by Roxie Noir
“Liam, this is my brother Alistair and his fiancée Françoise. They’ll be running point for me on audio tonight,” she says.
You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, I think.
My heart jumps to my throat. I think it’s trying to strangle me, because at least if I make a scene and faint, I won’t have to deal with whatever Elizabeth is trying to do.
I wish I’d never lied to her. I wish I’d actually gone to the bathroom instead of getting a drink. I wish I’d gotten a single shot instead of a double, I wish I’d just come clean with her about going to the pub sometimes.
“Pleasure,” Alistair says, sticking his hand out and nodding. Liam shakes it, nodding back.
Say something that isn’t dumb, I think. Elizabeth’s eyes are on me, ugly ice chips in her pinched face, and before I even open my mouth I know that whatever I say is going to be the wrong thing.
“Hi again,” I say, holding out my hand to Liam. “We keep running into each other, huh?”
“Funny,” he says.
Elizabeth laughs and puts one hand on my shoulder.
“You’re absolutely right! You know, I thought he looked familiar but you’re the man she was chatting up at the bar earlier this week, aren’t you?”
She’s smiling again, always fucking smiling, but it’s savage.
Alistair looks over at me, eyebrows raised, and Liam’s gaze flicks from Elizabeth to me. I laugh right back at her.
“I did recognize him and say hello,” I say to Elizabeth, raising one eyebrow. “If that’s what you mean?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, one hand on her chest. “You two did look rather chummier than that, but what do I know?”
I shrug. I try to make it look lighthearted, but my blood’s boiling. Half at Elizabeth for being Queen Bitch of Women-Who-Suck-Land, half at myself for being an idiot sometimes.
“Though you know, Liam, I could have sworn you said that you knew Françoise here from the flower shop but then the woman who owns the Hound’s Ears said she was your boss when I was trying to find someone to do A/V for tonight! I must just be confused.”
She bats her eyes. I start wishing for a fissure to open in the ground and swallow me whole.
But Liam just shrugs.
“Two jobs,” he says. “Hard times, got to make ends meet, you know?”
“I’m sure,” Elizabeth says. I wonder if she’s ever had a job. I think the answer is no. “Well, anyway, glad I could re-acquaint you! Liam, if you’re needing anything, talk to Alistair and Françoise.”
“Will do,” he nods.
“All right,” Elizabeth says, turning back to us and walking out of the A/V closet. “Enough of that, I’ve also table setting cards that need to be numbered, and I can’t find anyone else to do it right now...”
I swear there’s an evil glint in her eye.
I put the final number on a seating card, then toss the calligraphy pen onto the table, lean back in the chair, and rub my eyes. Then I remember that I’m wearing ten layers of mascara, and I freeze.
You’d think that for someone visually and artistically inclined, I’d be better at calligraphy. I’m shit at it. My handwriting is terrible anyway, and trying to make it fancy with a weirdly shaped pen?
These could look a lot better. Elizabeth’s going to be pissed, but there’s no way she expected better of me, right?
This is what she gets for practically telling Alistair that she thinks Liam and I are fucking, I think to myself, looking at my shoddy work.
The thought makes my face warm. We’re not, obviously. I haven’t even thought about it.
I’ve been very carefully not thinking about it, as a matter of fact. Even though I’m certain that every single married person on planet earth has, at some point, visualized someone besides their spouse in the nude and it doesn’t mean a single thing, I haven’t thought about Liam that way.
Because it could be dangerous. Because I find myself drawn to Liam in a way I’m almost never drawn to people, despite myself, and I’m a grown woman who’s chosen her choices and I didn’t choose Liam. Everyone gets tempted sometimes. We’re human.
It’s what you do about temptation that counts.
I forget about my mascara and rub my eyes again, because I can’t believe that this gala hasn’t even started yet and I already feel like I’ve fucked up massively. I know I should just come clean to Alistair, tell him that sometimes I go to the Hound’s Ears for an escape from his family, but I should have told him that a week ago.
Telling him now looks like damage control, like an excuse, probably because that’s what it is.
I exhale, stand, leave the tiny side room where I’ve been numbering cards and head back toward the ballroom, peeking through a door. Elizabeth’s inside, bossing around two men wearing chef’s hats, her back to me.
The bar’s between us. It looks like it’s set up already, so I bite my lip, open the door the rest of the way as carefully as I can, and slip through.
“Is it too early to get a drink?” I ask.
“Not at all,” the bartender, a young woman with a low ponytail, says. “What’ll it be?”
“Two double scotches on the rocks,” says Alistair’s voice behind me.
Something grips my stomach, but I force myself to turn around, smiling at him. I was just going to get a glass of wine, but scotch will also do nicely.
“God, I need a drink,” he says. “I do love Lizzie, but it’s not as if she’s got anything important to do with her life. This way she gets to boss people around, have a dress up, feel like she’s the king of something before she gets back to the grind of looking for a proper society husband.”
The bartender sets two glasses on the bar, pours scotch into them.
Just tell him you’ve been going to the pub sometimes, it’s not a big deal.
“What’s she been having you do?”
