The RHS Chelsea Flower Show Gala is probably the wankiest floricultural event on the planet. The royal family comes to it, celebrities come to it, people like us come to it, it’s about £800 a ticket—not a lot in the scheme of things but stings a little because I’ve paid 800 quid to watch the love of my life flit around this fucking garden with some other fucking man. Taura asked me to go with her but I said no. I’m already in the doghouse with Parks, that’d probably be pushing the boat out a bit far. Plus, it’s her favourite social event of the season so I don’t want to ruin it for her.
Me going with Tausie shouldn’t ruin it for her, because she’s not who I cheated on Parks with, even though Magnolia doesn’t believe that. Nothing’s going on with me and Sax anyway. Hasn’t been for a few months now.
She’s definitely shagging Jonah, and also, I thought I saw a weird little spark between her and Hen the other day? I don’t know.
I arrive late. Parks arrives later. Tom on her arm, who’s looking more and more comfortable holding her by the second and I wonder—panic for a second—maybe they’ve had sex.
Magnolia not having had sex with anyone else is both a relief to me and my own personal nightmare. A relief because something about it makes her still mine. More mine than anyone else’s, anyway. And a nightmare because she looks how she looks. In a gown or pyjamas, doesn’t matter. She looks the same to me. Eyes that I see every time I close mine.
She’s in this dress that looks like it’s a watercolour painting, green and pink and fucking lilac—she did that on purpose, and she looks fucking perfect, and I get this weird feeling like maybe she’s going to fuck my heart up in that dress tonight or something.
She catches my eye from across the room, holding like our hands can’t.
Hello, she mouths.
I give her a small smile and she looks away, her cheeks pinking up a bit. Placates me for a second, that I can still do that to her. Make her body do what I want it to with a look. I stay where I am because I know she’ll come to me. Magnets. That’s what the boys say about us. Sometimes we’re the same pole, sometimes we’re opposites, but we move each other. Pushing away, pulling closer. You should have heard Jonah the day he thought of that metaphor, like he’d won a fucking Pulitzer.
She wanders over, makes it look like it’s Tom’s doing but it’s not. No one can work a room like Magnolia Parks. Which is funny and annoying, because I don’t think she even knows she does it. I didn’t care when we were together that all eyes were always on her because her eyes were always on me. Since we broke up though, it eats me alive watching her in a room, because she doesn’t see it. She gets fidgety about me and old ladies and waitresses and random girls at bars, but I’m not oblivious to it, I know it’s happening. Parks, on the other hand, doesn’t have a fucking clue.
I remember sitting across from her a few months back, we were at this little cafe in this little town somewhere far away on one of those drives we take, and everyone was watching her. All of them, and she was perusing the menu, completely unaware. Didn’t even notice ’til she caught the look on my face—somewhere in the vicinity of amused terror (not that I found almost the entire population of Rye all that threatening).
“What?” she blinked.
I threw her a small smile. “They’re all watching you.”
“Yes, well.” She sat up a little taller. “I am wearing a vintage Chanel, fur-trimmed, houndstooth coat from 1977.”
“Yeah,” I snorted into my beer. “That’s what they’re staring at.”
“Beej,” She smiles up at me, tilts her head to the side, bats her eyes a lot.
“Parks,” I kiss her cheek as close as I can to her mouth without crossing the line and she rolls her eyes in fake and silent protest.
“Ballentine”—Tom grabs me by the shoulders, grinning. “You look great, man.”
He grips my chin in his hand, grinning playfully but it’s a power move and it throws me for fucking six because if anyone else did that to me, I’d fight them on the spot, but Tom England? I don’t know. I don’t know how this stupid, fucking guy who looks like a pirate and a Greek god can make me feel like a million bucks and a five-year-old twat all at once. Dickhead.
“That is a sick suit,” he tells me and I can tell he means it. Just to add insult to injury.
Parks looks at me for a second. “Tom Ford. Slim-fit, satin-trimmed, stretch-wool tuxedo jacket.”
Tom glances at her, then to me, then back to her. “You buy it for him?”
She plucks a glass of champagne from the tray of a nearby waiter and takes a bored sip. “No.”
I do my best to keep my amusement in check.
“It’s her thing,” I shrug. “Always has been.”
