Traditional thing? It’s a ball, Lizzie, not an engagement. :p
Lizzie: I’m meeting him there.
I let it go and focused on my outfit. The shoes Mum had ordered online fit perfectly. They were princessy enough to make Katie happy, just the slightest sprinkling of jewels and a delicate little heel that added a couple of inches. Mum curled my hair and painted my toenails, and I put on just a tiny little bit of makeup to make my skin glow.
And then I was ready.
Even Dad looked lost for words.
“You look… really good, Helen.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“When did you get all grown up…?”
I wish I was all grown up.
“…he’d better appreciate it.”
My stomach turned. “Yeah.”
And then he was here. Only he was the wrong he. In fairness to him, Harry Sawbridge polished up well. His suit was fitted and his hair was slick and his eyes looked big and dark and pretty hot. Only I didn’t want him.
He yabbered on all the way to the Three Friars, and high-fived about a million people that I disliked on the way in, and then I was tossed around a sea of bodies in big gowns, and everywhere I looked they were staring at me, and laughing. They were all laughing. Finally, I found myself an anchor. Or rather, an anchor found me.
Lizzie grabbed me by the waist, spun me around her, and she looked great, in one of those 50s swing dresses in purple polka dot and a big ostrich feather in her hair.
“Have you seen him?” she whispered and she was smiling.
“Seen who?”
She rolled her eyes. “Rampant Roberts. My God, he polishes up alright, Hels, even if I do say so myself.”
My knees felt like they’d go from under me. “Where?”
She turned me in the direction of the bar and peered between bodies, angling me to follow her eye line. And then I saw him. He was standing with Miss Monkton, smiling politely as she whispered in his ear. And he was beautiful.
He had his glasses on, in that geeky way that I love so much, and his hair was still a mass of eccentric curls, but he was so smart, in a jet black suit with a black tie, and a crisp white shirt… I’d never seen him like this. I’d never seen him so polished and magnificent.
“Hot, isn’t he?” Lizzie giggled.
I couldn’t even speak.
He looked at me, turning his head in slow motion, and I felt the moment his eyes met mine. The world stopped, just like that. Everything stopped. And he swallowed. And my cheeks burned. And the whole world seemed to lurch and wobble.
And then he looked away. He looked away as if it was nothing.
As if I was nothing.
I don’t know why it hurt so badly, I don’t know why him turning his attention back to what Miss Monkton was saying caused me so much pain, but it felt like someone had ripped me in half and tossed my stomach on the dancefloor. I could feel it there beneath the clumsy feet. Feel them trampling all over me.
I stumbled my way to the bar and Lizzie was there before me. She forced her way through and I shouted for a double, a double anything, I didn’t even care.
“I’d have got that for you,” Harry announced as we cleared the throng, and it was all I could do to smile.
He led me about the place like a prized show pony and I hated it. His hand felt clammy and icky and his fingers didn’t fit mine, and I hated it. I didn’t want to be there with him at all, and I hated it. But seeing Mr Roberts laughing with Miss Monkton was what I hated most of all.
She was touching him, her fingers wrapped around his elbow, and she was too close, pressed into his side as she laughed. And it was horrible. I wanted to know how he smelled, how his suit felt, how his voice sounded over the dance tracks. I wanted to know how it felt to stand at his side in public, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Harry fetched me a fresh drink, and another after that, and Lizzie handed me her little hip flask filled with vodka while she followed Scottie around the dancefloor.
I went to the toilet to drink some down, and died inside as I walked into Sarah Jennings’ bitch brigade. They flashed me looks full of scorn and they laughed.
“Ooh, get Helen Palmer in her fancy gown.”
“Shame about the tits, Helen.”
“See how horny Harry finds a training bra.”
I burned up and dashed into a cubicle.
“You still got your crush, Helen?”
“Still a little stalker freak, Helen?”
“Look on the bright side, Helen, you know what they say about Roberts… maybe you could pretend to be a boy for him.”
“Yeah, you could be a little boy!”
“Helen with her baby breasts, he’ll love that.”
I wasn’t going to cry for those bitches. I counted down the seconds until they laughed and disappeared, and downed the rest of the vodka in one.
There was more than I expected, and it burned my throat, but I was way past caring.