She asks how George and I first got together, watching my face with those precise grey eyes, and I give her the gallery story (George’s version, polished and plausible) but then add the part I invented on the spot, the part I’ve somehow come to believe a little myself: how we ran into each other at a gallery opening and spent twenty minutes arguing about a painting before he finally asked me to dinner.
Margaret's mouth curves at the corners. "That sounds exactly like him."
The warmth in her voice when she sayshimdoes something unexpected to my ribcage. Something I was not prepared for and cannot immediately categorise.
"He told me you were good at your job," she adds, studying her glass rather than me, which somehow makes it worse.
I am extremely grateful, in this moment, that champagne glasses exist to give your hands and your mouth something to do when you need a few seconds to collect yourself.
Eleanor floats back to the mirror in the lace dress one final time, and someone turns the soft boutique music up just slightly and the afternoon light filtering through the silk wall panels turns the whole room amber and gold. She turns slowly, looking at herself with an expression of quiet recognition, as if she’s finally meeting someone she’s been waiting for.
Then the room sighs. Eleanor laughs, bright and relieved. Margaret presses a hand to her mouth. Beth already has her phone out.
Eleanor spins toward us with her arms wide and asks her mother first, then Beth, and then me, her eyes landing on me with a directness that catches me off guard. “Tessa. Yes?”
"Absolutely yes," I say, and the smile I give her is entirely real. That should probably concern me more than it does. Standing here in the amber light with champagne in my hand and lace catching the afternoon sun, I can no longer tell whether this whole situation feels like a triumph or the beginning of a problem.
I pull out my phone under the pretence of checking the time and discover my fingers already moving across the screen before I have consciously decided to text him at all.Your sister is genuinely lovely and I was deeply unprepared for that.I stare at the sentence, at how honest it is, at how little it sounds likesomething a temporary girlfriend should send. Then I delete it letter by careful letter until the screen is blank again.
I look at the empty message box for a moment, thumb hovering.
Finally, I type:The dress appointment went well.
Send.
