by Gemma Weir
“Are my parents home?” I ask.
“Yes, Miss, they’re in the living room,” she replies, closing the door behind us and then pausing in the foyer.
“I’ll come help you pick out an outfit for tonight, then I’ll go and speak to your family,” Arlo says, pulling me toward the stairs.
“You can’t go in my room,” I hiss at him.
He laughs. “Of course I can, we’re engaged.”
“We’re not engaged,” I say, pulling at his hand, but he doesn’t release me as he climbs the stairs, hauling me along behind him until we’re both stood on the landing.
“Which one is your room?”
“You’re not going in my room,” I say, finally managing to pull my hand free from his grasp and crossing my arms across my chest.
He shrugs. “Fine, if you won’t tell me I’ll just go room to room until I guess which one is yours.”
Striding forward, he opens the first door onto a guest bedroom, then immediately closes it again. “Not that one.”
I watch as he moves from door to door, opening it and peering inside before he closes it again. When he reaches for my sister’s door, I tense, but he opens it and closes it immediately. “Definitely not yours.”
“How do you know?” I ask, curious how he immediately knew that wasn’t my bedroom.
“It was pink,” he says with a shudder.
“So,” I reply, giggling a little.
“You’re not a pink bedroom kind of a girl. Plus, it stinks like your sister’s dreadful perfume.”
He moves to open the next door, but I stop him. Sighing, I point at the last room at the far end. “That one’s my room.”
His stormy dark eyes twinkle for a moment and I wish I knew him well enough to interpret what it meant, but instead I just let him take my hand again and pull me along the hallway and into my bedroom.
The familiarity of the space settles something inside of me and when he loosens his hold on me, I pull my hand free from his and move past him and further into my bedroom. Kicking my shoes off, I unbutton my blazer and hang it over the back of my desk chair.
Lowering myself onto the edge of my bed, I watch him as he takes in my space. From the shabby decorating to the shelves full of music and books, this room says so much more about me than anything else he’s seen so far and I find myself holding my breath and waiting for his reaction.
It shouldn’t matter what he thinks of my space, but for some reason it does.
His sigh is audible and when he looks at me, he smiles, a genuine smile that has me smiling back. “I like your room.”
“Thank you, me too,” I say a little breathily.
“It’s nothing like Carrigan’s room and it’s all the way down the hall. I guess I figured identical twins would either share space, or at least want to be close to each other,” Arlo muses, as he moves to look at the piles of cd’s and vinyl.
“Our relationship isn’t like that,” I say quietly. With that confession I wish he’d leave; his presence is too much and I need him out of my space so I can breathe again. “You should probably go and explain things to my parents.”
“I’ll help you pick an outfit first,” he says, crossing the room to my closet.
“You don’t need to do that. I’m sure once you explain things, I won’t need to attend this dinner, so I won’t need an outfit,” I say, standing up from the bed and moving toward the door.
“Why wouldn’t you attend?” He asks gruffly, pulling open my closet and taking a step inside.
“Why would I?” I counter, crossing the room to stand in the closet doorway.
He ignores me as he sorts through my clothes, pushing hangers to the side quickly, moving along the rail. “Where are the rest of your clothes?” he asks.
“There,” I say motioning to the rail full of clothes next to him.
“No, where are your dresses, your formalwear?”
“I don’t have any.”
Closing the distance between us, he looks down at me, a quizzical expression on his face. “Tally, you’re from one of the richest families in the country, your parents are socialites, you go to one of the country’s most prestigious high schools, of course you have formalwear.”
Unable to meet his eyes, I look past him and into the full closet. “I don’t attend formal occasions,” I admit.
“You really are a ghost aren’t you,” he whispers. “So that dress you wore on Friday?”
“One of Carrigan’s, or something my mom bought for Carrigan,” I shrug.
“Okay, come on,” Arlo says, with an angry snarl, grabbing me again and rushing me from my room and down the stairs so quickly it takes all of my coordination not to fall.
“Where are we going?” I cry. “Arlo stop, I’m not wearing any shoes.”
Spinning around, he lifts me into the air, carrying me bridal style across the foyer, pausing to open the door before he whisks me down the steps and back into the front seat of his car.
“What are you doing?” I cry, when he climbs into the car and presses the button a second before we’re driving away. “Arlo,” I hiss.
“We’re getting you a dress, a closet full of dresses,” he snaps, accelerating quickly down the road.
“I don’t need a dress.”
“As beautiful as you looked the other day in ripped jeans and a t-shirt, tonight you need something a little more engagement appropriate and I refuse to let you wear anything that belongs to your sister,” he snarls, zooming along the downtown streets until we slow to a stop outside a nondescript looking building.
I wait as he climbs out, then circles the car and opens my door. He leans over me, his crisp woody aftershave teasing me, as he unbuckles my seatbelt and lifts me into his arms as though I weigh nothing, walking us both toward a plain black door.
He presses the intercom buzzer and waits until a voice answers.
“Yes?”
“Hey, it’s Arlo Lexington, is Fitzy in?”
