Page 33 of Play By The Rules
I make quick work of going through my shower routine, not bothering with anything fancy. The water stings at my aching cheek, burning the already sore skin. When I step out, wrapping a towel around myself, Betty is already picking through the dresses on the bed.
I’m glad to see my mother took my request seriously and got dresses in both our sizes, considering Betty would be buried in anything picked out for me. Sharing clothes isn’t much of an option for us with the size difference.
“I skipped past the fancy wine,” she tells me, stepping towards my dresser. She spins around shoving a bottle of Sambuca in my hand. “Figured we needed the hard stuff.”
“You know what, you are so right,” I reply, twisting the cap and swallowing a much larger amount than I probably should. Smiling, I lift my gaze to hers. “I’m glad you agreed to come.”
I stumble as my heel gets stuck in a crack in the pavement, nearly losing my heel in the process. When I get myself upright, I brush my hands over the satin skirt of my dress and pull the thigh slit together.
Most of the dresses my mother’s stylist picked out for this event were far from appropriate, with deep v cuts on the chest, or skirts that fell barely below my arse. The number I went with is the demurest of a bad bunch. With small spaghetti straps holding up the scooped neckline and a long A-line skirt that falls open on my left thigh due to the slit that goes just below my underwear.
I’ve never been invited to one of these events before, but I can’t imagine most of the upper-class women of London wearing dresses that leave all their bits hanging out; so, only God knows why my mother decided I should.
“Wow, swanky,” Betty says, staring up at the hotel where the gala is being held. Tilting my head, I follow her gaze, taking in the exterior. The luxury skyscraper stands taller than the other buildings surrounding it, with clear glass windows taking over every floor. “We totally don’t fit in here.”
“Too fucking right.”
Despite growing up with money, I’ve never cared for the lifestyle. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to never want for anything or never struggle financially, but the extras that come with it—the lavish parties and pompous pricks that come with it, aren’t my cup of tea.
I’d much rather sit around reading a book or watching the TV in my pyjamas, than come to events like this, in buildings like the one before us.
My mother steps out of the car, brushing past us in her long black evening gown. She looks beautiful with her brown hair curled over one shoulder and her Botox-injected face made up with fancy products. It’s a shame she’s such a venomous fucking snake.
“Let’s go, children.”
Betty rolls her eyes at me, lifting the skirt on her floor-length red slip dress to stop the material trailing on the ground. “Her Majesty has spoken.”
Letting my dress drag along the concrete behind me, I follow them, not caring in this slightest if the green material gets mucky. The lobby of the hotel is bustling with energy as guests wander through, some are dressed much like us, no doubt attending the gala too, while others are in more casual business attire.
“Where do you think that lift leads?” Betty asks, linking an arm through mine while my mother calls for the lift.
“Hopefully to hell, right where she belongs.”
Snorting, she turns to me with a wide smile. “If only.”
Wouldn’t that be nice.
We step into the lift, where my mother presses the button for the floor below us. The doors open to a wide ballroom. Large glass tables are spread across the room, only half filled at the moment. I’m not sure if we’re early, or if most of the guests buy into the idea that the only way to make an entrance is to be fashionably late.
“Best behaviour,” my mother says, turning to face us, her eyes daring us to disobey. I swallow past the lump in my throat, nodding. While the make-up team did wonders at covering the red mark on my cheek, the ache is still there; a harsh reminder of why I don’t want to test her tonight.
Especially when she grabs a glass of champagne off a passing waiter. A sober Caroline is bad enough, but when she’s had a drink, I have no doubts she’d drop her mother-of-the-year act so fast, even in front of all these people.
“Good. You may go to your seats, and please, try to mingle. I have business to attend to right now, but I’ve got someone for you to meet later, so I’ll find you in a little while.”
Before I can ask what business an unemployed middle-aged woman has to deal with, she’s already gone. Turning to Betty, I grab her hand and a glass of champagne. “At least the drinks are free.”
Stepping into the hotel lobby, the bright lights assault my eyes, a stark difference from the darkening sky outside. I shove my hands into the pockets of my suit pants. The black tailored material is stiff and restrictive. A far cry from my usual wardrobe.
But appearances matter.
And in a place like this, you must look the part.
I shove past the crowd steadily growing in the lobby, calling for the lift. My parents and brother are already here, somewhere, but I don’t see them when I step into the ballroom, or when I find our table and take my seat.
My eyes wander over the room, pausing at the table beside mine.
Well, shit.