She stands up immediately in response and gestures for me to do the same. From the living room to the guest bedroom, we are interlocked again. Being this physically close to her makes my stomach queasy. When we enter, my suitcases are already there. The dress is already on the hanger.
The temperature is rapidly dropping as I pull it in view.
It’s purple, skin tight and with a corset made to squeeze all my ribs. A dress Aidan surprised me with only hours earlier. Something he must’ve shopped for weeks ago…
Still in awe, I analyze the details of it as it rests on the wooden hanger. Elegant. Tasteful. Thousands of dollars.
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t make a comment on the dress. Instead, she rummages through my suitcase and turns to me.
“Do you have shoes?”
Her question makes me stiffen in place. Shoes. I didn’t think about footwear. I give a meager smile as I try to figure out how a person could forget something so simple in front of Mrs. Whitmore.
I catch the necklace beaming a vibrant blue in the corner of my eye when I step in front of the mirror hanging in the middle of the room. Mrs. Whitmore must have caught it too, because she has removed any sense of personal space between us.
Every intricate detail is inspected as it dangles around my neck, awaiting her approval.
Chapter eighteen
The Other Half
The thing about rich people is that they never want to claim that they are, but it’s always in the air.
The talk of their latest vacations. The staff that disappears as soon as they enter a room. Attending parties for no purpose at all. All the gadgets and gizmos they want just because they saw them online once.
It is a complete and total unawareness of how the other ninety percent lives. The Whitmore’s annual garden party is the night where I witness these conversations firsthand.
A lavish event used to show off to their friends, disguised under thenoblecause called “Kids to Kids” that allegedly funds access to better education for underprivileged youth.
Last year, I didn’t see one single pamphlet or sign that indicated what the event actually was for. There is no doubt in my mind that tonight’s event will be more of the same.
While they are concerned with who to impress, I am too busy planning out how to unzip this dress. Because when the time comes that I inevitably have to pee, I am screwed.
And those lobster rolls? Getting ready for hours has me starved, with the empty promises of having lunch after I finish my makeup. But then makeup turned into hair and now I am in my dress.
Whenever I tried to sneak a bite, it would turn into a lecture about how eating bread would only make me bloat.
“Do you want people to think you’re pregnant?” Mrs. Whitmore would say. Casually offensive, as if this was the most normal thing to say to a person… The worst part of it all? I look like the best version of myself.
My mid-length brown hair is perfectly placed into a pinned up, voluminous updo. For this night only, Mrs. Whitmore lets me borrow her Manolo’s and diamond studs, an image worth standing beside her. I’m surprised she didn’t ask me to take off my pendant hanging around my neck. Not a single remark from her about it clashing or it not being the “vibe,” as Aidan’s sister, Greer, would always say.
I clutch the pendant as the door swings open, unannounced.
“Ready?”
I nod as both of us squish together in a black town car, traveling a whole two minutes away. Neither of us says a word.
Straight out of Cinderella’s playbook, our entrance requires four footmen to whisk us away through the back entrance to help make our grand reveal. Every year, Mrs. Whitmore outdoes herself. This party is grander than the last.
The sound of the first violin is lifted in the air as my pulse quickens. We are guided to the top of the staircase. The entire ballroom stretches below us, adorned in glittering gold and crystal. Collecting all the air in my lungs, I brace myself.
“Smile bright. No nerves now,” Mrs. Whitmore chirps quietly.
The melody quickens as a second violinist joins in, picking up the tempo. When the cello enters, the full quartet swells to life in a lush and cinematic symphony.
We step forward, suddenly in everyone’s line of sight.
“Dammit, Charlotte. Breathe.”