No one replies but the door lock clicks. Arlo pushes it open, walking into a bright white lobby. The room is completely empty except for a set of double doors at the other end that swing open dramatically as a man emerges, smiling brightly. “Arlo, dear, what are you doing here?” the man announces, his lips spreading even wider when he sees me in Arlo’s arms.
“Hey, Fitzy,” he replies. “This is Tallulah and we need a favor.”
“Well put the poor girl down,” Fitzy says, and Arlo does as he says, lowering me to my feet but entwining his fingers with mine again.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tallulah. My name is Fitzwilliam Van De Burg, but you may call me Fitzy. What’s the occasion?” Fitzy asks.
“Formal family dinner,” Arlo answers, ignoring the annoyed glares I’m throwing at him.
“Ahhh yes,” Fitzy cries. “Come, come with me,” he says, spinning around and heading back toward the double doors.
I glance over my shoulder at Arlo, but he just smiles and nods his head, indicating I should follow. “I don’t need a dress,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
He doesn’t reply, just tips his chin in the direction Fitzy went in. Sighing, I cautiously follow Fitzy through the doors and into what I can now see is a huge changing area. He motions for me to go into the changing room and then pulls a curtain around me, blocking me from both his and Arlo’s view.
For a moment, I stand staring at my own reflection in the wall full of mirrors in front of me, but then a garment bag is shoved through the curtain and I instinctively reach out and take it.
“Try that on. I’m confident it will be perfect, but I have something else if you don’t like it.”
Hanging the bag on a hook, I carefully unzip it and reveal a deep gray chiffon dress. Immediately the color calls to me and the folds of opaque chiffon beg me to touch them. A white box and a pair of shoes are pushed beneath the curtain next and I open the box to reveal a beautiful silver-gray underwear set and Prada pumps that match the color of the dress perfectly.
It’s nothing like the dress I wore on Friday when I was pretending to be Carrigan, and despite how stunning this dress is, I know it’s not something my sister would ever wear.
“I love it,” I say, gasping at the sight of myself, as I slide my feet into the pumps and turn from side to side looking at my reflection.
“May I come in?” Fitzy asks.
“Yes,” I reply, unable to tear my eyes away from the mirror. This isn’t the first beautiful dress I’ve worn, but it’s been years and I find myself having to blink back tears.
“Oh yes,” Fitzy coos, as he smooths his hands along my waist and over my hips.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper reverently.
“On you, yes. In the bag it’s nothing more than rags,” he replies easily.
He leaves a moment later and I undress, carefully sliding the dress back into the bag, and placing the underwear into the box, before I pull my uniform back on. I emerge from the changing room and smile widely at Fitzy, pulling my credit card from the pocket of my skirt.
“This outfit is a gift. The other things I’ve picked for you I’ll bill you for and have them delivered in a few days’ time,” he announces, handing me a booklet for me to write my details on as he collects the shoes and underwear and slides them into a bag before handing them back to me.
“Other things?” I ask, writing down my details.
“Yes, I have a gift for clothes and now I’ve seen you, there are some things that you simply must own,” he says with a dismissive wave.
“I agree, you do have a gift,” I say, looking down at the bag in my hands. “But I’m afraid to admit that I rarely wear dresses.”
He shrugs. “You’ll wear what I send you.”
I laugh. “Okay then.”
“Let me take that,” Arlo says, sliding the bags from my grip.
Handing back the booklet with all my details on to Fitzy, I easily accept the hug he gives me, then step aside so he can hug Arlo next. “Make sure you wear the gray suit I sent you last week,” he tells Arlo, who just nods, draping his arm across my shoulders, before he leads me back out of the building.
I’m back in the car and we’re driving toward my house before I even process what just happened. “How do you know Fitzy?” I ask, feeling a little dazed.
“He’s my godfather,” Arlo says with a grin. “He and my mom went to school together.”
I nod. “So, did he make my dress?”
“No, he’s a stylist. He dresses my mom and a few others. He’ll send you clothes every couple of weeks from now on, then he’ll probably randomly turn up at your house at the start of each season,” he laughs.
“At my house?” I cry, shocked.
“Yep, you’re one of his clients now. You should be flattered. The last new client he took on was a princess.”
I stare at the side of his head, unsure if he’s being serious or not, but before I have a chance to ask we’re pulling up outside my house and that sinking sensation fills me again. “The dress is beautiful, and thank you for introducing me to Fitzy, but once you talk to my parents I don’t think it’s really necessary for me to come tonight.”
Arlo’s lips press together into a hard line. “You’re coming to this dinner, Tally.”
“Why?” I say on a gasp, shocked by the intensity that’s flickering in his stormy eyes.
“Why? Not just because I’m asking you to, but because I want you to come.”
I can feel myself soften at his words, but it still doesn’t make sense. “We’re not friends, Arlo, why is this important?”
“We should be. We should be friends, Tally. We should have known each other for years. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I don’t really understand it myself, but I don’t want you to be that ghost that no one remembers. So fuck it. Come to dinner, laugh, spend one night with me, Olly, Watson, and Carson, that’s all I ask.”
