by Layla Hagen
I take one last look at Jess and smile before leaving the room.
I check my phone while drinking my third cup of coffee today, seated in my second favorite place in our apartment after my bed—the couch. One message from Mum: Dad and I are planting Langloisia today. Talk to you in the evening.
I can’t stop a chuckle. The idea of my parents gardening is something I still cannot get used to. Or rather, the idea of my dad gardening. Mum has always been in love with flowers. But she never had time for gardening, or anything else after her long hours at the design studio where she had worked as a seamstress ever since she graduated from high school.
My dad worked equally long hours on an assembly line. Three years ago he lost all ability to move his legs in a freak factory accident, and the firm offered him a nice settlement if he didn't take them to court. Mum decided to work from home on her own afterward so she could take care of him. Between her sewing and the settlement, they manage to scrape by. I plan to change that to a decent living as soon as I get a job. But the new arrangement has a positive side to it: they started having a lot of time to spend with each other. Somehow Mum convinced Dad they should dedicate most of that time to gardening.
Mum and Dad met in high school and started dating in their junior year. They married after graduation and have lived happily together ever since. Even during those horrible years with Kate, when life was hell for all four of us, their love never faltered.
Michael and I started dating in our junior year and I assumed happily ever after was a given for us. Guess not.
Somehow this thought doesn't seem as painful anymore.
I glance at the clock. Still half an hour left. I toy with the idea of sending a few more job applications before I leave—an endeavor that has taken up countless nights and weekends lately. I decide against it. This is not the time to sink into the usual negativity about my future that inevitably follows the emailing of every batch of applications.
At five to three I'm in the parking lot in front of our building, next to Jess's fourth-hand (though she claims it's second-hand) Prius, carrying a brown cotton blazer on my left arm and fiddling with the strap of my bag, trying to arrange it somehow so it won't cut into my shoulder anymore. There is no sign of anyone in the lot. As the minutes tick by, the irrational fear that last night was nothing but a wishful dream starts creeping back into my mind.
The fear dissipates at three o'clock sharp and nervous jitters replace it, as a white Range Rover makes its way through the lot, standing out in the sea of Priuses and Fords like a whale among baby dolphins.
It stops a few feet away from me.
A tall, slightly older man wearing a black suit steps out of the car. I'm surprised by the wave of disappointment that suddenly overwhelms me. Though James said he would send someone to pick me up, I realize that I still hoped he'd show up, wearing that conceited smile of his.
"Ms. McLewis?" the man asks in an official tone.
I take a step forward. "You can call me Serena."
For some reason I didn't expect James Cohen, the founder of several high-tech and Internet ventures, the epitome of all things modern, to be employing a driver. One that wears a uniform at that.
"Peter Sullivan, at your service. I was sent by Mr. Cohen to pick you up." He opens the back door and gestures to me to get inside.
I nod and hop inside the car.
When Peter takes his place in the driver's seat I ask as casually as possible, "How long will the trip take?"
He starts the engine and drives onto the main street, and though I can only see his eyes in the mirror when he answers, I'm pretty sure he's trying very hard to stifle a laugh. "I was instructed not to give you any information that might disclose our destination."
I lean back, recognizing defeat. What is James playing at? What difference does it make whether I find out now or in half an hour?
But I don't find out in half an hour. Or in one hour. Three hours pass before we finally get off the highway. By that time I’ve bitten all my nails, and the thought of calling the police to notify them of my own kidnapping has passed through my mind at least half a dozen times.
I relax a bit as we enter Nelson Bay a few minutes later. It doesn't take me long to realize this is the wealthiest neighborhood I've ever seen. To my left and right lie houses—palaces really, each more grandiose than the previous one.
But we don't stop in front of any of them. Peter drives by house after house, until the houses get farther apart, and finally fields replace them. It's a while before the first sign of civilization begins to appear: a row of black, spearheaded metal bars—a fence. Behind it lies a neat garden, adorned with so many roses that it looks more like a nursery. There is no house in sight.
The car comes to a halt in front of the huge double gates. I still see no house behind them. My stomach gives a slight jolt when the gates open and we drive inside.
"Wow," I exclaim when the house finally comes into view. "Wow," I repeat as I stumble out of the car.
This isn't a house. It's the ultra-modern, almost futuristic version of a palace. Except for the ground floor, it seems to be made entirely of glass, with the odd wooden wall here and there. Its owners must be fascinated by square forms, because the entire building is an amalgam of smaller and larger cubes, the part observable from here, at least. The place must be swarming with people, judging by the number of cars all around me.
"You are expected inside, Ms. McLewis," Peter says, obviously amused by my reaction.
"I am?" I ask in amazement and start walking with trembling steps toward the entrance.
I close my palm around the handle of the massive oak door and expect to have to put some energy into pushing it, but it opens effortlessly.
Of course it does.
The moment I step inside, the simplicity of my white dress slaps me in the face. There are no words to describe how many levels of underdressed I am compared to the sleek, shiny surfaces and exquisite paintings on the walls, each with a picture light above it.