Tom looks at her, confused. “You just…. know… what people are wearing?”
She nods once. “Yes.”
“What am I wearing?” he asks.
She looks at him for a few seconds. “Fawn slim-fit, grosgrain-trimmed, cotton-velvet tuxedo jacket, with the…” She squints. Spins him on the spot. “—Pleated, cotton-twill chinos from Prada.” Points to his shoes. “John Lobb, Prestige Becketts Leather Oxford Shoes.”
Tom sniffs a laugh and points to a lady who walks by us who’s in a long, black dress covered in glitter with weird shoulders. “Her?”
“Alex Perry, the Houston glittered, velvet gown.”
“Her?” He points to a girl in a black dress that’s got no sleeves or straps. Gold spots.
“Strapless, ruched polka-dot, sequined, tulle midi dress. Marchessa Notte.” She barely looks at that one. “I’ve got it.”
Tom points to a lady on the far side of the room in a weird kimono that’s covered in woodland creatures or some shit.
She squints at it. “Lanvin, asymmetric, frayed, printed silk midi dress.”
Tom lets out an amused snort. “It’s like she’s some sort of clothes… Rainman?”
“Speaking of—” She looks between us. “How do we feel about Taura Sax in the floral appliqué midi gown from Marchessa Notte at the Chelsea gala? Bit on the nose, no?”
I look over at her dress. It’s nice enough, I suppose. Taura sees the three of us staring at her, waves uncomfortably and I feel a pang of guilt. I give her a nod. She’s always tried to be friendly to Parks, but Parks can’t see past the part where she’s seen me naked. Fair play, I suppose.
“I like it,” I shrug.
Parks rolls her eyes. “You would.”
“I mean seriously, what’s next?” She looks from me to Tom. “Plaid and tartan at Christmas time?”
I give Parks a look. “You wore plaid Christmas Day last year.. wore tartan Christmas Eve…. you called it inspired.”
She looks up at me, jaw dropped a bit, eyes pinched. “What are you, some kind of festive season fashion savant? Fuck off.”
She grabs Tom’s hand, pulling him away.
“Later, man.” He tosses me an amused smile and something in it slices me to the bone. Like he gets that she’s being annoying as shit. Like he gets her.
She’s angry I defended Taura.
Probably shouldn’t have done it, probably it wasn’t worth it.
I’ll pay for it later with Parks, but me and Taurs are friends now. Couldn’t leave her in the lurch. Henry spots me, danders over with Taura.
“Were you talking about me?” she asks.
“Oh—what?” I play dumb. “No, Parks was just saying she liked your dress.”
“Yeah, right,” Hen snorts.
Taura smacks him in the arm. “Are you okay?” she asks me, nodding in Parks’ direction.
“Yeah,” I scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because Parks is probably getting wheelbarrowed later by the sexiest billionaire in the world?”
“Henry!” Taura blinks. I give my brother a look. More hurt than I wish I was, angrier too. I breathe out, annoyed. Walk over to the bar.
If anyone else talked about Parks like that I’d fucking wipe the floor with then, but Henry does it ’cause he loves her and they’re like brother and sister. Plus, he likes shitting me, and nothing shits me more than it being shoved down my throat that actually, Parks isn’t mine now.
Henry’s always been angry at me for it, for what I did. It comes out in weird ways every now and then. Passive-aggressive comments, aggressive-aggressive comments, planting visuals of my worst nightmare in my mind at a garden party, you know—shit like that. I order a whiskey from the bar, down it on the spot, and then order a Negroni. Jonah saddles up next to me.
“Oy.” He gives me a cautious look. “You good?” I take another drink. “He’s just playing, man—” Jo shakes his head. “Parks couldn’t be wheelbarrowed, she’s about as limber as a tooth-pick.” I give him a look, because I can’t tonight. He frowns. “What’s up with you?”
I stare over at her on the other side of the room. “Do you think I’m losing her?” Jonah stares at me for a couple of seconds, like he’s never even entertained the possibility. And then maybe, the worst thing happens. I think I see it on his face. He wonders if I am too.
Because she’s there, with Tom, with his parents—Andrew and Charlotte England, nice people, good people, rich people, people who have a son who hasn’t fucked her around for the last three years. And Parks is the kind of girl parents dream about their sons ending up with—she’s honey on toast personified, and they’re eating her up.
