach.
The necklace is the one and only present Jameson ever gave me. I don’t know why I brought it – unearthed from the bottom of an old jewellery box – but I know why I’m wearing it.
He’ll see it and know that, for me at least, we’re not done.
We step into the drawing room, transformed: scrubbed, polished, full of excitement and anticipatory joy.
I love the way my skirts sweep the floor as I move, enjoy the admiring looks Alex and Leo shoot me.
They’re poised by the fire, whisky tumblers in hand, looking sharp in their matching dinner jackets and bow ties; Leo is smooth and suave, Alex adorably dissolute.
Kimmy crosses the room to air-kiss us, wearing a short black dress with a skirt that protrudes over layers of tulle, her legs impossibly long in gold, high-heeled sandals.
Her eyes are drawn darkly in kohl, her lips a scarlet slash.
She quirks a brow at the sight of me, and I try not to be offended at the surprise in her expression.
‘Let’s get the party started!’ Becca shrieks, erupting into the room behind me.
Making an entrance. She’s wearing a cherry-red gown that fits like a glove.
Her hair spills down her back like a peaty river.
‘Wait … where’s Jameson?’ She looks displeased – I’m sure she wanted to be last in so that her entrance couldn’t be upstaged.
‘Here.’ His deep voice comes from behind me, and I spin, tangling myself in the train of my dress, as he strides into the room in full Highland dress: his father’s family tartan, Bonnie Prince Charlie jacket, crisp white shirt. He is clean-shaven, and he smells divine.
‘Oh,’ Becca murmurs appreciatively, and perhaps she doesn’t mind being upstaged when Jameson looks like that. Even Leo and Alex fall silent at his entrance. Jameson ducks his head and smiles, hiding his embarrassment at being the centre of attention.
He has to know how good he looks. But he’s staring at me. He crooks an elbow to me, and I slip my hand on to his bicep without hesitation. The weft of his jacket is thick and soft beneath my fingers and I can feel the flex of muscle beneath my hand.
‘You said formal,’ Jameson tells Becca, who is still staring at him, open-mouthed.
‘I sure did,’ she murmurs.
Leo claps Jameson on the back. ‘Way to show up!’
‘Way to show us up,’ Alex corrects. ‘Seriously, though, you’re looking decent, man.’
Jameson shrugs ‘Anyone can put on a jacket or wrap a bit of tartan around him. Eilish on the other hand … stunning, right?’ He twirls me beneath his arm as though he’s presenting me to the room, reminding me of the breathless swing and sway of that long-ago dance.
As I spin, my necklace catches the light, and I see Jameson’s gaze come to rest on it.
He meets my gaze, and his brown eyes are soft as honey, but dark with longing.
I’m glad I wore it – for that look it was worth it.
There are murmurs of agreement, which leads Alex and Leo to bestow similar compliments upon Becca and Kimmy. Ever the gentlemen.
Kimmy slides a retro cigarette holder out of her purse, taps it against her lips. She seems irritated, like she expected to be belle of the ball. I’m sure she, like Becca, outshines everyone at almost every event she attends. They can let me have this one, surely.
Euan drifts into the room behind Becca, overshadowed by the preening and back-slapping. He leans against the wall, dressed in a dinner jacket, bow tie hanging loose as though it’s already the end of the evening. He looks good – carelessly handsome.
Leo is so hyped I wonder if he’s taken something.
He throws his arm around my shoulders, the other around Jameson’s.
The embrace is heavy, his aftershave overpowering.
‘It’s going to be some night,’ he roars in our ears.
‘Let’s make sure of it – as fucking wild and debauched as they come. Genevieve deserves nothing less.’
*
Hand it to Becca, she knows how to throw a party.
We begin with cocktails – Old Fashioneds, Manhattans, more French Martinis.
The music Becca puts on is energising, a thudding beat I can feel in my bones.
I sip my drink and bask in the firelight, the glitz of the drawing room and the exultant voices.
Jameson’s hand caressing the small of my back sends little pulses of electricity through me.
