Tom doesn’t pick me up for dinner with his family tonight; he said he couldn’t make it from his place to mine and there in time and for a second, that prickles as strange, but then I remember firstly, he’s not my real boyfriend and secondly, there’s every chance in the world I’m being overly sensitive purely on account that BJ slept with a minor celebrity one night last week and I feel a bit sick about it.
That Vanna Ripley isn’t as pretty as me but she’s a cracking actress and a scoundrel in the bedroom, according to Christian who told me far more than was required or requested.
Anyway, I take a town car to the Mandarin Oriental, which makes me feel a bit like I’m cheating on BJ because this is our hotel, and I think he’d die a bit if he knew I was here with Tom, because I’d die if he took someone else here too. It wasn’t my suggestion though. Heston Blumenthal is a friend of Charlotte’s and her favourite chef in the world, so hopefully I just don’t get photographed here and Beej is none the wiser.
Also, I remind myself, BJ actually cheated on you.
While you were home sick with a flu, the love of your life had penetrative intercourse, at a party, at his old house, in a waterless bathtub, with someone else who smelt like musk and orange blossom and… tuberose (I think?) and so, if you feel like going to Dinner by Heston at the hotel where you lost your virginity to him nearly seven years ago, you should be allowed to, because he gave up Mandarin rights when he gave up you.
That’s the pep talk I give myself as I walk over to an already-seated table of Englands.
I wear something safe and sure to be parent-friendly—the Miu Miu scalloped-collar, cropped blouse, the logo-plaque, flared skirt from Prada with the v-neck cashmere cardigan from Versace. Adorable, but conservative.
I don’t know why I’m nervous. Or why I care about impressing them. And it’s not as though I haven’t met them before—of course I have, a hundred times since I was a child, but now that I’m not a child, and Tom England is my fake boyfriend with real parents whom, apparently, I am hellbent on delighting with my diamond eyes and meekness.
I actually hadn’t even thought about Clara England being there—how terrible of me, of course she’d be. Just because her husband died doesn’t mean she’s not an England anymore, it’s just that I forgot sort of that she was. She’s twenty-six, I think. Imagine being twenty-six and a widow.
They got married very young, she and Sam. Straight out of school. Quite strange for people of our station; there was a lot of speculation that she was pregnant. I don’t think she was though. They didn’t have any kids.
Tom stands as I approach the table.
Tan, suede bomber jacket from Gucci, paired with the Steady Eddie II slim-fit, tapered, organic, stretch-denim jeans from Nudie, paired with the black leather Converse Chuck Taylor All Star 70s. He looks handsome, and I wonder when that’ll wear off—that schoolgirl heart-puddle feeling I get whenever he looks me in the eye. It happened when I was seven and he was fifteen and he handed me a napkin at Windsor Castle for a party, and it happened just now when he did nothing but blink at me.
He steps out from his chair, walks over to me and takes my face in one of his hands and kisses me a bit deeper than I wish he did in front of his parents because I want them to like me and take me seriously, even though technically I’m not taking their son seriously, but impressions are everything! He takes my hand, leading me over to the table.
Polite, British cheek kisses from both his parents, but a warm hug from Clara that I don’t feel I deserve. “It’s so lovely you could join us.” She smiles at me.
“We’re just delighted about you and Tom, Magnolia,” Charlotte tells me.
“Yes,” Andrew nods. “It’s wonderful. We haven’t seen him this happy in a while.”
“Though—can I ask—” Clara cuts in, looking at Tom for a couple of seconds before looking at me—“and I’m so sorry if this is inappropriate”—she glances quickly at Tom—“I thought you were still dating BJ Ballentine.”
“Ah.” I shake my head once, let out an uncomfortable laugh. “No—it’s not an uncommon mistake though, we’re still quite close.”
Tom puts his arm around me, and for a second it feels like a shield, like he’s protecting me from the curious eyes of his family, and their eyes are curious—most people are when it comes to BJ and me, with our love that’s like a sideshow—but then I catch Tom’s face, jaw set, brows low, not tender nor protective, and I wonder if perhaps I’m shielding him from something I don’t know about.
