CHAPTER 2 #2
That night, we told each other everything, from my struggle with this first week of city life, to her true passion for art and tattoos, some distance from her choice of a psychology degree.
My choice of business intrigued her, and she frowned as she tried to connect her building impression of me, a clumsy ex-condom with a passion for horses and books, with spreadsheets and suits instead.
But unlike our choice of studies, those early moments of our friendship felt just right; like a padlock, opening to the only correct combination in 40,000 variations. We were the right answer, the satisfying click.
I realized now, some six years later, how far removed from that sensation every decision since then had felt.
The rest of the day passed in a hazy fog.
I gave myself chores, taking myself from minute to minute, hour to hour, knowing I just had to last until five thirty.
First, I found a chemist and patched my foot up properly, then a hairdresser with a free slot to wash and blow-dry my hair, and tame the chaotic curls into something sleeker.
I browsed in a bookshop for longer than I ever usually allowed myself to do, buying a new romance by an author currently blowing up on social and settled into a nearby café to read.
I just needed to make it until Kyle arrived. Then I could forget it all for a while.
Except, by the time five thirty rolled around, the soft light of early evening casting shadows across the cobbles, my nerves were jangling.
I’d done what I could to look good at least, and I’d even rehearsed how to tell him what’d happened.
But the moment his long, lean frame strode into view, hand sweeping back his burnished blond hair, I chickened out.
‘Have you been waiting long?’ he said, swooping down to press his lips onto mine, the sun catching the green flecks in his hazel eyes.
‘I got away as soon as I could. Bit of a heavy lunch, if you know what I mean.’ He winked.
‘You know how Henry necks Bolly like it’s Evian.
’ I smiled, suddenly unsure of what to do or say, the weight of my news flattening my words.
‘Christ, what’s with the shoes?’ he added, standing back, face aghast. ‘Thought you were wearing the new ones? Doesn’t do your legs many favours – you know how I love your legs. ’
I opened my mouth to explain, protest – anything – but, hand on my elbow, he propelled me inside the bar with him, his other hand giving my ass a squeeze.
‘Listen, I’ve got a confession,’ he began, a sheepish smile breaking out that melted my growing irritation.
He was somehow still tanned from his family’s Easter skiing trip, and his chiselled profile and sharp suit were utterly distracting.
Dimples formed and his eyes lit up as he recognized my expression.
My heart gave a stutter, not ready for another surprise today.
‘We can absolutely get some drinks, but we’re being gate-crashed, I’m afraid – and then I’ve been roped into dinner with Henry et al.
Some of our US partners have flown in today and we’ve got to show them the town, the usual. ’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Gate-crashed?’ I asked, looking around, but not seeing anyone we knew. The bar was filling up with pre-theatre drinkers, loud, braying voices and the clink and pop of champagne flutes and bottles.
‘Ma and Pa,’ he replied quickly, raising a hand towards the bar staff before I could reply.
He ordered for us, his pedantic choices – ‘No, not Gordon’s, Christ – Hendrick’s.
And no lemon for her – no, the chilled glasses’ – earning him sidelong glances from the group nearest to us.
The two women had already gone from listening to his order to outright ogling.
I felt myself sink even lower. There was no way I could tell him about the job now – the thought of it being picked over by his parents was more painful than the damn heels had been.
‘Right, okay,’ I sighed, leaning on the bar and recalibrating. ‘When are they getting—’
‘Daaarling!’
A shrill voice echoed behind us and as Kyle handed me a martini, he was enveloped by his mother.
Marina Montgomery was . . . a special breed of woman.
‘Christ alive, the devil literally does wear Prada,’ Hestia had hissed to me once on meeting her.
‘Do you think they insert the sticks up that type early on, or is it something that happens once they get married?’
As I took a laboured sip of my drink, Marina turned to me.
‘Oh Charlotte, how lovely,’ she said, stooping slightly from her heels to kiss the air near my cheeks, her own height dwarfing me. She wrapped her bony fingers around my arms, the cloud of Chanel N o 5 that surrounded her threatening to choke off my air supply.
