It’s Clara’s birthday and as promised, I wear a dress that will make the entire world stare at me.
Dolce & Gabbana’s strapless, woven, raffia mini dress with the leopard print, tie-fastening sandals.
Tom at least picked me up this time. Suede bomber jacket from Brunello Cucinelli, a black and white striped T-shirt from Jil Sanders with the Fit 2 Slim-Fit, Rag & Bone jeans.
They’ve hired out Adam Handling’s venue. The Sloane Street one.
“He’s a friend,” Tom tells me on the way there, then his eyes drag up and down my body, smirking. “That dress…”
I peek up at him, proud of myself as though I’ve done a great deal more than just look pretty.
“Are your parents going to be here?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “They’re not feeling too good about Clossy seeing this boy—”
I nod. I feel sad for them—it would feel quick, I think. I feel sad for her too, because how long are we expected to sit in our grief? Longer than eight months seems to be the consensus of the England family.
“Are you?” I asked. “Feeling good, I mean.”
His mouth goes tight. I think he thinks about brushing it off. “No.”
“Are you sure she’s seeing him?”
He glances at me, jaw pulled tight. “No.”
I think I’m here in case. In case it’s a worst-case scenario. Because I probably wouldn’t bring Tom to BJ’s birthday unless I was afraid BJ was going to throw a grenade at me.
I think I’m here to shield him in case.
When we arrive, Clara looks pleased to see me. I wish I felt the same way, but something about seeing her makes me feel a lot of feelings that have faces I don’t recognise, and none of them have names.
“Wow”—she throws her arms around me—“I love that dress!”
“Yours too!” I smile at her. Jacquard, pleated, bustier dress from Dolce & Gabbana. Cream. A bit boring, but nice enough.
I hand her a present.
“What’s this!” she marvels, like she’s never been given a gift in her life.
I understand why Tom’s in love with her, actually. Why both the England boys are. Were. BJ thinks I’m doe-eyed? Not compared to Clara England. Get a load of the richest girl Britain, whose eyes boggle when given a Net-A-Porter gift box. I wave my hand dismissively. “Just little Maria Tash diamond sleepers. The receipt’s in the box—”
Clara looks up at Tom, smiling at him with a strained brightness. “She’s a keeper.”
He matches her smile. It’s stiff and forced. “She is.” He nods, and my heart feels sad seeing him like this. Everyone who doesn’t know the truth would think the pain between them is because of her dead husband, but I know better. And I think the boy who’s with her knows better too, so I squeeze Tom’s hand because I should and also a bit because I want to. Clara grabs my hand and pulls me towards her may-or-may-not-be date.
“Sebastian, this is Magnolia—Magnolia, this is Sebastian.”
I hold out my hand to the dreadfully sexy boy beside her: olive skin, brown eyes, tattoos up and down him, sulky mouth, razor-sharp jawline, messy hair. I don’t recognise his clothes really, except for the Black XX chino, slim taper trousers from Levi’s and black Vans, so I think he’s probably not from money, not that that matters, I don’t care. I’d kiss him myself all the same with a face like that. Just curious, I suppose. Nothing like Sam. Or Tom.
Speaking of, Tom’s not even watching my exchange with the handsome boy, he’s just watching Clara.
I hold my hand out to the boy. “Hi.”
“The infamous Magnolia Parks.” He grins down at me. American accent.
“Ah.” I pull back, delighted. “You’ve heard of me.”
“I have.”
“All good things, I hope?” I smile.
He gives me a crooked smile with devilish eyes. “Not all good things,” he says, then winks and saunters away. Clara apologies profusely but I don’t know whether he was being insulting or flirtatious. She goes after him; Tom gives me an apologetic look and goes after her.
I sigh probably in a more overt way than I mean to and head to the bar to order a Lemon Drop Martini.
I drink it quite quickly so I order another.
“Babe—” Gus saddles up next to me, tugging on the skirt of my dress. “Love, love, love—”
I brush my hands over it—possibly get a splinter, nevertheless, I persevere—I grin up at him.