My heart starts to pound in my chest as I listen to him speak. He doesn’t want me to be a ghost anymore. That resonates with me so much more than I was expecting. Am I a ghost? Is that what I am, living this strange half-life without my own identity? I always just considered myself pretending, biding my time until my obligation to my family was done. But have I actually given my life up completely? Am I now a ghost, invisible, an incorporeal being that no one sees or believes in?
Cool fingertips touch my cheek, startling me out of my inner musings.
“Hey, it’s only dinner,” Arlo says playfully.
I nod, but I must not look particularly convincing because he runs his fingers over my cheek again before he climbs out of the car and circles around to open my door. He grabs the garment bag and the bag containing my shoes and underwear, then lifts me from the car again.
“I could have just put the shoes on,” I say, laughing as I hold on tight to his neck as he walks us up the front steps to the waiting door and an amused looking Mrs. Humphries.
“But where’s the fun in that?” He says, stepping through the door and lowering me to the floor with a flourish.
“Tallulah.”
The moment I hear my mom’s voice, the playful mood evaporates, and I take a step back from Arlo, curling my stockinged toes and hoping she doesn’t notice my lack of footwear.
“Where the hell?” Mom stops speaking the moment she sees Arlo and a brittle smile replaces her angry expression. “Arlo,” she coos, gliding over to us and leaning in to peck a kiss on his cheek. “You have some explaining to do, young man,” she says, patting his cheek affectionately.
Arlo smiles sweetly at my mom, then turns to me. “How long will it take you to get ready?”
I glance between him and my mom. “An hour.”
He nods, then looks back to Mom. “What time did Dad arrange dinner for?”
“Seven thirty, but really, Arlo,” she starts.
He glances down at his watch, then back to me. “It’s four thirty now, so go grab what you need and we can both get ready at mine. Your mom can keep me entertained while you grab your stuff.”
I stare at him slack jawed. “I can get ready here,” I say, reaching for the bags he’s still holding onto.
“Yes of course, but it’ll be easier if you get ready at my house, plus then your dress will be a surprise for your family when they get there,” he says conspiratorially, like I’m in on the joke.
I open my mouth to argue.
“Tally, get going. I need to go and pick a few things up on the way home,” he says, shooing me away, that annoying smile plastered across his perfect lips.
I should argue, insist that I stay put to listen while he explains away the clusterfuck that today has been, but honestly, the thought of him taking the brunt of my parents’ anger is too tempting to refuse. Sometimes I think my parents forget that I don’t want my sister’s life. I don’t want the money or the obligation or anything really that comes with the Archibald name and legacy. Maybe before the inheritance I did, but now even pretending to be my sister makes me sick.
So I walk away and let him deal with her. Today has shown me what an accomplished actor he is. I’m sure he’ll spin his antics into nothing more than teenage tomfoolery. Climbing the stairs, I can hear them chatting, but I don’t linger to hear what’s being said. I just head for my room.
“Tallulah,” my sister says as I reach the top of the stairs and find her waiting for me.
“Jesus, Carrigan, just stop. He’s downstairs explaining it all to Mom. I don’t know why he did it, I don’t know him, so if you want answers you need to talk to him,” I say wearily, ignoring her poisonous glares and brushing past her as I walk into my room, closing the door on her outr
aged face before she has a chance to say anything more.
I can practically feel her spluttering indignation through the wood of my door, but I ignore her, turning my lock as I step further into my room and start to collect my makeup and hair supplies. I’m not sure I actually agreed to get ready at his place, but right now I’ll do anything that gets me out of this house.
I have a suspicion that this dinner is his way of apologizing for all of the shit he’s pulled today and that’s why he’s gone to the effort to help get me a dress and why he’s dealing with my parents and sheltering me from any residual anger.
Tomorrow we’ll go back to being strangers and this weird alliance will be over. I’ll go back to being a ghost and he’ll be known as the prankster who proposed to one twin as a joke, just to piss off the other.
My thoughts go back to the way he behaved on Friday night when he believed I was my sister. That anger. His bitter hatred didn’t seem like an act and I believe now that he had no idea I wasn’t Carrigan. He really, truly hates her, and as much as my parents had aspirations of having him for a son-in-law, I think it’s obvious that isn’t going to be happening.
Pulling my overnight bag from a shelf in my closet, I start to stack all of the products that I wear everyday into the bag. I pause, staring at the makeup and then take it all back out again. All of this stuff is what Carrigan wears. It’s the makeup I wear to look like her and tonight I don’t have to do that.
Excitement rushes through me as I replace the makeup with the things I use when I want to look in the mirror and see me. For the first time in so long, I get to show the world who I am. Call this a dry run for my life after high school, or maybe just a ‘fuck you’ to sharing a face with her, but as I reach for my hair accessories I’m actually looking forward to this dinner.
It might only be one night, but even if it’s fleeting, tonight, I’m no one’s clone, no one’s useless spare. I’m Tallulah Marie Archibald and everyone will know it.
Sometimes in life you do things that you know are a stupid idea, that you know will end up blowing up in your face, but you do them anyway.
I think this is one of those moments.
