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Fliss blinks down at the tips of Rusty’s ears where they poke out beneath her watch. Her eyebrows pinch together, like she forgot the tattoo was even there. The fork droops in her hand.
“It hardly matters,” I say as Fliss places her fork on the table. Then, directly to my assistant: “You don’t need to show them.”
Screw it. She doesn’t owe these people anything.
My mother huffs. Dozens of eyes stare as Fliss undoes the watch clasp.
It lands heavily on the table cloth. Fliss holds up her wrist, tilting it left and right to show the whole table.
“This is my cat, Rusty. He drools when he purrs.”
All along the table, hands flutter over chests, and scandalized whispers break out. For god’s sake. It’s just a tiny tattoo.
And how have these people been so sheltered their whole lives? How are they so easily perturbed? It’s pathetic, frankly, and I’m abruptly so annoyed that I pandered to them at all. That I made Fliss cover her tattoo over in the first place.
I don’t deserve this woman.
My fingers clench around my fork. My throat is so tight.
“I like it,” I say loudly, and three seats away, an aunt gasps like I just declared a whipped cream fetish.
My mother scoffs. “Well, no Bamford will ever have such a thing.”
“If I marry Felicity, a Bamford clearly will.”
If she took my name, anyway. Whatever, it’s hypothetical, and now my cheeks are hot. I squeeze my knife and fork tighter to keep from tugging at my collar, and ignore my startled mother.
Fliss blinks at me across the fancy dinner settings. She looks baffled, but…
Lighter, maybe. Hopeful.
I suck in my first deep breath since the maze.
“I have one too, actually,” my grandmother quavers down the table. She’s hunched over her soup bowl, her puffy white hair like a tiny cloud. I swear, when she meets my eye, she winks at me. “But I couldn’t show it here. It’s not suitable for the dinner table. My Percy loved it.”
Louder murmurs this time. Wine glasses are snatched up and raised to trembling lips.
Fliss beams at my grandmother down the table. “I bet he did, Maude.” I’ve known that woman all my life, but somehow these two have built a closer bond in a single afternoon. Bizarre.
Something brushes against my ankle under the table. Felicity’s foot.
I swallow hard, staring so hard at my assistant that my eyes go dry. Don’t want to blink. Don’t want her to move her foot away.
Don’t want to fuck this up again. I’ll die if I do.
* * *
My grandmother corners me on the terrace after dinner. The doors to the dining room have been thrown wide, and a violinist plays inside, the music floating out into the starry night. My mother’s guests mill around, laughing politely, chatting about golf and politics and—let’s face it—Felicity. They can’t decide whether they’re thrilled or offended by her free spirit, but give them time. No one can resist Fliss for long.
Now, where has my assistant gone?
“There you are.”
My grandmother moves so slowly, I drain the last of my scotch and signal for two waters before she arrives. I swear, she gets smaller and more hunched over each time I see her.
I should visit more often. Visither, anyway. The rest of the Bamfords…
Well, maybe I don’t care what they think after all. Anyone who dislikes Fliss clearly has awful taste, and their opinion is worthless to me.