“At the fake-boyfriend’s real love-interest’s birthday bash—what a good fake-girlfriend you are.”
I flick him in the chest as I tug on his red, Kiton single-breasted, cotton blazer. “Good to see you too—”
“Heard you’re being quite the hell-raiser at home these days?” He smiles down at me.
I roll my eyes and laugh. “Only for the infidels.”
And he chuckles—launches into a story about the artist he and my father are working with this week. I glance around for Tom and find him fairly quickly the way you might spot someone who you might have a crush on because they’re your eye kink, but I think he’s just that because he’s my fake-boyfriend.
Tom catches my eye and gives me the nod that asks: you alright?
I give him a quick smile and nod, not wanting to be a bad foxhole buddy.
I laugh on cue for Gus’s story that undoubtedly deserved more than the ears I didn’t just give him and he notices. “Getting harder, isn’t it?”
“Hmm?” I blink at him, confused. “No, no. Quite the opposite. Getting easier,” I lie.
“Mmhmm.” Gus looks at me suspiciously.
“It is.” I nod emphatically. “I am easy breezy. Very casual, very—”
“You’ve naffed,” he tells me.
I frown immediately. “How do you do that?”
He chuckles. “He told me that one.”
“Oh.” I roll my eyes but find myself laughing.
Tom party-jogs over. You know—it’s not an actual jog, rather it’s a hasty walk with intention. He puts his hand on my lower back. “You good?”
“Yeah! Fine! Yeah,” I say, smiling a lot. “I’m fine.” I keep nodding. “Yeah.” Big smile to round it out.
(“What the fuck?” mouths Gus.)
“Sure?” Tom frowns a bit.
“Mmhm. You’re good—” I nod my chin back in Clara’s direction. “Be free.”
He squeezes my hand and smiles, and I wonder if I feel a sliver of sadness that he took me up on my offer, but also, no, I think. I’m not sad because what would I be sad for?
Gus raises his eyebrows up and down. “Unsolicited hand squeeze. How intimate.”
I smack him in the arm, laughing. Then Gus looks past me and makes a delighted sound as he moves into hug someone.
It’s a massive bro-hug, back-smacking, shoulders trying to increase in width in live time to overcompensate for the raw emotion they’re displaying—and when they part I see that the other bro is Rush Evans.
The movie star. You know that hot boy in that teen movie? With the boy and the girl and the family drama, and he’s a bad boy, and she’s kind of annoying, but whatever anyway and they fall for one another? It was huge. Really put him on the map.
He’s in the navy blue, logo-print bomber jacket from Off-White, blue, torn-knees Ksubi’s and that fifties signature print, destroyed T-shirt from Saint Laurent that Beej has in black.
“Magnolia, babe.” Gus pushes me towards him. “Do you know Rushy Evans? We all went to Hargrave together.”
Rush shakes his head and takes my wrist in his hand gently. “Never met—know who you are though.” He kisses my cheek.
I let out a tiny laugh that’s more like a breath. “It’s good to meet you.”
He nods, smiles and he has eyes that get girls into trouble. “Likewise.” Then he looks over at Gus. “You meet Clossy’s new boy?” Gus nods, his face fairly neutral. Rush shakes his head. “Fucked up.” Then he leans over the bar and orders a round of drinks.
(“Rushy was Sam’s best friend,” Gus tells me while Rush is out of earshot. “Oh.” I nod, feeling sadder for everyone.)
Rush hands me and Gus a shot; we clink, toss them down, and then he hands me another lemon drop martini and a negroni for Gus.
“Catch me up with you and Tommy,” he tells me, leaning back against the bar.
Rush Evans really is rather charming. Impossibly handsome, quick and quippy, less Hollywood than I’d have imagined, but absolutely without question going to break your heart if you let him.
I tell him the official foxhole party line story about the bar and the kiss and always having a crush, etc. He nods along; Gus is displaying unhelpful facial expressions throughout, but Rush is mostly just looking at me.
