“Oh, don’t worry,” Canary says, “these parties are exclusive, and there’s a lot of important people here. Keeping any dumb shit from showing up on someone’s socials isreallyimportant. Don’t worry, you’ll get them back when we leave.”
Reluctantly, Marla and I put our phones on the pile already in the box, and the butler guy swans away, holding the box aloft like a sacred chalice.
A tall guy with an expensive haircut and Gucci jeans wanders over, looking us over like we’re ripe fruit he wants to pinch to determine freshness. “Hey, babe.” He throws his arm around Brittany and kisses her on the head. “Who are your friends?”
“Eddie, you’re not going to say hi to me?” Canary pouts adorably. He rectifies this error by kissing her with a lot of tongue and his hand on her ass.
“This is Marla,” Brittany points at us, “and this is Luna. They’rea lotof fun.” The way she emphasizes “a lot” feels weird.
“Hey ladies, welcome!” Eddie says expansively, spreading his arms out wide, “Come in, we’ve got everything to make you feelgood.” He nods at me. “You look like you could use something to help you relax.”
Smiling thinly, I hold up my beer bottle. “I’m all covered, thanks.”
Shrugging, he wraps his arms around Brittany and Canary, pulling them deeper into the house and leaving Marla and me to hurry after them. “This is a bigger deal than I thought,” Marla whispers to me. “Servers walking around with trays of fancy food… They have abutler,for fuck’s sake!”
The massive room we’ve entered could have been a ballroom in the old days. Now, there’s a blaze roaring in the fireplace and a wood and chrome bar that stretches across the room. It’s opposite the French doors leading to the back terrace and the forest looming over the mansion.
The pines outside are incredibly tall, and they bob and weave in the wind.
“What can I get for you, ladies?” The bartender is neatly dressed in a crisp white shirt and a tie, but his smile looks plastic. I can understand that. I’ve waited tables at more than one nightclub, and eventually, smiling becomes painful.
“I’m good. Marla, do you want something?”
“Three shots of tequila,” she says firmly, looking around the room.
“You wanna start a little slower?” I bump her shoulder with mine.
“I need something to take the edge off,” she says, eyes darting back and forth like a pinball machine. “Look at these people.” There are around two dozen people here, all expensively dressed, most in their early twenties.
Looking around for Brittany and Canary, I can see them chatting with a couple of guys in the corner. Marla and I met at the student hostel, and then we ran into Brittany and Canary at a street fair. They’re wild, but they’re sweet. They’ve spent the last few days taking us all over London.
Music is blasting from speakers in the ceiling, and some of the partygoers are dancing, spilling out onto the terrace past the doors. There’s a pool there, and most of the girls around it are already topless.
“How about just one or two shots to start off?” I suggested. “I’ll take one with you. Now you know I like you because I hate tequila.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“So cruel,” I laugh, delicately clinking my shot glass to hers. Marla’s twenty-six – same age as me - though I can’t help but feel protective of her. She’s a pretty redhead from Wales, and she’s out of her depth tonight. She sneaks in another shot and I pull her away. “Let’s go look around.”
We walk into the kitchen and then right back out after we spot a guy sitting on the counter, getting a blowjob, and another one drinking absently, ignoring the girl who’s giving him a lap dance.
“Well, okay,” I say. “Let’s go out on the terrace, I need some fresh air.”
There’s a group huddling in the corner, and they look like the Single’s Table at a wedding - the guests who weren’t given a “plus one” on their invitation and end up at the dreaded table in the back. I’ve been at that table. I know my people.
“Hey,” I greet one of the girls with a smile. “Is this your first time here, too?”
She’s pale and looks a little nervous, pulling down the sleeves of her shirt. “Is it that obvious?”
“Well, this is all… well, it’s a lot,” I admit. “I’m Luna.”
“Theresa,” she says.
I turn to introduce Marla, but she’s found a new friend, talking animatedly to another of the copy-and-paste rich boys.
A uniformed waitress heads over with a tray of tasty-looking bites of wrapped shrimp and skewers of scallops. “Thank god,” I moan, “I haven’t eaten all day.” I’ve been trying to save my dwindling funds, but I’d rather starve to death than admit it. Some of the other travelers at the hostel told me that Italy is good for temp jobs, and I’m heading there next.
Just before she gets to us, one of the rich boys runs past her, holding a squealing, kicking, topless girl. He shoulder-checks the poor server and knocks her and the tray into the pool, sending those scallops to a watery grave.