“And tell me,” Clara asks with a smile, but she’s smiling at Tom, not at me, even though the questions for me. “How did you and Tom meet?”
Tom gives her a look. “We’ve known each other for years.”
Clara concedes with a head tilt and rescinds her question. “Sure, no, I just didn’t realise you’d been spending any time together.”
Andrew nods. “Nor did we actually, but a welcome discovery nonetheless.”
I give him a grateful smile, prattle on about that night, leave out the part about BJ and the lap dance, interchange club for a restaurant, make it a bit more parentally appealing.
Tom hasn’t taken his arm from around me. Nor has he looked at me once. “And you’re the leisure editor for Tatler?” Andrew nods, answering his own question.
“I am.”
“How did you get that job?”
“Well, I’m very experienced in leisure and also”—I give him a playful smile—“a dash of flagrant nepotism.”
He chuckles heartily. “Are you going to say Albert Read is your godfather?”
“Just my mother’s good friend.” I smile at him like he’s silly. “Elton John’s my godfather.”
That gets my fake-boyfriend’s attention. Finally. “Shut up—really?”
“Thomas.” His mother blinks.
“Elton John?” His jaw drops.
“Mmhm.” I nod.
“The Elton John,” Clara clarifies.
“No, the other one.” I roll my eyes sarcastically. “Yes, him.”
Tom scoffs a laugh. “How. Why?”
“Well, it was 1997 and my father was working with George Martin at the time, kind of his protégé. And he was mixing for the re-release of ‘Candle in the Wind’, and my mother became pregnant with me, and Elton was around a lot, and it just happened.”
“Is he a very hands-on godfather?” Clara asks, leaning across the table, riveted.
“Yes, quite! Yeah.” I nod. “He’s come to all my birthday parties. He’s outrageously flirtatious with the Ballentine boys—”
“—Can’t really blame him,” Clara interjects. “What’s the best present he’s ever given you?” she asks, chin in hand.
“For my eighteenth birthday, he bought me a 12th century chateau in Aquitaine. Actually”—I reconsider—“for my twenty-first, he bought me a ten-carat diamond necklace I quite like.”
“Ooh. I’d love to see it some time,” Charlotte says, smiling at me.
Before our food comes and I excuse myself to the ladies’ room, Clara comes along. I don’t know why girls go to the loo together, I’d rather go alone. Do you not think it’s harder to pee if someone’s listening?
When I come out of the cubicle, I think she’s waiting for me at the sink, primping herself in the mirror. I wash my hands, dry them slowly. Uncomfortably.
It’s not like I’m going to powder my nose—I follow a fifteen-step skincare routine, my face is practically poreless. Still, I play along with the charade. Dab on some lip colour as though my lips aren’t this colour by themselves anyway.
Clara looks at me in the mirror for a few seconds, heavy in thought.
“—I’m sorry if that was overstepping before,” she says.
“About BJ?” I clarify. She nods and I shrug.
“It’s fine.” The truth is, it is. I’m always happy to have an excuse to talk about him.
“You were together for how long?”
I don’t mean to do it, but I sigh. “We started dating when I was fourteen.” A sad smile whispers across her face. “I’m twenty-two now,” I tell her before she asks.
“That’s a long time.”
“But we’re obviously not still together.”
“Right.” She nods once. “When did you break up?”
“Three years ago,”
She keeps nodding. “How come?”
I purse my lips, curiously. “You don’t read the papers?” She shakes her head. That makes me like her more. The click of my Hourglass Confession, Ultra Slim, High Intensity lipstick lid echoes through the bathroom. “He cheated on me.”
“Oh, shit.” She sighs. “Sorry—” She shakes her head, looking away.
She looks upset.
Are her eyes welling up?
“Are you okay?” I ask, watching her cautiously.
She sniffs a laugh. “I don’t mean to be nosey—you two have just always kind of reminded me of me and Sam.”