And I’m watching her with him, her hands on his chest, laughing as she tells them something, all eyes on her and that’s fine because there’s something magnanimous about her that makes you lean in closer, but they’re his parents.
Why is she with his parents? She never meets the parents. And every boy she’s dated ’til now, if she touched them, she’d touch them watching me; if she hugged them, she’d hug them holding my eyes. But now she’s touching his chest, and she’s looking up at him, and they’re laughing, and I think they’re a real couple because she doesn’t clock me once.
Then Tom tilts her face up with one finger—he’s so fucking cool, I hate him—and he kisses her. I haven’t seen them kiss before. It’s strange, the feeling it gives me. Nothing at first. Just… nothing…and then it was like someone lobbed my fucking arm off with a machete. Nothing, and then everything. Everything bleeding out everywhere, dying right here on a bed of peonies with the love of my life on the other side of the room with a man who isn’t me, who’s actually fucking probably finally worthy of her and the bleeding out starts to feel too real. That thing in your brain that sounds an alarm: we’re not okay? It’s going off. I’m not okay. I feel like I’ve fallen into a hole. No edge to grab, no end in sight, arse in your stomach, stomach in your throat, heart in the hand of a girl who’s holding someone else’s—just a kind of forever falling, this fucking suspending always falling, which is sort of what it feels like to be in love with her at this point anyway.
I grab Jo, urgently.
“Do you have any coke?” I say under my breath.
Jonah frowns. “What?”
I don’t flinch. “Do you have any?”
“Beej—”He follows my gaze, sees the problem. Looks nervous. “This isn’t a good idea—bit reactionary—”
I nod once. “Yep.”
“You promised her,” he reminds me.
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’ve broken promises to her before, so—”
“Yeah, but this is the one she’ll care about.” He shakes his head.
“Jo, look at her—” I stare over at her. Her head’s leaning on his arm, they’re posing for a photo. “She’s happy.” And my heart is breaking right there on my face.
Jonah starts guiding me away, “Just, let’s get out of here—”
I stand in my tracks. “Do you have any or don’t you?”
“Yeah.” He gives me a reluctant look. “I do.” I nod towards the bathroom. I lead the way, my best friend follows, dragging his feet. I go into a stall. He follows me in. Hands me the baggy with a big sigh and heavy eyes, but it’s heavy eyes all round tonight so fuck it. I’ve not had it in nearly two years, not since I promised her I wouldn’t.
I just have one line, it’s all I need to take the edge off. Jonah watches me as I do it, eyes me down. He’s not on board. Seems hypocritical as shit, what with his gang lordship and all but I guess he’s not the one who overdosed…
He plucks my drink from my hand. “You’re done with alcohol tonight.”
I shrug. “Don’t need it.”
I shove my hands through my hair, feeling better already and head back out to the party. I spot Vanna Ripley on the other side of the room. Hair pulled back, low-cut dress, eyes like a cat. I like Vanna Ripley. She’s insanely hot. A fucking terrible actress, definitely knows it too. Makes her an overachiever in the bedroom though. And she likes me more than I deserve to be liked. I think we’re kind of friends now.
I think I’m going to fuck her anyway.
01:05
BJ
I didn’t get to say goodbye before I left tonight.
Goodbye
?
Are you okay?
You looked kind of wasted as I was on my way out.
Yea in goodl
Really?
Yrp
Yep
Okay.
Hey parsk hos your boyfirne
What are you doing?
Notging
I’m find
Will you answer your phone?
Im with somweobe
I’m with someone too.
Thatsd not what I menat
I know what you meant.
Whaas did I mean. Then?
Stop it.
Afe you angehy at. E?
Arenyou angry art me
Yes.
But call me when you get home anyway.
Im not gfoing homw tonight
Perfect.
14.06
Parks
Fuck.
Fuck fuck
I’m sorry
I was shitfaced
Clearly..
I’m sorry.
Who did you go home with?
Do you actually want to know?
Yes
Vanna
Ripley?
Yeah.
Right.
Great.
Parks?
What?
Sorry.
It was just drinks, right?
You last night? It was just alcohol.
A few too many Negronis…
Okay
Feel better ❤️
