Fuck.
Let’s hope that doesn’t end up in front of anyone who knows who I am. It’s then that I feel Eddie’s gaze slice over me like a blade. Eddieknows.
Maggie kisses me back until she pulls back with a startled stare.
‘Just breathe and ride it out.’ I keep my voice to a whisper.
We sit down, both of us scarlet-faced as people stare. Her hand finds mine under the table and grips it so tight it aches.
Eddie’s expression promises pain in my future.
I lean in close to Maggie’s ear. ‘Don’t make massive life decisions just because of a suspicion. It doesn’t change who you are. Or what you want.’
‘Thank you, I just feel so guilty. We need to find out what’s in that cabinet.’ Then softer, she adds, ‘I can’t believe you kissed me in front of everyone.’
‘Why wouldn’t I? I like kissing you.’
She doesn’t look like she fully believes that. ‘Because thisisn’t real. And you’re a ten, and I’m—’ she gestures vaguely at herself, as if the concept of Maggie speaks for itself.
I turn fully towards her, ignoring the fact that half the table is still watching us.
‘Only an idiot would think you’re anything less than perfect.’
She blinks at me, thrown. ‘I’m not perfect.’
‘Weirdlyperfect,’ I grin. ‘Which is the best kind.’
Maggie assesses me like she’s waiting for the punchline. ‘I don’t think you’d know weird if it slapped you in the face.’
‘I’m game if that’s what you’re into, you little oddball.’
It takes her a couple of seconds to process what I said before she play-shoves my shoulder. ‘Maybe you’re even weirder than me.’
‘Probably.’
Around us, the dinner continues. People return to their desserts while Eliza launches into another story, and James tries to outdo her with his.
And Eddie, well, he doesn’t look away from me once.
25
MAGGIE
Wedding mornings are meant to befun.
That’s the lie everyone tells themselves anyway. That it’s all soft music and clinking champagne flutes and women drifting around in silk robes like serene ghosts.
I amanythingbut calm.
And neither is the bride’s room.
Priscilla surrounds herself with activity. There’s an incredible amount of people flitting in and out from the moment I arrive. Poking at my face with this and that, curling my hair and tugging it into rollers before I’m passed from one chair to another and clarted with make-up until I barely resemble myself. Another turn in the hair-chair, my poor curls teased and tugged and forced into a sleek ponytail that reminds me of a horse’s backside.
Not that I say anything. I’m a vision of elegance and grace. Except for when I kicked over the champagne bucket and tripped on a flower girl. Heaven knows where Priscilla procured the toddler, seeing that none of us have children. But with Dad’s wealth, you can probably just rent one for the day to up the cute factor.
I wouldn’t put it past her.
Priscilla sits perfectly still in the centre of it all, wearing a robe the colour of whipped cream, her face and hair already flawless. I’m quite convinced she had a hairstylist and make-up artist see her before everyone arrived, so she’d be picture-perfect even before having her official hair and make-up done.Madness. I can’t deny that she looks radiant, though.
