On a school night?
I think Wilder’s right and you really are a swot.
I’m sorry?
Did you just try to peer-pressure me into attending a party?
Did it work?
Depends on whether I have to bring anything.
Just yourself and the skimpiest dress you own.
That’s quite the challenge for an ex-stripper. Do bedazzled pasties count as a dress?
Holy fuck, no. I’ll send you something.
It takes a few minutes more to arrange, then I head for the shower, whistling at the thought my long drought of an hour (two, maximum) is finally at an end.
Evie’s eyesstretch to absorb half her face as I get out of the car to hold the door open for her. A reaction exactly matching to the one I’d envisioned when I dressed in the tux.
I’ve clocked her expressions as I turn up at her door every morning. I’ve seen the full length appreciation journey her eyes go on when I’m just wearing my uniform. About time I gave them something worth their effort.
And the dress I chose for her looks just as fabulous.
“Christ, you’re a fucking weirdo,” Wilder shouts the moment we turn up to the party. “Jeans and a t-shirt too much to ask, eh?”
I’m about to blurt out a response when Evie asks, “Is Dahlia here?” and my friend is immediately on the back foot.
“Sure, maybe? I’m not… You want a drink?”
He scuttles off and I doubt we’ll see him again. I circle back to the car to dump my jacket—the night shows no sign of releasing the day’s heat—then escort her inside the house.
“This place is enormous,” she exclaims, cupping her hand around my upper arm, transmitting every jolt of alarm or excitement through her clutching fingers. “Are all the cliffside houses this big?”
“No, this one is on the small side.”
“Right.” Her voice is tiny for a second, then she smiles broadly. “So, this is like the servants’ quarters version?”
“Definitely. You want to eat or drink something?”
“Beluga caviar and champagne, nothing fancy.”
I tug her through to the kitchen, watching her face fill with excitement as she gets her first look at the view across the river. “Oh, look,” she says, pointing. “I can just make out the poor people from here.”
We settle for a beer each, mine non-alcoholic since I’m driving, then explore the house from top to bottom, before joining the partygoers in the garage, the door open to spill its overflow onto the large cobbled bay at the house end of the driveway.
Some kids are playing pool, incorporating disposable cups of beer into the game, while another group throws darts at a board, giving occasional loud cheers before sculling whatever drink is in their hands. Music blares from a tree, the portable speakers hanging from its low branches.
“Is it everything you hoped and dreamed of?” I ask, securing us a place on the concrete bench near the stone steps leading down to the river. “We can go skinny dipping later if you like.”
“When have you ever gone skinny dipping?” she asks, laughing like the idea is utterly preposterous.
“A lot,” I tell her with a straight face, then she tickles me, and I dissolve into laughter. “Okay”—I pinch my fingers together—“a little bit,” then further amend to, “Once.”
“Big talker.” She leans into my side, face alight with a dozen different thoughts at once, eyes darting in all directions, eager to keep track of it all. “Did you grow up in a place like this?”
“My house is just a few streets over,” I admit. “It’s a bit fancier.”
