Oh, Portia. We have never even been friends.
And if there’s something that my forty years on earth have taught me, it is that love, romantic love, is the stuff of nightmares. The data isn’t just my own. My parents, my grandparents, my ancestors. And now, my sibling. We’ve all chosen poorly or had love slip away. If you believe my grandmother, our lineage is cursed. But back in the real world, which is where I prefer to dwell, it’s neither magic nor a lack of luck that is the cause. It’s more a case that as individuals, along with our familial responsibilities, make us very hard to love. But that’s not an explanation for anyone this evening.
“That’s where boundaries come in,” I reply, my tone low, so low I’m sure that few people heard. A formal dinner isn’t the place to bare your soul, nor is it the place to remind the woman sitting next to you not to build up her hopes. Or to explain to the woman you’re obsessed with, the woman you were elated to find under your roof, that you’re no good.
“Boundaries?” my sister asks, almost as though she can’t help herself and her bat-like hearing.
“Rules, if you like.”
Rules that I govern my relationships by. Relationships with women who know they will never come first but rather last in a long list of my responsibilities. Women who know and are comfortable with the fact that I will never again commit. In sending Holland away, I was doing her a service. Having her by my side would be a mistake. It would be to make her into someone else. To bend her spirit. To bend her will. To force her to fit to a mould that isn’t hers.
At the thought, I give a rueful smile. These pointless ruminations because she’s no longer a one-night blessing. But as much as I want her, I’m not about to fall in love. Lust, however, seems another matter.
“But love doesn’t play by the rules,” Isla says, returning to trite statements and lines from pop songs as she seeks corroboration from Van. How strange.
“You’re right.” My gaze slices up, meeting Holland’s at the other end of the room. “Even when you do the wrong thing for the right reason, if it’s meant to be, it will always work out in the end.”
And I have to believe that right now.
24
Holly
Isla gracefully rises from her chair and suggests we all adjourn to the parlour for brandy and coffee, like we’re actors in some scene of an episode of Downton Abbey.
This is my opportunity to slip away without drawing attention to myself.
I almost can’t believe I’ve survived the most uncomfortable night of my life. Tomorrow, I am so out of here. There is no way I’m hanging round to give this pair the opportunity to embarrass me again. How dare Alexander force me out of my uniform—out of my element—and what was I thinking getting dressed and coming down to the dining room in the first place? I should’ve just locked myself in the bedroom. Told him exactly what he could do if he didn’t like it. Maybe I’d have even dug out a few of my big-girl words.
You know the ones: the ones about sex and travel.
Urgh! I feel so angry. I literally had to sit on my hands at one point to stop myself from punching Griffin after he’d pulled that stunt. What was the point of introducing me to the guests as Isla’s nanny? Other than making me feel like a fool. And then bringing up his long dead wife—what was that all about?
Head high, I rise from my own chair as Griffin pretends to be a gentleman, pulling it out from behind me. Too bad you didn’t get the chance to help me sit down at the start of the evening, I think. He could’ve pulled it out from under me, then they all could’ve had another laugh at my expense.
You can’t trust the man, I remind myself. Trust your instincts. Trust that other people have told you so. Namely, my old employer, Martine.
My eyes start to sting as I shuffle forward, hating on myself a little more. Like the guests in front of me, I turn like an automaton in the direction of the door, though I refuse to make eye contact with anyone.
Guests and otherwise.
“Shall we?”
Griffin appears by my side before I’ve taken two steps, proffering his elbow.
“No, thank you,” I reply, summoning my best dowager duchess impersonation as I sweep away. Heel, toe, heel, toe; I take pains not to step on the hem of my dress. To fall flat on my face is all I need to crown this evening.
My dress. The dress.
I’d picked it up in a consignment store in the US for seventy bucks. An Alex Perry! I thought for sure moving to London I’d get an opportunity to wear it. But the opportunity never arose. At least, until now. I guess it’s a shame that this is its debut outing. Not only that but also from now on, whenever I open my closet and see it hanging there, I’ll be reminded of how awful I felt tonight, rather than be seduced by the colour and fabric into running my hands over it.
I suppose I could sell it, only I know I won’t, almost as a point of principle.
I like this dress. Everyone else can shove their opinions where the sun doesn’t shine.
“Come on, Holly.” From behind me, Griffin’s voice seems too close to my ear for comfort. Not to mention, far too self-satisfied as his fingers brush my hand.
“Drop dead,” I mutter, snatching it away as I step out into the hallway.
“Hols.” This time, my name is delivered on the tremor of a chuckle. One I’d like to punch down the back of his throat.
This isn’t me. I’m not violent or mean—not even when I’m hurt. But then again, I’m not just hurting. I’m also seething.
“Alexander, who is that girl in that awful dress?” I’d heard the elegantly blonde stick insect sitting next to him ask.
“No one,” he’d answered without even raising his gaze to me.
I’m just no one. No one in a dowdy dress, apparently.
No wonder fire seems to burn in my veins instead of blood.
“Holly?” Isla’s gaze finds mine from where she stands, waiting for me, compassion and apology shining in her gaze.
“I’m just going to . . .to . . .” I point in the opposite direction to where everyone else is going. “Visit the powder room,” I add in a moment of divine inspiration.
“Yes, of course.” She nods in acceptance. It might be rude not to join her party, but she gets it. But her sympathy does not fuel my anger. It only fuels my tears and my pace as my walk becomes a trot as I round the corner out of view.
“Holland.”
Alexander. Oh, Alexander. Fuck off.
“Just . . .just go away.”
The whole night as I’d struggled through polite conversation, through feeling the weight of the sympathy of those around me—Ivy, Dylan Duffy’s wife, of Isla, women sensing what I was feeling—I could feel his attention like a brand against my cheek. I just wouldn’t, couldn’t give him the satisfaction of turning my attention to him.
“Holland, stop.” His fingers grasp my wrist, and my feet slow. I guess he already told me what he says goes in this place.
“Haven’t you made me look bad enough already?” I hiss, swinging around to face him, clocking his arm with my closed fist. I didn’t mean to—I’ve just had enough. Enough of him. Of his brother. Enough of this day!