“There you are, darling,” Porsche, Greyson’s fiancée, says, sidling up behind us.
You have to be careful around Porsche—I swear she went to finishing school at an academy for spies.
“Pierce, the man of the hour,” she says as we give each other a customary, if not cold, air kiss. “I hear the buzz over at Sullivan and Stone is that you've really pulled one out of your arse this time.”
“What a delightful way to put it,” I say.
Ignoring my insult, she says, “We've all had a bet going on how everything would turn out. Greyson and I were both firmly on the ‘he'll never finish it’ side of things, whereas your father believed you would finish it, but only several years after the television series wrapped up. You'll be happy to know Leo had every faith that you would manage to squeak it out under the wire. But he’s prone to childhood fantasy, isn’t he?”
“And yet, he won,” I say, tipping back my drink. “I hope you didn’t bet all the money you’ve been saving for your rhinoplasty. It would be a shame if you had to continue walking around with those uneven nostrils much longer.”
Porsche gasps and lifts her fingers to her nose. “Oh, piss off,” she hisses before storming off.
“Why’d you have to wind her up like that?” Greyson says, shaking his head at me. “Now she’ll be booking in with mum’s plastic surgeon before the night is up.”
“She started it.”
“You’re such a child,” he says, tipping back his drink before going in search of his fiancée.
I watch as he crosses the room, leaving me in the happiest scenario possible at this type of event—alone with the booze. I should not have come. I could've easily told them I was far too busy, but for some idiotic reason, I found myself feeling sentimental about my old man turning sixty-five and decided I might as well show up. But now that I'm here, I’m filled with regret. I'd kill for a pair of humpy little Jack Russells to liven things up a bit.
I curse Leo for not coming. As much as I'm glad to be away from his asinine behaviour for a few hours, at least I would have been mildly amused. Whenisthe last time I had fun?Oh, brain, don't answer that. You do not want to know. What happened on the Benaventes wasn’t real life and you know it.
Other than my time at Eden, my life is a series of phony obligations broken up by intense periods of loneliness. I believe that shall be the theme of my next book, The Chronicles of the Mysteriously Depressed Author Who Has It All and Should be Enjoying Every Minute of His So-Called Perfect Life. The title’s a work in progress, but you get the idea…
I pour myself another drink then turn when my father’s oldest friend and his new wife are announced by the butler. My mother scurries over to greet Lord and Lady Winthrop. I watch them for a moment, wondering what Emma would think of any of these people.
Actually, I know she would see right through their phony smiles and even phonier bridge work. If she were here right now, we’d be sharing a laugh about the very obviously dyed hair and eyebrows of Lord Winthrop, who apparently hasn't ever heard the term ‘age gracefully.’ My father went to Eton with him and they’ve been best of frenemies ever since, one-upping at every turn. The only area in which my father hasn't chosen to take him on is in the new wife department, having decided to stick it out with my mother rather than split the family cash in halfsies. Lord Winthrop, however, is on his second wife upgrade and Lady Winthrop 3.0 looks to be in her mid-twenties, so I’m sure their love is completely authentic and has nothing to do with his millions.
Oh Christ, here they come with their hideous matching spray tans lighting their way across the room.
I have another sip, deciding to drink just enough so that I can bear being here, but not so much that I start saying things I really mean.
“There’s the pride of Avonia,” Lord Winthrop says, slapping me on the back. “Have you met my new wife, Brittany?”
“No, I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure,” I say, plastering a polite smile on my face.
Brittany blinks quickly and grins up at me, her cheeks turning slightly red.
“She's a huge fan of your work, Pierce.”
“Well, not the books,” she admits sheepishly. “I'm not much of a reader but Ilovethe show. No chance you’ll give us a hint at the ending?”
“Wish I could but I’m under an iron-clad NDA.”
Her face falls a little, then her eyes light up again. “Do you know James Prescott personally?” He’s the actor who plays Matalyx—he’s got a real dark, smouldering thing going that the ladies love.
“Yes, nice fellow. Very talented.”
Lord Winthrop looks slightly panicked and quickly changes the subject from the man I'm certain she's thinking about whilst playing with her husband’s wrinkly old balls. “We just got back from the Island of Eden, actually. Tad and Tatiana showed us pictures of their trip and Brittany just had to go. Quite the perfect spot for our honeymoon.” He drapes an arm around his wife's waist and pulls her close.
My ears perk up at the mention of the island, and suddenly I'm very much interested in what they have to report. “Yes, it’s quite lovely there. Excellent food, too,” I say, hoping to lead the conversation over to Emma. Not because I am missing her horribly or anything. More like I'm just curious about how she's doing.
“It was an amazing holiday,” Brittany says. “Although the chef left a little something to be desired.”
Her husband nods quickly. “True. There's not much a chef could do with our restricted diet—no gluten, no salt, no animal products, and no processed sugar.”
“But for what we were paying, it could have been served with more flair.”