“But I thought you were with what’s-his-name.” He clicks his fingers twice. “Fuck. The Instagram one girls throw their knickers at.”
My mouth twitches and I swallow a bit heavy because I miss him.
Why hasn’t he called me?
“BJ.” I nod and then drink the rest of my drink.
Rush gives me an intrigued look.
(“Bartender,” he calls, then nods his head at me.)
“A lot going on there?” Rush asks and Gus leans in, eyebrows raised, waiting like the pain in my arse he is.
“Nothing at all,” I declare in defiance and, I’m afraid, in truth.
“So anyway, Parks, riddle me this,” Rush says, nodding his chin over at Tom, who’s practically shadowing Clara, who herself is sitting with her hot maybe-boyfriend at a table by themselves. Tom’s hovering inconspicuously close by, he’s talking to someone, some girl who looks very pleased to have an audience with him, so pleased in fact that she’s willing to look past the fact that Tom doesn’t seem to give one genuine fuck about anything she has to say.
“If you’re shacking up with Tom—”
“I’m not,” I clarify. “I was born in W11. I don’t shack—”
Gus laughs and Rush raises his eyebrows, amused.
“I said riddle me—”
I roll my eyes, wave him on as I finish my drink.
“—If you’re with Tommy, why is it that he can’t take his eyes off Closs, hm?”
I inhale sharply but catch myself—breathing it out slower.
Gus’ eyebrows are up—waiting for my answer.
“Don’t know.” I shrug my shoulders dismissively. “Protective perhaps?”
Rush looks at Tom, then to Clara, then to me. “Protective?”
I nod, quite sure. Rush’s eyes pinch.
I clear my throat. “I actually think his gaze is less sexually-charged and more perhaps”—I’m improvising—“you know, mother…ducky.”
Gus suppresses a laugh. Rush doesn’t, he just snorts.
“What the fuck kind of ducks are you hanging out with?”
“Absolute duck wits,” I say, proud of my stupid joke.
He grins at me and then I start laughing, and he looks pleased with himself.
“Oh man.” He shakes his head. “If you weren’t fake-dating my best friend, I’d be all over you—”
“What?” I frown and blush all at once. “I—no! Pff!”
Rush Evans gives me a look.
“What? You don’t think I know a PR relationship when I see one? Come on”—points to himself—“I’m fucking in one.”
Gus gives me a smug look and I breathe out an exasperated breath right as there’s a huge crash from the other side of the restaurant.
We all look over and it’s Tom, with the hot maybe-boyfriend by the lapels, shoved against a wall.
Tom’s a bit bigger than Sebastian, but the boyfriend looks like he knows how to fight.
Sebastian shoves him off of him—Gus and Rush run over.
Gus pulls Tom away, Rush shoves Sebastian again, yelling something, pointing. Clara’s face is devastated.
I kind of just stand there, still at the bar. I’m slightly dizzy and I’m confused about my place in all this. I feel a protectiveness over Tom as I notice the blood that’s dripping a bit from his busted lip.
I also feel sad for Clara, who looks caught—I think between her past and her future.
And then I feel sad for me, because same.
I hang back, waiting for it to diffuse. There’s some yelling, mostly between Tom and Clara. I can’t really hear what they’re saying—and I get an overwhelming feeling that I shouldn’t anyway.
Clara’s eyes look bleary with tears.
The hot boy takes her hand and pulls her away.
It takes what feels like an age for Tom to glance around the room and remember I’m in it. His face falls, and he looks apologetic as he dashes over to me.
“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head.
I grab a napkin and dab away from blood from his bottom lip. He winces but his eyes soften.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and I don’t know why. I don’t know what to say, so I just shake my head and shrug. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what he’s sorry for. I don’t know why he’s sorry to me.
“Let’s go, shall we?” I offer him my hand.
He takes it in his, kissing the back of it absentmindedly, then nods at his boys as he leads me out.
