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Dad wanted the world for Mum, and it breaks my heart to see his dreams being ruined and my mum not receiving the fruits of my dad’s labour when it fell into the hands of Frederic, as stated by my father’s will.
A hand suddenly drops on my shoulder, and I jump in surprise before spinning around quickly.
I cannot believe my eyes. Before I know it, a loud squeal comes from my mouth. My hands fall around the intruder’s neck, and soon, he drops his around my waist, squeezing me against him.
“Topper! You bastard, you told me you weren’t in town for the next few weeks,” I whisper in his ear before I withdraw to stare at my childhood best friend. His raven black hair is longer than normal, and it’s pushed back with that one white patch he’s carefully nurtured.
“I love a good surprise,” he whispers before smashing two fingers into my side, making me jump away from him.
“You…”
“Evangeline,” Frederic scolds, before reaching for my arm again, but I step away and quickly link my arm with Topper’s.
An apologetic smile graces my lips, and a second later, without giving my brother time to argue my decision, I excuse myself, using Topper as my scapegoat.
And as I turn around, I ignore the hard, angry glare Frederic throws my way. How shameful of me for not playing the perfect sister for one hour.
“Now, get me a decent drink, woman,” Topper whispers as we speed-walk toward the nearest bar.
“It’s an open bar,” I say, looking at the tall, slim giant next to me. Topper is just what I needed to lift my spirits at this dull and painful event.
When I was eight years old, my old, witchy neighbour, who babysat me every Monday evening, told me everything she knew about vampires and werewolves. It was my overactive imagination that made me believe that the boy across the street was one of them. He had a slim physique, that telltale overly pale skin and raven black hair with a white streak that hung over his forehead. My old neighbour told me it was because his father had transformed him when a certain lunar eclipse had happened or something like that. My mum had said they came from France and moved back to England to live near his mother’s family, but I was convinced they were running from the police because they discovered that the Dubois family had blood-drinking tendencies.
The first time my mum let the Dubois family into our house, I was beyond terrified. I was certain we were going to end up as their supper. I was delighted, though, when I realised the vampire kid named Topper was a different kind of vampire — one who ate human food and did not drink our blood, but rather played hairdresser with me.
A few years later, I realised that my batty neighbour lovedDraculaway too much and then later when she proudly sat a signed copy ofTwilighton her mantel, I knew that she was not to be trusted. Topper ended up being a normal human kid with a lack of pigment in one spot of his hairline. Not a vampire.
He hasn’t changedmuch. He’s still extremely slim and lanky. He stands taller than everyone I’ve ever met. But it’s more than just his height that draws people’sattention; it’s his ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude that makes him memorable.
His shiny black suit almost looks like leather under the dimmed lights. He matched it with his blood-red dress shoes made for walking with pride and strength.
“Shoes are your armour.”Topper used to tell me when we dressed up for school parties and events at the tennis club.
A cross earring dangles from his left ear, one that matches the heavy necklace around his neck. Topper is a stylish man, and because of that great taste, he got himself a nice and comfortable position at one of London’s biggest fashion magazines.
And tonight, I’m happy he is here to burst my boring bubble of all the same people. The first thing he says to the bartender is a telltale sign of it turning from dull to interesting. I smile when I realise Topper will breathe new life into me with his jokes, stories and positive attitude.
“Two glasses of pink champagne, mon ami.” With his eyes still locked on the magnificent bar, he starts to talk. “You havenoidea what happened to me in Milan, sweets.”
“Do tell.”
“I, completely by accident, shagged a top model and made him miss his stint on the runway of one of the biggest bougie brands at the moment.”
“By accident?” I ask, raising my eyebrows while accepting a glass of that sparkling goodness called champagne.
“Did I say ‘by accident'? I meant to say, ‘he couldn’t resist my charm and dashing good looks.’” If I could bottle the way Topper turns that frown upside down, I would. Everyone deserves a Topper: a person who tries to make you smile, especially when you’re at your lowest and tears of pain leave your eyes.
He is an angel sent straight from heaven. My mouth curls into the first real smile in a while as I listen to him plough ahead with his ridiculous story.
He uses grand hand gestures that leave little to the imagination and spice up his conversations. Halfway through his monologue, Topper sips from his flute before he spits it back out. His eyes widens before pointing frantically behind me.
“Here they come.”
“Who?” I turn my head, searching through the crowd to see who Topper could be talking about. But all the men and women are just as nameless to me as I am to them. Except when they want something from my family and me, then they know my name. Every person here can get you a ticket into a higher ring. You just need to impress them enough.
“Do you think they meet up beforehand so they can walk in together and make this weird-ass entrance? People around here dig that stuff.”
“Who?” I press. A lame entrée sounds like a thing I cannot miss.