“What’s she not been having me do?” he scoffs. “I spent half an hour holding a garland up against the wall while she decided whether she liked it there or not. She didn’t, by the way, and my arms are about ready to fall off for naught.”
The bartender slides the glasses across, and Alistair hands one to me, holds his in the air.
“To my dear, monstrous sister,” he says merrily. “May this night soon be over.”
We drink. I down at least half my fancy, expensive scotch in one go. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and instantly, I can feel it warming my stomach, fuzzing out into my veins, and I feel better.
Now. Tell him now.
“Has the bloke from the flower shop been bothering you?” Alistair asks suddenly.
I stare at him. Blink. I can’t fucking think of the right answer, the alcohol in my system instantly making me an even worse liar than I already am.
“Bloke from the flower shop?”
“The one with the mass of cables in the back.”
I tilt my head, putting on a show of trying very hard to remember what he’s talking about.
“She said something about seeing you two talking at a pub?”
My heart kicks at my ribcage, chest constricting, and I let out a mechanical, fake laugh.
Tell him. TELL HIM.
“Oh, the other morning when I couldn’t sleep I went out to get flowers for your mother for being so lovely and letting me stay with you for two whole weeks and he was the one working the counter and we chatted a bit,” I say. “And then when I saw him in Brougham during our girls’ day out it only seemed polite to say hi again, you know?”
I lied again. Shit.
Alistair frowns.
“Isn’t he a bit tattooed to work at a flower shop?” he asks.
I take another swig of the scotch, like maybe this time it’ll make me a better liar.
“Do flower shops have tattoo requirements?”
“Not that I’m aware. Just seems strange is all.”
Alistair looks at me. I look back at him, and I take another long drink from my scotch to cover the fact that no
w I’ve lied about Liam twice. I’ve failed completely to come clean to Alistair or his sister about who Liam is or how I know him, only digging this stupid hole deeper every time I open my mouth.
But I still don’t say anything. With every second that passes I screw myself over a little more, probably, but I can’t force myself to do the right thing and just tell Alistair.
“Allie!” comes Elizabeth’s voice from across the ballroom, and Alistair rolls his eyes.
“Yes, Lizzie?” he calls.
“Can you come over here? It’s about to start and I’ve still not decided on the tree topper...”
He drains his scotch, sets it on the bar. I do likewise.
“Have fun,” I say.
“Right,” he mutters, and heads away.
“Refill?” asks the bartender, and I touch the bar with one hand, rocking back slightly on my heels. The rest of the scotch has dulled the regret I feel over still not telling Alistair the truth, made me less panicked about him finding out.
“Could I just get a glass of merlot?” I ask.
I know it’s not a good idea to drink too much before the gala even starts. I haven’t had more than one drink a night since Elizabeth caught me drinking midday, because I know you shouldn’t use alcohol to deal with your problems.
But God, it feels like the best way sometimes. It feels wonderful right now to not care that I’ve just lied to my fiancé about another man, and besides, I’m not using it as a permanent fix to this.
Just for now. Just for tonight. Obviously this ship has sailed, the gala’s starting soon, and I can’t start a fight with Alistair moments beforehand, right?
The bartender slides the glass over the bar, and I take it, thanking her. Half of it’s gone before I even realize it, everything gone even fuzzier.
Lady Catherine, Alistair’s mother, walks by. She looks at me with that bitchy face of hers, and I smile back, a big hey-how-ya-doin’ smile, just to annoy her. She nods and looks away, back to her posh friend who probably couldn’t make herself a grilled cheese sandwich if her life depended on it.
Yeah, this gala is gonna be great.
Chapter Eight
Liam
I don’t know who the fuck they’ve been hiring to maintain their sound equipment here, but it appears to have been a grammar school child on a heavy dose of acid, because it’s all a mess. In the corner of what they’d like to pass off as a sound booth — really, it’s a closet with an ancient mixer in it, along with some old speakers and a blown out amp that’s been used for God knows what — is a massive tangle of cords.
Some of them have got connectors I’ve never seen before, and I’ve certainly played in clubs where the sound equipment was twenty years old. This shit must be from the sixties, earlier even, maybe. It’s a wonder I found the right cables at all, and I half expected to find a rat’s nest or some sort of vermin skeleton as I excavated the mess.
Not that I’m perfect or anything. Not that I’ve ever been a stickler for keeping all my equipment perfect and pristine, but all the way up until I had to sell the last of it I was at least aware of how I made a living.
More than once, at the very last second, blitzed to hell and back, Gavin had to spin me around so I’d vomit on something less important, like the furniture, or a groupie. I did the same for him.
God, I do miss that bastard sometimes.
The gala’s going nicely, though. As much as this room looks like the scene in the snake pit from the first Indiana Jones movie, it was relatively simple to set up what Elizabeth wanted: a microphone for her and speakers that could pipe in music when the string quartet is on break. I’ve not set up sound equipment in ages, but that was easy enough.
Otherwise, I’m smart enough to know that my job is stay out of the way, because I’m obviously the help and therefore quite unfit to mingle with the guests, which I can’t help but find entertaining.
I don’t think Elizabeth’s got a clue who I am, or who I used to be, at least. I don’t think anyone here does.