(“He kissed your hand!” Gus mouths dramatically, gesturing at his hand. “Shut up!” I mouth back.)
Tom is all scowls as we climb into his town car.
“My place, James,” he tells his driver.
So I guess I’m not going home then? Tom’s looking out the window, and I can feel it on him—his mind is a Peloton bike in gridlock traffic. Wheels are spinning, but he can’t go anywhere.
“Can I do anything?” I ask eventually. Tom looks over at me and breathes out when he does, smiles a tiny smile.
“Not really.” He does a grimace-smile. “No.”
I nod and I’m sad for him, I have a brief and fleeting urge to kiss him because I wonder whether it’ll make him feel better.
I don’t do it because I’m a chicken.
“Hey.” I poke him in the arm instead. “I think your friend knows about us.”
He nods. “Yeah, Gus? You already said.”
“No,” I shake my head. “Rush.”
“Rush? Really?” He pulls back, a bit surprised. “How do you know?”
I purse my lips before answering but decide to just be honest instead.
“Because he said if I wasn’t fake-dating his best friend he’d have a crack—”
Tom’s jaw immediately goes tight and his eyes pinch, but a small smile still surfaces before he chuckles.
“Of course he did, the smarmy shit—” He shakes his head, laughing. “Yeah, he’d love you. You’re just his type…”
He looks a tiny bit annoyed by this and that actually makes me happy.
“Am I?” I try to keep my smile at bay, though I don’t quite.
Tom rolls his eyes. “Great mouth. Leggy. Excitable. Ridiculous. Bit of an attitude.”
My face falters a bit. “—Sorry, are you trying to be mean?”
“No.” He frowns, shaking his head quickly. “—Sorry. No. You’re just—” He looks at me thoughtfully, breathes out sort of loudly. “I should’ve seen it coming.”
I stare at him for a few seconds. “Are you jealous?”
He pauses. Our eyes are locked.
“Yeah, actually. I am.” He laughs. “I know that’s particularly shit because I spent the entire night focused on another girl.” He gives me a mildly remorseful look.
“Oh,” I smirk. “So you were aware of it.”
The look turns into full-blown remorse. “Sorry.”
I shrug, pretend that my feelings aren’t at least a tiny bit hurt. “It’s why I’m here.”
“I’m still sorry,” he tells me and I nod and smile and look out the window.
He keeps watching me; I can feel his gaze on me, so I look back.
His face pulls as he mulls on his thoughts.
“You want me to tee it up with you and Rush?”
“What?” I blink, surprised.
“If you like him—” He shrugs and swallows. “I mean—you and me, we’re just—you know. Whatever, right? So if you’re attracted to—”
“He’s very attractive,” I concede. “In that obviously sexy, slick, Hollywood, playboy kind of way.”
Tom lets out a small laugh.
“Yeah, obviously sexy is the worst kind of sexy.” He gives me a look.
I press my lips together, amused. Tom looks out the window.
“Do you know who else is obviously sexy?” I say, wanting his attention again.
He looks back, raising his eyebrows. I poke him.
He sniffs a laugh and then his face goes back to serious. “Do you want me to?” he asks again.
“No, thank you.”
He blinks. “No?” I shake my head. “Really?”
I roll my eyes with a demure sigh. “When would I possibly fit Rush Evans in between you and BJ?”
He laughs, but I think he looks relieved.
“Was tonight hard for you?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “They’re together.”
“Tom—” I touch his arm. He looks down where I’m touching him and back up to my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head and shrugs. “Not like she could have been with me anyway.”
“But still.”
He nods, looking back out the window.
“Are you bringing me back to your house on purpose?” I ask after a moment.
“Fuck—” He shakes his head once, looking sorry. “No. I wasn’t thinking—James, can we—”
“—I’ll come back to your house,” I cut in. All the drinks I’ve had make me braver right now than I am in real life.
He looks over at me, eyes big, doesn’t say anything.
“If you want me to,” I add. He nods.