And this is just a hallway.
"Name," a deep voice calls, startling me. I turn around and locate the source behind the door.
"Serena McLewis," I answer.
The man scans the long list he's holding, then continues to the next page. And the next page. I count four page turns. "You're not on the list."
Everything from his polished shoes to his perfectly knotted tie and his neatly gelled hair tells me he's not the type to let me in if I'm not on the list.
"James Cohen invited me."
He raises an eyebrow.
"You think I sneaked in?" I ask him incredulously.
His expression tells me that is exactly what he thinks. My casual, beach-appropriate dress isn't helping my case, either.
"Let her in, Loren," a young girl squeaks from the far end of the hallway, hurrying toward us. Loren instantly lowers the list and gestures me to proceed.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't have time to put you on the list," the girl says, looking genuinely distressed. As she comes closer, I realize she's not as young as I thought. Her round, dark eyes and the slight fullness of her face are misleading, but she must be at least seventeen. To my relief, she's wearing a robe. A beautiful one, made of silk, but a robe nonetheless.
"I'm Dani," she says.
She takes my hand before I get a chance to introduce myself and pulls me in the direction she came from. "We need to get you changed," she says. "You can't go to the party dressed like this."
I stare at her black, unnaturally perfect curls, biting my lip. I know my dress isn't much, but coming from someone dressed in a robe, the comment seems a little off.
"What party?"
“Ooh. You’re British.” Her eyes widen with delight. “My brother didn’t tell me that. And he clearly didn't tell you anything," she says, smirking and opens the door that marks the end of the hallway.
"James is your brother?" I ask blankly.
"I know, the similarities between us are asto
unding. I—"
The rest of her sentence gets lost in the sudden explosion of words and laughter filling the room in front of us. Two dozen women, most of them around my age, sit on a long row of chairs in front of a mirror that covers the entire wall. Behind each of them is a hairstylist, turning their hair into curls just as unnaturally perfect as Dani's. Three of the girls are fully dressed, and the mystery surrounding the party—or at least part of it—dissipates.
"It's a themed party," I say.
"Eighteenth century Venice." Dani winks. "My mother throws themed parties every year for charity. It's Venice this time. Let's get you a dress."
On the other side of the room are rows and rows of metal bars with clothes hangers holding long, festive chiffon and velvet dresses.
"I set some dresses aside for you," Dani calls over her shoulder as we make our way through the rows of dresses. "Let's look at those first, and if you don't like any you can look for something else. Unfortunately, there won't be time to have your hair done because my lovely brother sent Peter far too late to fetch you."
"No problem," I say, trying not to sound too relieved that I get to keep my hair as it is. "So, um… you live here with your parents?"
"Yep. James sometimes comes here on weekends. When he's not working," she says, rolling her eyes, clearly disapproving of her brother's workaholic tendencies. "But I actually prefer it if he doesn't come here. Gives me an excuse to go down in San Jose."
Of course, Silicon Valley's capital. Where else could he live? The back of the room is marked by yet another mirrored wall. Thankfully, there's no one in front of it. In the left corner is a small open wooden closet containing five dresses.
"Which one do you want to try on?" Dani claps her hands excitedly.
"The red one," I say without hesitation. In addition to being the prettiest dress I've ever seen, it's red. Red is my favorite color, but I don't wear it often. I don't know why, probably because I feel I attract too much attention whenever I wear it, something I'm not very comfortable with. But today—tonight, actually—is different. And wearing red seems like the right thing to do.
"It's perfect," I say when Dani holds the dress in front of her, faking a bow.
She giggles. "I'll help you with it, then you can help me with mine. I tried getting dressed on my own and nearly wanted to tear the damn thing apart."
To my confusion, Dani waits in front of me while I take my clothes off, completely unfazed by my discomfort. I discard my plain little white dress on the floor and pull the red one over my head as fast as possible—with Dani's help. She's right, doing it by myself would have been a nightmare. For all its beauty, it's so heavy I hope I won't have to do much more than sit at a table for the rest of the evening.
When we finally manage to get the red dress on, I face the mirror.
It looks even more beautiful than it did on the hanger. Even more perfect. The long, bouffant skirt reminds me of the drawings in the storybooks I used to devour when I was little.
"What's your story?" Dani asks. I can see her frown in the mirror, as she concentrates on the monstrous task of pulling the laces through the more than fifty eyelets of the bodice.
"What do you mean?"
"How long have you and James known each other?"
"Um…" I take a moment to consider my words. If I tell her I just met him last night, she'll think—rightly so—that I must be insane to show up here. Pretending to know him well will backfire faster than Jess's car on a particularly bad day.
I go for a neutral, "We met recently."
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and the thinnest rivulets of sweat ooze on my temples. What did he tell her about me? He must have told her something. But if he did, I need all the cunning in the world to find out what.
"So are you applying to Stanford?"
