She extends a manicured hand. The beige polish is so precisely applied that it makes me wish I’d painted mine black.
We take our seats around a carefully curated mint-and-beige tablescape. Before I realize it, I’m wedged between my mother and Cressida, who immediately presses a bare knee against mine and leans in, lashes fluttering.
“Sebastian, what do you recommend? I haven’t been here in ages…”
The shy girl I barely remember has vanished. This version knows exactly what she’s doing.
Throughout lunch, she keeps finding reasons to touch me, light brushes of her fingers, the occasional lean-in, her smile a little too rehearsed. Her flirting is tireless, and honestly, it’s starting to grate. Even if I were into women, even if I weren’t completely, hopelessly in love with someone else, Cressida wouldn’t be my type.
She’s all surface. All performance.
Meanwhile, my parents wax lyrical about my accomplishments. The Wellands respond in kind, detailing Cressida’s long list of achievements, she’s finishing a business degree at Cambridge, and is set to join the family empire.
“In a few months, they’ll both be graduates, ready to start adult life,” my mother says brightly. “We’ve raised two exceptional young people, don’t you think, Jane?”
Jane nods politely. Then Edward cuts to the chase.
“So, Sebastian, what are your plans after graduation? London? Or Paris? Our headquarters are on Oxford Street, and Cressida will be starting there soon. But we also have major offices across Europe. Including Paris.”
I don’t need a translation. The subtext is blindingly clear.
Every gaze at the table turns to me. And just then, Cressida slides her hand onto my thigh beneath the tablecloth.
I bolt upright.
“Excuse me, I need the loo.”
Without waiting for a response, I slip away from the table and lock myself in the bathroom, hands trembling.
How dare they?
They tried toarrangeme, pair me off with this polished socialite like I’m some pedigreed show dog.
And Isabel, blissfully unaware of who I really am, handed me over like I was a bargaining chip in some bourgeois mating game.
The memory of Cressida’s constant touching turns my stomach. Made worse by the fact that I’d ordered roast duck, a dish I can’t stand. Why did I even choose it?
I splash cold water on my face. Deep breath. I need to get back out there, wrap this up, and make one thing absolutely clear: I will never,ever, be Cressida’s anything.
When I return to the table, the offending duck has mercifully disappeared. But before I can sit down, Cressida’s hand drifts once again toward my lap.
Enough.
I catch her wrist mid-motion and place it firmly on the table.
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t say a word. Our mothers notice; I can feel their gaze sharpen. The fathers, still buried in the dessert menu, remain blissfully unaware.
Mum clears her throat. I don’t acknowledge it.
Jane swoops in to smooth the moment. “How long will you be in Stratford, Sebastian? We’re hosting a charity dinner tomorrow evening, you simply must come! Cressida would love to introduce you to her friends. And perhaps you’d play something on the piano?”
“I appreciate the invitation, Mrs Welland,” I reply, voice cool but polite, “but I’m heading back to London tomorrow evening. Conservatoire commitments. Rehearsals.”
It’s a lie, but I’m not taking any more chances.
Edward seizes the moment to ask about tickets to my next concert.
I’ve had enough.