We pull up to those newish apartments on Victoria Street in Westminster. The ones designed by Stiff + Trevillion, do you know what I mean? Angular? Grey bricks?
We head upstairs and we’re not touching.
He opens the door to his apartment and he’s still quiet, but I think he’s just sad. It’s a three-bedroom penthouse—big enough for one, that’s for sure.
His style is surprisingly minimal. A lot of neutrals. A bit of rattan. Splashes of marble.
“This is your place?” I blink.
“What?” He glances over at me. “You don’t like it?”
“No, I—I do. I just thought—I don’t know?” I shrug. “You’re Tom England. I thought maybe there’d be your own McDonalds in a corner?”
“I’m not Richie Rich.”
“A state of the art robot servant—”
“He’s in the country house.” Tom smirks.
I gesture to the apartment around us. “So, how many girls have you had here?”
“Do you mean over?” He looks confused.
“No, I mean sexually—” He laughs. “How many girls have you had sex with?” I clarify.
“Here?”
“Here,” I nod. “Anywhere—?”
He considers this. “Here—Erin and one other girl. Somewhere else—three other girls, not including you.”
“Six!” I blink, in disbelief. “You’ve only had sex with six people?”
He frowns defensively. “You’ve only had sex with two.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, I can’t believe it—you’re Tom England. And you look like Thor—” He laughs. “How is it possible you’ve only been with six women?”
He takes a big breath, breathes it out, and pours me some sort of brown hard spirit I don’t like but I sip it anyway, because I want the warm feeling it gives me when it hits my empty stomach.
“I had girlfriend at school, slept with her. Met Erin in university, we were together eight or so years.” He shrugs. “And then I fell in love with my brother’s wife.” My mouth twitches away a smile. “Tried to sleep with a few people to get over it—didn’t work.” He shrugs. “And then… you.”
“And then me.” I give him a tiny smile.
“Why?” He nods his chin at me. “How many girls has BJ slept with?”
I swallow. “He won’t tell me.”
Tom’s face falters a bit.
“But I think we’re safely in the vicinity of the hundreds.”
His face pulls back, blinking. “Multiple?”
I shrug like it’s nothing, even though I could be drowning in all the women I’ve lost him too. “By my count”—I give him a quick look—“I try not to count.”
“Fuck.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, Parks.”
I walk back over, stand toe to toe with him. It’s closer than I need to be, but I feel like I want to be. “Are you actually okay?” I look up at him.
He brushes some hair behind my ear. “Yeah.”
I purse my lips, thinking barely for a second before I say it. “Would you like to have sex?” How many Lemon Drop Martinis is too many?
“Oh.” He blinks a few times, surprised. “Uh—maybe?”
“Maybe?” I frown.
I haven’t had too too many, because my face isn’t tingly at all, just my chest is warm, and my mind is floaty, and my heart is numbed enough to maybe not think about how much I miss BJ for a half an hour. He tilts his head at me, and his hand is already a bit in my hair.
“You had a bit to drink?”
“A tiny bit!” I nod, and he laughs. “I’m not drunk though.”
“Really?” he asks, suspicious.
“Merry, if anything.”
“How merry?” He laughs.
“Quite.” I lift up his shirt and take a peek at his stomach. “More so by the second.”
“I see.” He nods, thoughtfully. “Are you angry at BJ?”
“No more than usual.”
He smiles. “Has he had sex with anyone regrettable this week that you’re trying to process by sleeping with me?”
“Oh,” I nod emphatically, “I’m quite certain he has, but I possess no definitive knowledge of such events.”
He snorts a laugh, licks his bottom lip. “Are you going to sneak out of my bed in the dead of night to scurry off to an ex-boyfriend?”
I roll my eyes. “I shall try to restrain myself.”
His eyes pinch as he gives me a long look. “Is this a good idea?”
I shake my head and shrug all at once. “I don’t know. It could be a terrible idea—”
He grimaces in thought. “Probably fun though…”
I nod. “Probably…”