"God no. I've been admitted to Oxford," she says proudly, "to study English literature."
"Congrats," I say, slightly surprised. For some reason, I can't picture Dani, with her black hair and slightly tanned skin, in a place without sun. In a place as sad as England. But maybe England is just sad to me. "I'm a fan of English literature, too.”
For some reason, my comment brings a particularly bright smile on her face. "You're one of the very few people who didn't cringe and suggest I take up medicine or law."
"Well, I think everyone has the right to study what they want. Jess, my best friend, is studying history."
Her delicate hands have almost finished lacing up the bodice. "Not everyone can be business freaks like you and my brother," she winks.
Aha. What else did he tell her about me?
"He's quite smart, your brother."
And hot. The word forms in my mind by itself, and I'm glad Dani is so preoccupied with the eyelets. My cheeks turn almost as red as the dress.
"Please don't let him know you think that. Won't help that pigheadedness of his in the slightest."
I squelch the urge to laugh as best as I can, because she says this in such a solemn tone that I'm sure she'd be highly offended if I didn't take her seriously. There is a slightly awkward pause while she laces the very last eyelets, in which the only sound is a high-pitched laugh from one of the girls in front.
When she's done she takes a few steps back and looks at me approvingly. "You look beautiful."
"Your turn," I say. "Which dress is yours?"
She picks a white dress from the nearest metal bar and hands it to me. I make a point of keeping my eyes on the beautiful white chiffon while she discards her robe. After a few painful minutes, I actually manage to get her in her equally heavy dress without ruining her hair. She turns around and I start on the eyelets. I'm halfway through them when an eerie harp tune comes from Dani's robe. She completely ignores it.
"I think that's your cell," I say tentatively.
"I know. It's probably my boyfriend, trying to make up for completely bolting last night," she says through gritted teeth.
I proceed with the eyelets in silence.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" she blurts.
"Yes. I mean no," I say, taken aback by the sudden turn of the conversation. "We broke up a few weeks ago."
"Oh. I'm sorry. How long had you been together?"
"Six years." To my relief, the usual painful heartache that accompanies any thought of my failed relationship isn't happening. "You should really answer that. Or switch it off," I say, pretending not to notice her shocked glance in the mirror as the phone starts ringing yet again.
She bends and picks the phone from the pocket of her robe with a rather sour expression that turns to affectionate annoyance when she notices the name on the screen. It's not her boyfriend.
It's James.
She presses the phone to her ear. "Where's the fire?"
I don't hear anything more than a buzzing noise coming from her phone, but it's enough for my stomach to give a little jolt. I can't even fathom what it'll do when I actually see James.
"But I'm not ready," she protests when the buzzing noise stops.
I signal her in the mirror that I'm almost done.
"Okay, okay, I'll be there in a minute," she says, giving up and closing the phone.
"I need to go. Will you be okay on your own? Just stick to the girls, they know where the ballroom is. I'll find you there," she says and runs off. "Make sure to take a mask from the closet," she calls over her shoulder before disappearing altogether.
With nothing left to do, I pick up my white dress, bag, and her robe and put everything on a hanger, then walk to the closet and discover a set of black masks. I grab one and make my way to the front of the room, wondering if the laughter is becoming louder, or I'm just imagining it. One glance at the cup of champagne each girl is holding tells me I am not. There are only four girls left now, and they are all gathered in a circle.
"Someone get Dani's friend a cup," one of them says in a disturbingly high-pitched voice, forcibly reminding me of a lark.
"I'm fine," I say.
&n
bsp; "Oh, right, she's not allowed to drink," a redhead who looks vaguely familiar giggles. It takes me a moment to realize they think I'm the same age as Dani, a school colleague of hers. For some reason, I don't want to correct that impression. I have a hunch they are the last people who should know who really invited me here.
Their next words confirm this very thought.
"I bet Sophie'll get some tonight," the lark says, applying another layer of red lipstick on her full lips.
"Why me?" Sophie, the one who cemented my underage status, says with fake indignation.
"Because you're the only one among us who hasn't," the girl next to her chortles. She'd give any swimsuit model a run for her money. "And James's had an eye on you for some time."
"He had his chance last night and nothing happened," Sophie exclaims, as if she couldn't imagine anything more offensive. With a flash, I realize why she looks familiar. She was the redhead standing next to James last night. I withhold a smile as an unnatural sense of triumph fills me at Sophie's indignation.
"Maybe it's your turn again," Sophie continues, eying the lark. "You did hook up with him last week."
I guess Jess's womanizer comment deserved more credit than I gave it. I take a quick look at every girl. Whether redhead or blonde, full-lipped or not, their one common denominator seems to be that they're all drop-dead gorgeous.
The lark leans back in her chair, twirling one dark brown lock around her fingers. "That was just for old times’ sake," she replies, grinning with satisfaction. "Though I must say I found him much sexier in his rebel days."
And though I'm dying to know more details about those rebel days, the lark is the last person I'd ask.
