Page 29
I nudge his foot under the table when she looks away, and he glances at me. Giving the smallest tilt of my head towards the cutlery he clocks what I mean, and makes the switch. The look he gives me would make me laugh under any other circumstances. But not today.
This is what evenings like this cost. It’s not the dress, taxi or glasses of champagne. Those cost money.
But the thing that’s costing me right now is the constant calculation of who’s looking at what, what that means, how to make sure everyone’s happy. I’m exhausted and there are hours left.
It’s not usually this hard, but I’m desperate for things to be alright for Tom. He keeps trying. He attempts a conversation with Freddie, who isn’t interested, and then with someone else, who cuts him off. I want to help him, but I’m too focussed on everything else.
A man across the table points his fork at Sam.
Why isn’t my mum wincing at that? Arguably that’s far worse etiquette than using the wrong knife.
“Fletcher. Tell me, do you think the next generation of British swimmers can actually challenge at Olympic level, or is it all just funding talk?”
Sam puts down his glass. “I think with the right investment—”
“Because I was saying to my colleague just last week,” the man continues, not waiting for the answer, “that what British sport really needs is more corporate sponsorship. Private money drives performance, that’s just a fact.”
“Mm,” says Sam, in a tone that could mean anything.
Kath catches my eye across the table, and we share a look of pure solidarity before she turns back to smile politely at the man, and I turn back to my performance. I wrack my mind for the best diversion to the conversation, trying to steer us to something more palatable.
The constant texts from Mum over the last week haven’t helped my stress levels either. Three of them in the last few days, each a different version of the same message: a pointed suggestion of who else I could have invited. Each time Mum had ignored my reply that I was bringing Tom.
By the time dessert arrives I’m hollow from the effort of trying to be perfect and knowing that I’m still messing up. Tom’s gone quiet beside me, and I know that it’s my fault. I watch him from the corner of my eye as he fills up his glass of wine, again. He shouldn’t have to be in a situation that makes him uncomfortable, and I was the one who brought him here. It was so naive of me. Naive and selfish.
Sophia follows me to the bathroom after dessert.
“You alright?” she asks quietly.
“Fine.”
She raises her eyebrows. “As if.”
“Let’s just get through this.”
“Just try and ignore Mum,” my sister says. But it’s not that easy.
As we leave the bathroom I see Mum and quickly gesture for Sophia to go back to the dining room while I talk to her.
“Honestly, Claire.” Mum frowns. “You should’ve let me choose your date. That boy looks entirely out of place.”
“Mum—”
“You know how much this event mattered to me. People notice. And dragging along someone who… well. He clearly doesn’t even own black tie.”
The words land in an oddly cold way, a way that seeps into my skin and makes me want to shiver.
“I did offer to get that lovely boy Alexander to come with you. He would’ve been a much better choice, he’s used to events like this and knows a lot of other people here through his job. Whatever Tom does, he doesn’t seem to know how to conduct himself in places like this.”
I open my mouth.
And I don’t say anything.
I want to. I can feel the words sitting right there: He conducts himself better than anyone in the room. He’s been kind all evening whilst everyone ignored him. But they don’t come.
They never come. I’ve always known this about myself, but knowing it doesn’t make it any less humiliating.
Standing in a corridor in a dress my mother bought for me, I’m sixteen again, silent, and waiting for it to be over.