‘What a nice surprise,’ I lied, plastering my corporate smile back on, replicating the greeting with Dominic. A thirty-year window into Kyle’s future, his father had almost the same hair, now receding and as grey as it was blond. The same handsome face beheld us both, eyes crinkling.
‘Looking smart, old chap,’ he said to Kyle, shaking his hand. He beckoned the bar staff with the same gesture as Kyle had used.
‘Oh yes, I do like this,’ Marina added, French tips grazing the lapels of Kyle’s jacket. Standing between us, her body was angled towards him as if to cut me out.
‘Lottie chose it,’ he said, giving me a dazzling smile, working hard to keep me onside, knowing just how little I would be enjoying the presence of the gate-crashers.
Marina turned to smile at me, but it didn’t reach her eyes. I braced myself.
‘Oh . . . yes,’ she replied, glancing at my handbag before looking back at Kyle.
‘Excellent taste, clearly. Expensive, too.’ They tittered at her joke, my excellent choice of boyfriend.
My smile felt fixed, as though held by setting spray.
‘Just as it should be. Nothing wrong with aiming high, is there, Charlotte?’
And there it was.
If passive-aggressive digs were a sport, Marina would be the most decorated Olympian of the last millennium. I took a gulp of the martini, accidentally finishing it.
‘Steady on, old girl,’ Dominic guffawed. ‘Quick out of the blocks, I see. Rough day at the office?’
I nodded, placing my glass on the bar for the staff to take away. Kyle’s expression was quizzical.
‘So where are you going this evening?’ I deflected, turning towards Dominic instead.
‘Oh, don’t ask me, I’m just the passenger. What is it, Marina? Carmen ? Imagine I’ll be asleep by the interval.’
‘ La traviata ,’ Marina corrected as Kyle handed her a glass of champagne. ‘At the Royal Opera House, of course. Didn’t you go recently, darling?’
She turned to Kyle and the conversation switched to the performance we’d seen on our date the previous month. As they went into detail about the singers, then on a tangent to people they knew – some story about a yacht sinking off the coast of Italy – I subtly fished my phone out of my bag.
PLEASE tell me you can still do dinner later? I messaged Hestia, waiting for her reply, but knowing she’d be unlikely to respond whilst with her client.
‘. . . I mean I know it’s terrible,’ Marina said, hushing her voice. ‘But really, it’s all so gauche, isn’t it, flitting about on these boats. Asking for it, if you ask me.’
Kyle nodded, but his eyes were on me, his unspoken question about my rough day as clear as Marina’s hatred of me. My crime had been and would always be the difference in our backgrounds, my ordinary, middle-class family, attendance at a state school and absolutely no friends or family of ‘note’.
As I watched Marina drone on, her face merged with Cressida’s in my mind. The martini swirled my emotions.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ I blurted. Marina turned to me in barely concealed astonishment. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to need to run.’ Kyle frowned, his mouth opening. ‘Dinner with my friend, I completely forgot,’ I added, before he could continue.
‘At least finish your drink?’ Dominic started, placing another martini in front of me. ‘Shame to—’
Fighting back temper, tears, a whole vortex of chaos in my mind, I picked up the fine crystal stem and knocked it back in one.
Marina’s mouth fell open in tandem with Kyle’s.
‘Great to see you,’ I said to no one in particular, placing the glass down carefully and backing away.
‘Lottie?’ Kyle said, stepping out of his mother’s clutches. ‘What—’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ I replied as I turned and walked out, breaking into a run as I hit the pavement and taking an immediate left around the back in case Kyle tried to follow me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck .
YES! Get over here now , was Hestia’s reply to my message as I checked my phone, almost breaking into a sob as I reached the tube. My hot tech start-up guy is here and I’m tattooing his thigh. I should be live-streaming this on OnlyFans, I’d make a fucking fortune.
I all but ran into the station, relief at my escape mingling with dread. What the hell was I doing?