“We know each other from school,” George says with a wide smile, just as I instructed. Good girl. “You have a lovely home. Is that a real painting I saw earlier? The one with the—”
“You must sit next to me at dinner,” my mother interrupts, though she mightn’t have been paying close enough attention toknow that’s what she’s doing. “I’m always interested in meeting more of Lock’s friends.”
“Date,” I correct again.
“Oh, hush. And what number drink is that? Your father won’t be happy you’re slurring your words this early in the evening.”
In response, I tip the rest of the glass down my throat and signal for another. The waiter brings it along with George’s water.
“Such a sensible girl,” Mum says in an approving tone. “You should follow her lead.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
Her eyes turn brittle. “Tonight is work, Lockie. Not fun. Try to remember that.” She turns to the waiter. “Water only from here on out,” she instructs while he looks less than happy to be caught in a tug-of-war between us. “Anyone disobeying can hand back their uniform and see themselves out.”
She stalks off, turning heads as she does so. My mother’s never had a problem drawing the male gaze. More’s the pity.
We continue to circulate around the party, occasionally getting trapped by some blowhard keen to share their life story in all its boring detail. George handles it a lot better than I do. When we’re on our second circuit, I pay more attention to her than the other attendees.
A low gong sounds for dinner and I hold back as the guests flock through to the dining room, waiting until most everyone’s seated before I escort George through to our table. We’re with my parents, Patrick, a grey-haired man whose name isn’t supplied but who Dad must be trying to impress, and Kari’s parents, Soren and Imelda Abercrombie.
My mother holds out a chair and I switch positions with George to take it, amused when Mum’s lips twist in annoyance.Serves her right for cutting me off. I realise my mistake a moment too late as I turn to see Patrick sitting at the foot of the table, opposite my father at the head. Not only is that the position I should take but now he’s got free rein to talk to George.
I nod to the Abercrombies, seated opposite. Soren’s eyes are stony as they turn my way. His wife isn’t quite so upset, or at least isn’t so obvious, but neither of them acknowledge George.
Dad’s special guest is seated on his right, my mother on his left. The only welcoming face for my date to talk to is Patrick, and that’s not going to happen.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper to her when she smiles at him. “You can talk to me, or you can talk to yourself. No one else.”
She turns those wide eyes to me again and I reach out to grab her chin, tilting her head towards the light, memorising their colour. There are flashes of lime, darkest green, and playful flecks of teal.
There’s also an overdose of anxiety until I release her, watching her expression turn grateful as the servers dish up the meal.
The worry makes a reappearance as she stares at the small plate of food. Can’t blame her. I don’t know what it’s meant to be either. The cook must have been reading up on molecular gastronomy again.
After a few bites and a visible effort to swallow, she pretty much leaves it alone, turning to me instead. “What subjects are you studying in school?”
I lean a possessive arm along the back of her chair, raising my lip at Patrick when he looks far too entertained for my liking. “English, general science, art—”
“You like art?”
Her voice is as eager as a puppy. As eager as when she exclaimed over the decorative pieces I don’t notice any longer. “Ilike how easy it is.” I sit back, abandoning my attempt at the meal, too. “Anything subjective can be influenced. It’s far simpler to buy a passing grade in art than achieve one myself in maths.”
Not that I achieve anything in any of my classes. My weeks are a mess of students sending me completed essays and handing off notes. Anything to get the passing grades I need to stay right where I am. My father’s unbearable as it is; he’d become truly insufferable if I couldn’t keep my place in Kingswood.
“Right.” She stares at the plate of food in front of her, picking up her fork to poke at it again with no enthusiasm. I take it out of her hand so she’ll realise it’s okay not to eat it. Our staff don’t care whether we’re polite. “I didn’t realise it was a transaction.”
That startles me into an amused snort. “It isn’t for you.”
“And which university will you buy your way into?”
The words might be a dig, but her tone is light, so I respond more to that. “Why? Do you think I should have a preference?”
“For you?” She wrinkles her nose. “A performing arts college? You look good enough to be an actor.”
The compliment takes me by surprise. “Oh, I agree. There’s nothing quite like a drama degree to set you up for success in life.”
“It sure does.”