Something about that endears her to me. “Really?”
She nods. “Just so young when you fell in love, all tangled up in each other.” It’s all over her face how much she misses him, and then she looks me in the eye, quite serious. “There are worse things you know, than cheating—”
I hold her gaze. “Like dying?”
She nods again. “Like dying.”
She presses her hands into her temple. “Listen to me, shelling out unsolicited relationship advice to Sam’s brother’s poor cornered girlfriend in a bathroom.” She shakes her head at herself. “I’ve lost the plot.”
“No.” I shake my head but it’s just me trying to shake the thought of BJ dying from my mind again.
I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know what the world would be like without him in it.
My heart breaks for this girl; if Sam England was her BJ, and now he’s gone in a way where there’s no far away hope that maybe you’ll be okay again and you’ll work it out one day when he stops fucking everything and you can stomach the idea of trusting him again, then she must be a shell of a person and the bones of her heart must be entirely broken.
We join them back at the table, and once seated, Tom kisses me again, and once again, it’s more than necessary.
And it’s only when he pulls away and I see Clara watching his mouth on mine, and inside her eyes, I watch a peculiar jealousy bloom that I don’t think even she understands because I can assure you, I do not. I glance from Tom to Clara, and there’s something. Some sort of weightiness. And maybe if I had eyes that could see invisible things I’d find a heavy chain from him to her that binds them—but my eyes can’t see that.
They can see, however, Tom’s eyes—who find mine finally. And he looks, well, he doesn’t look like a deer in headlights as much as a lamb caught in the thickets. And I don’t know what it is but I know I’m not an idiot, and I know that I just caught something between them. I try to catch his eyes, give him a chance to talk my mind down. I don’t know why it’s up, if I’m honest, but I feel funny suddenly. On edge? Kind of exposed.
And then our food arrives.
After the bill is paid, the senior Englands are standing, ready to leave.
“Shall I run you back to Holland Park?” Tom asks me. I nod, smiling at him, relieved to have a minute alone.
“Oh,” sighs Clara. “I was hoping I could grab a lift?”
“Oh,” Tom says. And then there’s a strange pause. I look at him, waiting for more words to come. His eyes hold mine, and then it occurs to me: he’s waiting for me to excuse him from driving me home. I don’t offer him one. “I could drop you both home,” he says. “Holland Park’s not too far and then I can just run you to Rosie’s.” She nods, smiling a small smile, placated.
My eyes pinch. “No, actually. I’m fine. I have a car here. I forgot.”
“You do?” Tom asks, maybe a bit too eagerly.
“You couldn’t pick me up either, remember?”
His eyes drop from mine, guiltily.
I look at his parents. “Thank you for dinner, it was lovely.”
I turn to Clara and give her a subtle look. “Worse things.” Her face falls. Tom leans in to kiss me but I dodge it, offering him my cheek instead.
“I’ll call you,” he tells me.
I look back at him over my shoulder. “Mmhm.”
Why that made me sad, I don’t know. It did though— teary even, in the car on the way home.
I head straight to my room, avoiding all my family but especially my sister and especially Marsaili, because I don’t much feel like explaining my feelings which I can’t even really explain to myself. I shower, then pull out a jumper from BJ’s drawer—the Ralph Lauren teddy bear print hoodie. It’s baggy on him, swimming on me. It smells like him and it feels like him, and I just want to feel close to him because I don’t understand what happened before, and I hate not understanding things, but I can almost always understand BJ.
And then my phone rings. It’s Tom. I don’t answer it. It rings again.
23:53
Tom England
Pick up.
No.
I’m outside.
I look out my window, and he’s on the street. By his car, looking up at me, his phone to his ear, waving his hand, beckoning me down.
I mouth go away, but he just waves more and keeps phoning me.
I roll my eyes, make my way downstairs.
Gucci socks, slides and the sweater, that’s all I’m in—I’ve never looked so unkept in my whole life. I close the front door ultra-quietly because I’m convinced my sister is listening close by and I suspect she already suspects Tom and I are a variant of pretending but I don’t want her to know for sure.
