“What’d you do last night?” my sister asked as she perused the menu of Belvedere. It’s not my favourite, but it’s just across the road from our house.
“Me and the P’s had some drinks. Privee. 109. Callooh Callay—” I swat my hands. She knows what I mean.
“Did you just have an aneurysm?” she asks, deadpan and I roll my eyes.
We’re quite different, Bridget and I. There were two ways you could go really, having parents like ours. I went one way; she went the other. I am very much so in an obvious way the daughter of a wildly successful music producer and an ex-supermodel turned high-end accessories designer.
Bridget is, in a very obvious way… weird.
Like now for instance, she tried to leave the house in just a pair of vintage 501s and a plain white brandless T-shirt. I practically had to tackle her into wearing my red, black & white jacquard wool cardigan from Gucci, and stuff her unpedicured little feet into the fringe-studded sandals I bought her from Marni last week because they look like something someone who drinks almond milk and eats a lot of buckwheat would wear. She doesn’t like things, she doesn’t care about people’s opinions of her, she doesn’t care about boys. I know she’s not a lesbian because I ask her every few days in case she is, I want her to feel like she can come out to me—she doesn’t like parties, she doesn’t care about the society pages, she doesn’t care that she’s never mentioned in the Social Set. She’s just weird. She’s very smart though. And a good listener. She’s aggressively observant, lacks a good bedside manner and oftentimes is annoying as shit. But then somehow she’s lovely and safe, and seems older than me. Even though she’s younger than me.
“So just you and the P’s, then?” she follows up. “No Beej?”
I shake my head. “They had a party.”
Her face falters. “And you weren’t invited?” I shake my head again, nose in the air. “And you’re okay with that?”
“Mm hm.” I fold my hands neatly on top of my menu, nose extra in the air now.
My sister leans in, curious. “Did he invite you and you didn’t go or he didn’t invite you?”
I fiddle mindlessly with the Mini Flower By The Yard bracelet from Alison Lou that Beej got me last week. “The last one.”
Bridget is horrified. “Why wouldn’t he invite you?” I give her a look. We both know why.
“Girls don’t touch him when I’m in the room.” I shrug to suppress an involuntary shudder.
“Because you’re touching him?”
I give her a different kind of look. “Bridget.”
“You two,” she groans. “You’ll be the death of me, one day.”
“Here’s hoping!” I sing.
Those Park Lane parties—I don’t know. I’m always scared about what happens at them when I’m not there. When I’m there, BJ and I last a solid thirty minutes with the crowd before retreating to his room to watch a Nat Geo documentary. When I’m not there, I don’t know who he’s retreating with. And I have a sinking suspicion that what happened with Taura Sax that fateful night, happened at a party like the ones they throw there.
“Hey, isn’t that Daisy Haites—” Bridge nods her chin towards the door.
Daisy Haites. Haites, as in, Julian. Yes, that Julian. The gang lord who somehow still manages to appear in GQ and gets write-ups in VICE. Jonah’s other closest friend, I’d say. Daisy’s his sister. She’s a few years younger than me, completely beautiful, sort of terrifying: dark brown hair, bright hazel eyes and skin a little more tan than your standard issue white girl.
She’s sharp and fast and could be carrying a gun, so I’m always very friendly.
“Yeah.” I watch her and then who should walk in behind her but Christian Hemmes. “Oh my god”—I smack Bridget in the arm with excitement. “Are they together? They look together. He told me they weren’t.”
Autumn colours and black floral-print dress from Saint Laurent over the top of the embroidered logo, cotton tee from Fendi with the pocket-detail combat boots from Prada that I’m dying over but aesthetically is a bit of a hard swerve for me.
Daisy didn’t go to our school—she went Elizabeth-Day Morrow, I think? A day school here in London. She’s a bit younger than us, but there’s always been a bit of an overlap. Same house parties, same clubs, same boys—apparently?
If this is actually a thing—Christian hasn’t told me yet.
“Christian!” I yell, waving them over. He looks up—he’s happy to see me, and I wonder for a second whether he came here for that reason? But surely not. He gives me a cool guy chin nod and they walk over. Daisy Haites doesn’t look too excited to see me and if I didn’t know better, I’d think she whispered something smarmy to him on the way over.
“Parks.” He leans down and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Bridge.” He ruffles her hair. Bridget knew about Christian and me when there was a Christian and I. She, Henry and Paili, they were the only ones and even still it was enough for all hell to break loose.
“Daisy—” I stand up and give her a hug and she doesn’t hug me back, she sort of just stands there, stiff like a board.
“Hi.” She gives me a tight smile. That’s all. Just hi.
“Sit, sit,” I tell them both, gesturing to the two spare seats.
She looks from me to Bridget. “Oh, we don’t want to intrude.”
“Oh, no, not at all.” I swat my hand. “Bridget’s a terrible conversationalist. Please—I beg of you.”
Bridget rolls her eyes and Christian sniffs a laugh, sitting down.
Daisy reluctantly follows suit.
“Do you know my sister?” I gesture to her.
“We’ve met a few times—” Daisy nods. “Hey.”
Bridget says hey back and then it’s this terrible, clunky silence and Christian and I stare at each other from across the table, and it feels loaded. Why does it feel loaded?
“How’s school?” I ask her warmly.
Daisy Haites shrugs. “Fine.”
I persevere. “Are you enjoying it?”
She shrugs again, mostly with her mouth this time. “Sure.”
I’ll win her over yet. “What’s your favourite class?”
“Mortuary procedures.”
I swallow. “Cool.”
I try to smile. Christian looks amused. Bridget is fascinated. “Is that… what… you want to do?” I ask, cautiously.
She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “No.”
“How’s your brother?” I ask.
She gives me a dirty look. “Fine.”
“And your parents?” I ask mindlessly.
“Dead.”
…As I imagine I too will be after this conversation. I’m sweating. I’m literally sweating. I press my mouth together. “Cool,” I say and nod, nervously.
Bridget makes a weird peep. Christian’s eyes go wide with delight. I’m flailing. “Okay, okay,” I raise a hand in mock protest. “Slow down. No need to waterboard us with information.”
Christian chuckles but Daisy is stone cold. Bridget’s mouth rounds out into an O. She absolutely cannot believe her eyes. Frankly, neither can I. I’m a sheer wonder and an utter delight wrapped in Gucci and sprinkled with cheer and goodwill, and I’m being motherfucking stonewalled.
I let out a small laugh. “So glad you guys sat down,”
“I didn’t want to—” she starts, jumping up. “He made us.”
I look at Christian. “Made you?”
“Bye,” Daisy says, walking away.
I frown after her and look up at Christian. “What’s her problem?”
He shrugs. “No idea.” Then jogs after her.
Bridget looks over at me. “She knows about you.”
15:17
Christian H
That was weird…
Was it?
Seriously??
She’s just not that friendly.
There are prison guards in Guantanamo Bay more personable than her.
Hah
Are you actually dating?
Nah
But do you like her?
Not like that.
I’m glad.
She’s kind of mean…
❤️
