FIFTEEN
The Importance of Knowing Your Audience
Tessa
I’m surrounded by noless than four hundred people, but I’m utterly alone. I wish I were at home with a jumbo bag of crisps and the covers pulled up over my head. Arthur can barely bring himself to look at me, even though he insists he’s not upset. My hope of Arabella and I sticking together, giggling and secretly making fun of all the snooty people, died when we walked in the ballroom and she disappeared to mingle with anyone but me. Gran, who seems to have abandoned her ‘no drinking on days that end with ‘y’’ policy, made a beeline for the bar, leaving me standing next to Arthur as he’s greeted by other very important people, each one giving me polite (if not cool) smiles, then turning their attention back to Arthur. I've never felt so stupid in my entire life, which for me is really saying something. I really am the dullest Sharpe in the family.
A server walks by with a tray of Champagne, and Arthur takes two.
I hold up one hand, palm out. “Oh no, I can’t, Arthur, remember?”
“Yes, I know. I thought I’d have your share. Get a bit of our ten-grand back on the tickets,” he says, taking a long swig. When he lowers the flute, he says, “Besides, this whole evening is going to be awkward as fuck, so I’m sure you’ll understand.”
A chime rings out, signaling the guests to find their seats for dinner. Somehow, even though my gut is churning with dread, I still find myself quite famished, and the thought of what I’m sure will be a delicious meal is somewhat of a comfort. Another bonus of sitting down is I’ll be able to slide off my Louboutin heels. I don’t know how, but these horrible shoes have shrunk and are now pinching not only my toes (which they always did, but I was willing to put up with because they’rethatfabulous), but the sides, tops, and bottoms of each foot as well.
Oh, fine. It’s not really a mystery. I know it’smeswelling up, and not my beautiful Louboutins’ fault. I’m like one of Cinderella’s step-sisters in them—trying to force dainty slippers onto my huge Hobbit feet.
Ah! That’s better. Now that my designer torture devices are off, I don’t think I’ll ever want to put them back on. My feet are actually pulsing. If I could see them, I bet the throbbing would be visible.
“Oh, Christ,” Arthur mutters. “Not tonight.”
When I follow his gaze, I see Brooke and her famous hubby, Blake, are just walking in. It’s blatantly clear that they’ve come in late to make a grand entrance. That issoBrooke, isn’t it?
She looks stunning and thin, of course. How the hell is she seven months pregnant? I mean, honestly, her midsection is basically flat. Talk about irritating.
Oh great, they must be at the table near ours because they’re heading straight for us. Of course.
And now Arthur and I have to stand to let them pass through the narrow space. And I don’t have my fecking heels on. Son of a...
Standing up, I hope no one will notice I’m now four inches shorter than I was when I sat down, which makes me almost a foot shorter than Awful Brooke. I glance down to see if she’s wearing heels, only to discover she is indeed—and not just any heels—Stuart Weitzman diamond-encrusted stilettos that must have set her back almost half a million. God, those are beautiful shoes for such a witch to be wearing. Those are ‘get your toes trimmed by a surgeon so you can fit them’ gorgeous.
“Tessa,” she says, purposefully forgetting to call me by my title. "How are you feeling? You look positively radiant."
Deciding I’ve caused enough trouble today, I say, "Terrific, thanks. You're looking well, Brooke." Ha! Two people can play the ‘I forgot your title’ game. "Married life must be agreeing with you." And by that, I obviously mean ‘not being married to Arthur, that is.’
“Oh, it is. I feel absolutely alive with energy. My only problem is that I’m not showingat all, so I’m afraid people don’t believe I’m actually pregnant.” Brooke laughs heartily at the poor luck of her situation.
How awful. To be so thin whilst pregnant that no one will know it's over until you're holding the baby. Exactly what every woman dreads.
She stares down at my midsection and then tilts her head, looking confused. “Math isn't exactly my strong suit—not like medicine, of course—but I thought your baby was due in January, and to look at you, I’d guess you're almost duenow. You don't have gestational diabetes, do you? I hope not because it's a lot more serious than most people think."
“I’m fine, really,” I say, hardening my gaze. “Totally healthy, really.”
“Glad to hear it,” she says with a forced smile. “You’re sobraveto come tonight, Tessa, after stirring the pot today with that video.”
Fuckity fuck. Of course she’s seen it already. “Yes, well some bits of that were...taken out of context.”
“Which bits, exactly? The part where you implied that anyone who hired a nanny is a terrible mum? Or the bit where you suggested your own husband and his family are basically useless because they can’t do menial tasks?”
"Uh oh, I hope we’re not about to see a pregnant cat fight," Blake says, laughing obnoxiously and elbowing Arthur in the ribs. "Wouldn't want to see that, would we?" Brooke levels him with an icy glare that freezes the smirk right off his face. “Just joking, love. I’d love to see you fight.”
Oh my God, he’s an idiot. Brooke has agreed to spend the rest of her life with a total moron. One with less class than my brothers. A genuine smile plants itself on my face for the first time this evening.
Blake slips his arm around her tiny waist and gives me a Hollywood grin. “Don’t mind my little princess here. She’s been a bit grumpy lately. I’ve been trying to convince her to eat more, but she won’t hear of it.”
Brooke bats her eyelashes up at Blake. “Now, darling, you know I eat exactly the number of highly-nutritious calories required for the baby’s optimal growth and my own needs.”
“But not enough to get her sense of humour back,” he says with a laugh. “Arthur, how’s your wife’s sense of humor these days?”
