“She’s a laugh a minute,” Arthur says, tipping back another glass of Champagne.
The doors to the ballroom open, and an army of servers bearing trays of dinner plates files in, saving us from the rest of this conversation.
“Time to eat,” Brooke says. “I’m sure you’ll be glad, Tessa.”
“You and me both,” Blake says, winking at me. “It’ll be nice to get a real meal in for once. We’ve only got food fit for a rabbit in our cupboards.”
“Better than having food fit for a pig,” Brooke says, glancing at my tummy again.
I open my mouth to say something, but before I can spit out whatever insult my brain was working on, Arthur puts his hand on my arm and wishes them an enjoyable meal. I clam up and sit down, thoroughly pissed to let Brooke the Bitch have the last word—and such an insulting one at that. I turn to Arthur, intending to tell him as much, but then realize I’ve caused enough drama today, so I’d do well to let him win this one.
***
IT’S WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT, and I’m currently standing in the bathroom, having had a long, hot shower and a huge cry. My up-do is now a dripping wet mess, and my carefully applied makeup has been wiped away, leaving me to face the real me in the mirror. I don't like what I see. I see an idiot who hasn’t learned to keep her stupid mouth shut when she’s in public. Well, that’s not entirely true. I did stop myself from calling Brooke an obnoxious, horrible bitch-face, so I guess that’s something.
I sigh, staring at my reflection, suddenly realizing I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me. She’s in a plush white bathrobe liberated from one of the guest suites several months ago when her old ratty pink robe finally fell apart after a decade of cozy service.
Oh, that was a touch dramatic, Tessa. Referring to yourself in third person, now? Yeesh.
I’m still me. I mean, those are definitely my ancient nude-colour cotton knickers.
Huh. Somehow, my knickers aren’t covering up as much of the front as they used to. How it is possible that the front bit, where my underwear goes, has gotten so much bigger? I didn’t even know that was possible, but it very clearly is because my old faithful, just-the-right-amount-of-stretch-but-still-stays-up knickers look like I’m wearing a thong backwards.
But it’s not a thong at all, and never has been. I try pulling them down in the front and up in the back, but that only results in a tuft of hair poking out the top and the fabric riding halfway up my back without providing any coverage of my enormous butt cheeks.
When I adjust them back where they belong, I have hair escaping both sides, which is almost worse than having it poke out the top because it’s like I’ve shaved a reverse mohawk in front of my lady bits.
That settles it. I’m officially going to have to shop for maternity clothing, starting with knickers. Not that it really matters what my knickers look like. It’s not like I’ve exactly been in the mood to let Arthur see me in them. Or that he’d want to right now anyway. Not after today. The back of my throat burns with guilt and my chest feels tight when I think about the hole I dug myself.
It’s not all the posh people I’ve insulted that matter to me; it’s the hurt in Arthur and Arabella’s eyes I wish I could wipe away. I have absolutely no idea how to make this up to them.
I look down at my tummy and sigh. My eyes well up with tears. "I'm sorry, little baby. I'm not going to make you scrub the toilets. Well, I might, but not until you're much older. And I'm sorry I've made such a mess of everything with your father and all your father's relatives and friends. I'm going to try to figure out a way to fix this before you get here, but if I don't, promise me you love me anyway."
