“There was a shooting at a night club—did you hear?” Bridget tells me.
I look up at her, surprised.
“No?”
“Yeah,” she says and nods. “At Clean Slate.”
“Oh my god.” I frown. “Was anyone hurt?”
“A couple of people were shot.” She nods. “No deaths.”
I frown and shake my head.
“London these days,” I sigh.
I’m getting ready for the ball. I’ve had my hair and make-up done—by George Northwood and Ruby Hammer respectively, and I’m in the red and white ruffled, tiered, metallic tulle gown by Rodarte and I’m practically dying over myself. I look like a fairy god-princess. Bridget’s helping me get dressed because I’m practically just a gorgeous marshmallow at this point—I’ve begged her to come, but she keeps refusing me.
“I hate these things,” Bridget says.
“But you love me!”
She shakes her head. “Not that much.”
“I come,” Bushka declares from the doorway.
Bridget and I exchange looks before I say rather indelicately, “Er—no.”
Bushka frowns. “You never bring me to the places—”
“Yes,” I nod emphatically. “Quite intentionally. You’re terribly uncouth and quite a racist—”
“White people think they better than everyone, but they not so good.”
I twist my mouth and my sister clears her throat. “Bushka, you are white.”
“I Russian.”
Bridget and I exchange a look.
“Anyway.” I flick my eyes.
“You bring me,” she demands.
“No.” I shake my head, straightening out my dress. “The last event we took you to, you tried to goad Princess Anne into a fight.”
“I could take.”
Bridget nods her head at our grandmother. “She is a Soviet defector.”
I pinch my eyes at both of them.
“All I do for you…” Bushka shakes her head ruefully.
“You don’t do anything for me.” I look at her like she’s crazy. “Bit of a relational deadweight, actually—”
“I give you money when I die—”
“Yeah but you’re still alive.”
“Nice,” Bridge says. I roll my eyes. Bushka swats her hand at me. “Oh,” my sister growls. “Just take her.”
I make a sound in the back of my throat. “Fine.”
Bushka cheers and she riffles through my closet, pulling out a very short, skin-tight Herve Leger dress. “I vwear?”
“Absolutely not.”
She ignores me, carrying the dress out of my room. “Party vwith two boyfriend and grandma—”
I look at Bridget for help.
“Well,” she says, “I’m obviously coming now.”
Tom’s the first to arrive—no surprise there.
BJ is merry of heart, the best kiss of your life and is probably actively making an Instagram story with a puppy or something, but Tom is a grown-up man, with a wristwatch and a sense of self and time.
Tom is also wearing black Brunello Cucinelli trousers, the Shelton slim-fit, shawl-collar, velvet tuxedo jacket and the white, pintuck-detail tuxedo shirt both from Tom Ford.
It’s hardly fashion forward but Tom has these ridiculous eyes that add the wow factor to everything about him.
Opens the door for me? Wow.
Drinks from my water bottle? Wow.
Ties his shoe? Wow.
Breathes? Wow.
“Hello,” Tom says when he sees my dress, taking me in. “You look incredible.”
He walks towards me, brushes his lips against mine and my cheeks go pink.
“Am I the luckiest man or what?” he asks me, smiling.
“Well,” I grimace, “BJ’s on the way—so I’m going to go with ‘or what’. ”
Tom sniffs a laugh.
“It’ll be fun,” he tells me with a mostly certain nod. “It’ll be good. Tonight will be good—”
“Yeah, keep saying it.” I give him a look. “That’ll make it true.”
He laughs as the front door opens again and in walks the other one.
Beej jogs up the stairs towards us, and Tom doesn’t let go of me.
“Hey bro!” BJ says, walking over to Tom and smacking him on the arse playfully. “That jacket! Looking spiff.”
Tom lets out a bewildered laugh. “You too, man.”
Then Beej gives him a look. “Sorry, but would you mind taking your hands off the girl of my dreams for a second?” Tom obliges him, steps away.
“Hello Parks.” BJ smiles at me, kissing me on the cheek like he owns the place.
“Hi,” I say shyly.
“You look like you’re crown princess of the candy canes.”
“Is that a compliment?” I frown.
“Course it is—you think I’m dumb enough to insult you while I’m trying to make you choose me?”
I consider this. “Yes.”
He flicks me a look.
Beej looks from me to Tom.
“So what’s the vibe here, guys? Are we both kissing you? Neither of us are kissing you?”
“I think you should kiss each other,” Bridget declares from the top of the stairs.
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” says BJ. He jovially skips towards Tom, who shoves him away with a chuckle.
Bridge is wearing the completely-to-die-for-gorgeous, pale, egg-shell blue, lemon-print sleeveless gown.
“Sorry,” I blink up at her. “Did you just casually have that Oscar de la Renta lying around?”
She glances down at herself and shrugs, all indifferent.
BJ looks back at Bridge. “Wait a minute, are you actually leaving the house to come to a society event?”
“Yes,” she says, nose in the air.
“Why?” BJ frowns. “Did you lose a bet?”
Bridge scowls at him.
“You look beautiful, Bridget,” Tom tells her.
Bridget smiles at him, genuine and pleased.
And then she says, “Not as beautiful as—”
And right on cue Bushka appears at the top of the stairs, thankfully not in my Herve Leger. “I come.”
“Shut up!” Beej looks from Buskha to me, eyes wide. He can’t believe it. Neither can I. I sigh. Beej squints at me. “Are you drunk?”
I give him a look. “I’m going to be.”
“You’re coming!” Beej yells jovially. He jogs up the stairs to help her down them. “My favourite of the Parks women!”
(“She’s actually not a Parks,” I growl under my breath. “But yeah, okay.”)
“You’re my favourite Parks woman,” Tom tells me.
“Well, that’s because you don’t know me very well,” my sister tells Tom as she links arms with him, leading him out the door.
Beej walks Bushka out and down the steps.
And I stand there watching my grandma with one of my boyfriends and my sister with the other.
I yell after them dimly, “I’ll just lock up then, shall I?”