For now, the glamour and buzz hides the ugliness I worry lurks beneath the surface of our friendship: Gen’s darker side, Becca’s lie, Alex’s bizarre accusations – all obscured behind a facade of smiles, artifice and alcohol.
But I determine to enjoy the night. We’re dressed to the nines, in the most beautiful surroundings, with convivial company and alcohol flowing – how could we do anything else? There’s something special about partying against the backdrop of the storm, wild and inhospitable beyond the windows.
After cocktails, Euan goes downstairs to start serving while Becca cracks open more Champagne.
The music changes, a roaring-twenties vibe.
Leo is at his most ostentatious, and we hang on every word.
Kimmy is witty and acerbic, making us laugh.
Alex is darkly comic as usual, with that faintly deranged air still hanging about him.
And Becca glows, the heart of everything.
She produces her phone, takes snap after snap, cropping and filtering us to perfection.
I can imagine her Instagram feed going wild tomorrow, everyone wondering who these gorgeous people are who are lucky enough to be partying with Becca Morrow.
As for Jameson and me …
We’re falling in love all over again.
There’s no doubt about it now. It’s in every gesture and glance.
Memories give texture and depth to these unfurling feelings between us: I’m the gauche, bookish student again, scurrying across the quad to class, late as usual, only to find him lounging against a pillar with a hazelnut latte for me – on the wrong side of campus for his own lectures.
I’m the fierce athlete, slogging laps at the pool, matching him stroke for stroke.
And I’m the fae creature Gen dolled up for the Yule Ball, spinning in his arms.
I’m the girl who loved him even when she couldn’t admit it, the one who gave him everything by moonlight in a musty summerhouse here at this cavernous, overblown mansion.
And I’m the one he broke when he kissed some nameless girl in a bar.
Don’t think about that. Not tonight.
We head into the dining room, candles glittering on every surface, and exclaim over the lobster bisque and plump scallops. We drink buttery wine and talk about our lives. Everything starts to feel like a strange dream, as I detach willingly from reality.
I join in the conversation, my laughter tinkling along with theirs.
The tap of silver cutlery on quality china, and the clink of bottles against crystal sounds genteel, elegant.
No debauchery, not yet. We’re all on our best behaviour.
We eat pink-in-the-middle beef, and crisp potatoes, piles of green, leafy vegetables.
We switch to red wine so dense and dark it swells my tongue.
We enjoy the lightest of lemon soufflés, with sweet cream and berries.
As the wine flows and the food disappears, things get loud. Everyone competes to be heard and the laughter changes timbre. We spill out of the dining room and back into the drawing room where, at Becca’s insistence, we dance.
I can’t remember the last time I danced, and my body feels stiff and awkward at first, but gradually I loosen up as the beat slides through me.
Becca and I sway seductively together on the rug with our arms above our heads and smiles wide.
Kimmy coaxes Leo up, and Becca crooks her finger at a laughing Euan, who comes reluctantly to twirl her like a whirlpool beneath his arm.
He’s a surprisingly good dancer – although why it should be a surprise I don’t know; he just seems like a rough-and-ready outdoorsy sort of guy.
Jameson approaches me and holds out his hand.
He gathers me to his chest, and I press my cheek to his waistcoat, feel the firm muscles beneath.
He’s shed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves.
He looks so good, feels amazing in my arms. As we spin, I catch sight of Alex watching us from the sofa, sipping yet another cocktail. His eyes are dark, pensive.
I spin away, dizzy, anchored to Jameson. The room fades and the voices drift. I just want to be alone with him.
Then, Alex is between us, nudging Jameson. ‘Mind if I cut in?’
I do mind, but he wasn’t asking me.
Jameson steps aside and Alex takes my hand, birls me too fast. Jameson’s face flashes before my eyes. Alex’s voice is soft at my ear but there’s a hard edge to it. ‘I need to talk to you, Eils.’
I’m breathless from the spins, feeling faintly nauseated. ‘What?’
He glides me away from the others. ‘About Gen.’
Not this again. ‘Alex …’
‘Not here, we need to talk alone.’