He tugs on the sleeve of the Mastermind sweater and his eyes fall down me. “This yours?”
I give him a pinched look. “No.”
He sniffs a laugh. “He upstairs, then?”
“No.” I frown indignantly. “Am I not allowed to wear it?”
Now he frowns. “Course you are, it’s just—”
“Don’t make me look stupid,” I interject. “That’s what you said to me last week—don’t make you look stupid—and then you took me to dinner with you family whilst leaving out a piece of incredibly crucial information.”
“What’s that?” He sounds defiant, but he swallows, nervous.
“You need a foxhole too.” He avoids my eyes. “She’s your brother’s wife—”
“It’s complicated—”
“—Yeah, no shit,” I cut in. “I’m not playing mind games with a grieving widow.”
His jaw goes tight and he shakes his head. “You’re not—we’re not.”
“Then what are we doing?” I look up at him, eyes wide and impatient. He takes a shallow breath that makes his barrel chest heave a bit. Blows that breath out of his mouth like there’s a candle I can’t see. He looks white as a ghost.
“I’m in love with her.”
“Tom!” I yell a bit and I’m sure the whites around my eyes are showing. “Does she know?”
His face pulls in a weird way. “We kissed.”
My face goes slack. “Tom!”
I can’t believe it. I’m staring at him like he’s told me he’s got a slave labour camp in his basement. I’m blinking a lot.
“Not tonight,” he clarifies with a frown, and I must admit—I’m a bit relieved. Why am I relieved? “It was a week before we”—he trails—“you know. Happened, I guess?” He shakes his head. “I needed to shake it off.”
God, I could use a martini. I blow air out of my mouth and look at him with pinched eyes. “Was it just a kiss?”
Something in his face shifts. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look a bit afraid. “I need it to be.”
I nod once, processing. I cross my arms over my chest and sit on the front step. “How did it happen?”
He sighs. “It’s complicated.”
I glare over at him. “So uncomplicate it for me.”
His eyes plead. “I can’t. Do you trust me?”
“No,” I shrug. “Not particularly.” This is a lie. I know it as soon as I say it. Tom England is trustworthy, and I do trust him. Quite a lot, actually. But I want to hurt him for some reason.
And I do, I can see it breeze over his face.
“Okay.” He says this, nodding a few times, not holding my eyes anymore. I press my hands into my eyes and sigh. “Do you want to stop”—he pauses—“this?”
I keep my hands on my face as I answer. “No.”
“No?” He sounds surprised.
I peer at him. “No.”
“Why ‘no’?” The real answer is because I didn’t like how his face went just before. I don’t like seeing Tom look a bit scared—it makes the little guards in my heart stand to attention.
But instead I say, “Because I still need a foxhole.”
“Right.” He nods once. “But—we’re okay?” He looks for my eyes as he asks this, with earnest concern. I roll my eyes.
“I guess,” I say, glancing away being extra petulant, just because I like to have men at my service.
He sits down on the step next to me. “I’ll buy you a pair of shoes tomorrow?”
I eye him. “You’ll buy me three.”
Tom cocks a smile. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I nod, looking out onto the street.
He follows my gaze, stays there for a minute.
It’s nice, the air between us. And I feel safe next to him here, which strikes me as peculiar because I’ve really only felt safe around one person before. And as I begin to peel back the layers of that, and what that might mean, Tom leans back against the step and looks up. Under the inky black of tonight’s sky, his pushed-back blonde hair looks much darker than it really is but somehow his eyes look lighter. Bluer and clearer. Maybe a bit like a weight’s lifted.
He looks over at me for a few seconds.
“Were you jealous?” he asks. “When you found out I kissed her?”
I feel embarrassed that he could tell and I’m grateful it’s dark out so the colour in my cheeks can’t be seen.
“Yes,” I tell the stars. “But you mustn’t read into that—I’m quite possessive and renowned for being a terrible sharer.”
He sniffs a laugh. “Good to know.”