I’m sitting on the blown-out amplifier, working on untangling these cords as I’ve got nothing better to do, when there’s a soft knock on the door of the so-called sound booth.
“Yeah?” I call out, then remember my manners for once. “Come in. Please.”
The string quartet is still playing, and according to the very detailed schedule that Elizabeth gave me, they’re having a cocktail hour for another forty-five minutes, so I don’t think I’m supposed to be doing anything.
Nothing happens. The door doesn’t open.
“You can come in!” I call, probably too loudly.
The soft knock again, and I roll my eyes, standing from the amplifier. Probably some drunk bird who thinks this is the ladies’.
“This is the sound booth,” I say, making the two steps for the door. “It’s open, you can just—”
The door swings in, nearly hitting me in the face, and Frankie’s on the other side.
Alone. Just standing there, wild hair pulled back as neatly as it’ll go, face slightly flushed. She’s got a drink in each hand, and she smiles, holding one out to me.
I take it. Who am I not to?
“You know I’m at work, don’t you?”
“I promise not to tell on you.”
“What is it?” I ask as I take a sip.
“Pimm’s Cup. I asked her to make the most British thing she knew how, and this is what I got.”
Thankfully, it’s not that strong.
“You asked for the most British thing she could make and she didn’t give you a pint of warm, flat beer?”
“I get all of that I need from you,” she says. “Are you gonna let me in or do I have to stand in your doorway like a street beggar?”
“Don’t you have some important gala task to be undertaking?”
Frankie sips her drink, leans against the door frame, both of us still standing in the doorway of the so-called sound booth.
She’s got this dress on, one-shouldered and green and floor-length, made partly of something that shines dimly in the low light, partly of something gauzy and ethereal.
Whatever it is, right now she’s pretty like a painting, one of those turn-of-the-century ones that you see on posters of a pretty girl looking over her shoulder or something, with come-hither eyes and her dress falling off just slightly.
Only I’ve never wanted to fuck a painting. I shouldn’t want to fuck her, either, but she showed up at my door drunk, pretty, and smiling, and I don’t know what else I’m supposed to think about. From the way her dress hugs her curves, shows off one pale, freckled shoulder, the mottled porcelain of her neck, I don’t know what else I can think about.
“Probably,” she says, her eyes lighting up mischievously. “But I think if I have to hear Elizabeth’s shrieky laugh one more time or smile while Alistair calls me Françoise, I might start tossing drinks in people’s faces, so I figured I’d come talk to you for a minute.”
I should tell her that I’m at work and besides, I oughtn’t be in a small enclosed room with someone else’s fiancée, but instead I take another sip of this drink and step back. If I were any good at doing what I ought I wouldn’t be here in the first place, would I?
“Thanks,” she says, easing the door closed behind her. “I know I should be more grateful to be wearing a jillion-dollar dress and drinking free drinks at the event of the season, but I just need to get away for a minute sometimes.”
She sits, carefully, on an old speaker, and I sit on my amp again. It’s a very small room — a closet, really, I wasn’t kidding — so our knees are nearly touching, and she leans back against the wall, looks at me through her lashes.
I consider asking her if Alistair knows that she’s alone in a closet with an alleged part-time-florist, part-time-bartender, but I’m not her babysitter. What she tells him isn’t any of my business, is it?
“Were you really in a band?” she asks, swirling ice cubes in her glass.
“I really was,” I sa
y, mimicking her intonation.
“Don’t make fun me of me.”
“I wasn’t making fun of anyone,” I say, grinning, leaning back against the side of the sound board.
“I brought you a drink.”
“That you did. And I really was in a real band. I managed to set all this up, didn’t I?”
“Rhinoceros, you said.”
“So you’ve memorized my life story.”
Now Frankie’s grinning too.
“I remembered one thing you told me,” she says. “That’s just polite. I bet you remember something about me, too.”
“I remember that I sold you a very lovely bouquet of lilies that you presented to your future mother-in-law early one morning when you had jet lag,” I tease. “It was lilies, wasn’t it?”
She shuts her eyes, blowing air from one side of her mouth.
“Liam, I don’t even remember,” she confesses. “I know that early one morning the driver was out and I struck up conversation and he ended up giving me a lovely little sunrise tour of Shelton and I brought back flowers from a flower shop. I don’t know, I they were like... pointy at the ends.”
“You’re sure they weren’t daisies?”
She opens her eyes, cocks one eyebrow.
“You think I’d bring Lady Catherine daisies? I’m American, not stupid.”
“It’s not as if I know anything about flowers either, what else is pointy at the ends?”
“I guess they all kind of are?” she says, reflectively. “Well, not roses, they’re sort of rounded and in the middle they’re all deep and—”
She stops suddenly, flushing brighter, and I know exactly what she’s thinking.
“Deep and what?” I ask, all cheeky innocence.
Frankie clears her throat.
“That’s all.”
“I’m fairly certain you were about to describe all lovely, feminine folds and intricacies of flowers,” I say. “There’s a word for that, isn’t there?”
She clears her throat again.
“Flowery?”
“That’s not what you were thinking, was it?”
“Sure it was. You can’t read my mind.”
