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GENEVIEVE
Unwilling to hesitate any longer in the car, I don the mask I quickly learned was the key to survival at upper-class events. The driver opens my door, and I wait for Chaz to come around and offer me his hand—an unwritten rule. Gently placing mine in his, I gracefully slip from the car with his assistance. As soon as I’m balanced on my heels, he slowly raises my hand, his eyes only for me, even as the cameras flash, and places the sweetest chaste kiss on the back of it. My heart flutters like a butterfly ready to take flight.
With a secret wink at me, he hooks his arm through mine and turns, his bright, charming smile in place for the cameras. He once told me his mother used to make him sit before a mirror and practice this look—his act, as he calls it. After all, he’s used to the glittering throng of the elite social class of London. He’s used to playing the good son and fiancé, smiling, posing, shaking hands, and making them believe his life is perfect.
In all regards, he’s quite a good actor, sometimes too good. Haven’t I wondered more than once if he has ever played the part with me?
The thought makes me falter for a moment as he leads me down the carpet and pauses in the middle, waving and smiling at the cameras. My head is turned to him, and like he can sense my gaze, he looks down at me. His smile slips for just a moment as true concern enters his eyes. Without words, he squeezes my hand, asking if I’m okay. I smile back, and to anyone else, it must appear like a look of love, with both of us staring at each other like this.
And it is, just not in the way they think.
My name is being screamed, so I shake off my negative thoughts and paste a bright smile on my face, turning back to the cameras and posing for them. The flashes almost blind me, and the shouts get louder and louder as they yell questions and directions.
“One more!”
“Look this way!”
Accustomed to this, I do as many as I can before I am escorted from the carpet and into the hall. We’re led through the ornate, decorative foyer to the double doors surrounded by golden paintings. Once there, I take a deep breath and boost my smile before I nod at our escort and allow him to lead us inside the chaos of the event.
The room is huge, with a high, arched, hand-painted ceiling and moulding. The golden mirrors and paintings scream luxury and tradition. The hardwood floor stretches the length of the massive space, leading to more deep brown wooden bars and tables. There are strategically placed tables with name cards everywhere, ready for the wine and three-course meal. In the back is an auction table with pictures and plaques documenting the charity and its purpose. On stage, a band is playing, but later, that’s where I will speak. For now, people are slow dancing in their ball gowns and tuxedos. Every rich pig in the city is here to get good press and have a night out. Women show off their jewels and the latest fashions. Men display their latest wives. If it weren’t for what they can provide, I would hate these events.
So many people here are fake. They smile in your face as they shake your hand, all the while stabbing you in the back when you’re not looking, but I know how to play these social political games well as we make our way around the room. I greet everyone. After spending two weeks memorising names, vocations, and families, it flows easily from my tongue.
“And they call me the charmer,” Chaz whispers as he steers me from the prime minister and onto the next person. “You have them all wrapped around your little finger.”
“It’s just business, is all.” I shrug as I nod and smile at a couple passing by.
The next few hours are a blur. I ask the question “Are you having a good time?” more times than I can count, not to mention all the fake laughs and small talk about the latest diets and fashion. As if I care. Not tonight anyway. Tonight is about them.
The kids are the reason I am here.
My charity.
That means rubbing shoulders and playing nice, but by the time we are seated at the table for the meal, exhaustion is pulling at me, making my shoulders tight and my face tense. As always, Chaz senses it and covers for me during the conversation at the table. His bright laugh draws their curious gazes away from me and back to him as he steals the spotlight. It leaves me with a brief reprieve, which I am happy to have for a moment, but even then, his hand lands on my thigh under the table, stroking and squeezing to keep us connected while comforting me.
He truly is an incredible man.
I’m still learning how to navigate these situations, and although I may seem overly confident and sure, I’d still be hesitating in the corner, worried they could see the stitches in my cheap knock-off dress, without him. He taught me how to immerse myself into this world and held my hand throughout it all. Without him, tonight wouldn’t be possible, and I’m keenly aware of it as I lean in and kiss his cheek in gratitude.
Turning to me, he cups my chin lovingly. “What was that for?” he murmurs softly, only for me.
“Because you’re amazing,” I reply, and he grins.
“That I am.”
“Gah, stop it, you two. You’re making us old married couples jealous.” One lady, Sarah Brown, pouts across the table. She’s joking, of course, but I can still feel the very real envy behind her words as she stiffens, watching us in her Gucci dress. Her personality is as boring as her name. She’s a trophy wife to a famous footballer, yet we all know she’s the money man behind the scenes, which means I need to be nice.
“Old? Why, Mrs. Brown, there is nothing old here apart from that stunning antique necklace you are wearing,” I flatter graciously.
She puffs up at that, her smile returning as she leans in secretly like we are best friends. “A family heirloom,” she assures me with a wink. I laugh as if I appreciate her words, and she titters as well.
Luckily, I am saved by the bell, or more accurately, the microphone, as the host takes the stage to wish everyone a good evening and get the auction started. The tables fall silent as all eyes eagerly turn to the host. I can almost feel their purses opening, their wallets too. They are all vying to be seen as the least selfish person in attendance, hoping to hit the morning news for giving the most money to this charity. It works in my favour, so I remain quiet, holding hands with Chaz in the dark and hoping we make enough money for the kids.
I watch as the bids come in and winners are announced. There’s a three-course meal at Gordon Ramsay’s new restaurant, personalised by the chef himself, a trip to Paris, a new yacht, and so on. Chaz bids and wins a night at the most expensive hotel and spa in London and winks at me as he’s announced, making me grin.
I really am so lucky with how much he supports me.
After the auction is over, drinks are served and the music begins as people start to relax. At the end of the night, I will announce the earnings and do my speech. Until then, I must play my part, answering very personal questions about the charity and why it’s important.
