| |
For the second time today, I step into the wardrobe. Apparently the dinner, planned in my honour, is a formal black-tie event. I don’t quite see the need for all this fancy-shmancy stuff or the pretentious debutante ball with a view to introduce me into society, but if everyone there will be dressed up, I really don’t want to stand out like a sore thumb in my black jeans and a sweatshirt.
Maybe I won’t go at all? I muse hopefully in my head. Maybe I’ll speak to Sam or Tabby. Maybe I’ll say that I’m unwell?
Filled with dread, I take a few steps closer to the wall, filled with silky and glittery dresses. I never had the chance to touch one, let alone wear one, so I’m out of my depth here. I feel nauseated at the prospect of choosing and wearing one, and the idea to ‘throw a sickie’ sounds more and more appealing.
I stroke the silky fabrics and pray for inspiration to hit me. Do I wear a dress with sleeves or without? What fit am I looking for? How long a dress to go for and if I pick a long one will I manage to walk in it at all? What colour to choose?
I remember once overhearing the popular girls discussing prom dresses and mentioning something about some colours ‘washing you out’, whatever that means. I have no clue where to begin.
A delicate pale blue colour cuts through the sea of colours, catching my eye. The colour is muted and subtle with a grey hue and reminds me of a summer sky in Northern England. The silky fabric falls to the floor and as I pick it up it looks like I’m holding a waterfall in my hands.
I lift it for closer inspection and I’m immediately confronted by my fear of overexposure. The dress has two practically symmetrical V-shape cuts at the front and the back, which I swear will go to my belly button.
Although I do like the dress, I’m not brave enough to flash so much skin. I put the dress back and check out every other dress on the hangers. I decide to try two others: a conservative-looking black dress with sheer sleeves and a yellow fine cotton one, which reminds me of the 50-s with big and wide skirts.
But both have their faults. In the black number I will look like a young widow, while the yellow one looks like an expensive, artistic costume of the ‘sun’ for a local school production. The widow it is. At least I’m not going to get stuck in a doorframe.
“Ariel”, Tabby calls in a sing-song voice from my room.
“In the wardrobe”, I yell back.
She opens the door and skips in. Her skipping stops and a wide smile dies, turning into a studious frown as she sees me.
She tilts her head to the side.
It suddenly hits me that almost every encounter with her, she’s been looking at me, studying me as if I’m a monkey in a zoo, where she is on a school visit to learn about primates’ odd behaviour.
“What are you wearing?” she asks cautiously, stretching the last word longer than necessary, like she is afraid of my answer.
“Don’t you like it?” I try to sound chirpy, giving her a little twirl. I know too well that these types of questions never bode well for me.
“You look like a nun. Or a headmistress”, she scoffs.
Ouch. That hurts.
“There’s nothing else that looks any better”, I object weakly. “Maybe I can wear jeans and a T-shirt?” I propose, pleading with my eyes, but Tabby furiously shakes her head.
“No. You’re supposed to look dressy. Like me”, she chirps.
Tabby’s face blossoms again with a wide grin. She picks up the hem of her bright red elaborately embroidered knee-length dress and does a few little dance moves and twirls. She is clearly chuffed with her choice of attire.
“Yes, Tabby. You look very pretty”, I smile at her.
She stops mid-twist, serious again.
“Don’t you have any other dresses? You need a dress and it needs to be a good one”, she reprimands me, putting her hand on her hip, glaring at me.
She marches across the room and stops by the dresses. She pulls out silky and glittery fabrics one by one, rummaging through them, and my heart stops when she pauses by the pale blue number.
Oh no; say hello to the ‘peek-a-boo nipple’ game.
“What about this one?” her face lights up as she looks at me over her shoulder. She likes this dress.
“It’s a very beautiful dress, Tabby, but the cut is too deep. It’s just too revealing”, I’m trying to reason with her.
Tabby glares at me.
“Have you tried it?” she demands.
“No, but-”
“Exactly! How are you supposed to see how it looks if you haven’t tried it?” This child is clearly exasperated with me and isn’t hiding it. “And Lis will be there. You don’t want her to make fun of you.” She looks up at me, batting her eyelashes, a picture of innocence. This girl knows how to work people.
She is not tall enough to reach the hanger, so she stands there, holding the side of the dress, staring me down, waiting.
“Okay”, I resign myself to it. Maybe once the dress is on and I do a few jumps, she’ll see just how likely it is for my boobs to pop out, and she’ll leave me alone.
I put the dress on. The silk is weightless. It’s cool and smooth against my skin, like I’ve stepped into a pool, minus the stench of chlorine. I stroke the fabric, loving the feel of it against my skin and hating the fact that I like it so much. I shouldn’t get used to all these nice things, they’ll be gone once I’m out of this place. Everything that surrounds me now will disappear, including Sam.
Hate him!
“You see. You look beautiful, like a princess”, Tabby is jumping in front of me, clapping her hands; her grin is back.
“Thank you”, I walk to the nearest mirror ready to bounce myself, to prove my point, when I halt to an abrupt stop, as I catch a glimpse of my reflection.
The stranger in the mirror stares back at me with an awed and frightened expression. She looks elegant and sophisticated in this dress. My hair is swept to the side of my face, falling freely and looking unexpectedly well. The dress hugs my figure perfectly. Thin like thread, a silver chain holds both sides of the fabric in place over my chest.
I love this dress and now I don’t have any valid excuse to take it off. Not that I want to.
It falls to the floor and I need to pull it up slightly when I walk.
“What shoes do I wear?” If Tabby started dressing me up and offered her stylist’s services, she’ll have to finish it off.
“How about those silver ones?” She points at the wall of shoes behind me.
My gaze follows her finger. Shiny, silver, pointed shoes stand out among the others. I come closer, relieved at the sight of a small and sturdy heel and an ankle strap. In these I could walk.
Like all the other shoes in this massive wardrobe, they fit perfectly.
“And the hair?” I ask her.
“I can brush your hair for you”. Her face lights up at the prospect to play with a real, life sized doll.
“Thank you. That would be great”.
With a small squeak, she runs out of the wardrobe to get a brush. I take a seat on the couch and wait.
She comes back, a few minutes later, holding the hair brush and a small tube of lip gloss, proudly waving both high above her head like a captured enemy’s flag.
“I got you lip gloss as well”, she babbles. She is so excited, that her words come out of her in a rush, gabbled out, half of the vowels are swallowed.
She climbs up on the couch behind me and gets to work.
I enjoy my hair being brushed, enjoy being tended to. It reminds me of the good times, when mum still cared for me and when she would do my hair every morning while singing the latest pop tunes to herself. She loved me then.
“Why are you sad?” I don’t know when the brushing stopped and how long Tabby studied me in the mirror on the wall.
I blink through the pain, past the memory. “I was thinking of something. Everything’s fine, Tabby, don’t worry.” I stretch my lips into a smile. I don’t know who I’m trying to fool, but Tabby is not buying it. Her intense gaze is on me, readying for further interrogation.
“Ariel”, Sam calls from the room.
“We’re in here”, I call out. “In the wardrobe.”
It strikes me how weird it sounds to be ‘in the wardrobe’ and even weirder to have a party in one.
He opens the door and takes a few steps in. His bright blue eyes are on me, taking in everything from the tips of my shoes, poking from under the hem of my dress, to the top of my head, with my hair brushed to the side.
For the first time, I see his eyes widened and unguarded. Unexpectedly his face looks younger and more vulnerable. His hankering gaze rakes over me, consuming, taking all of me in. I fidget on the spot, uncomfortable under his gaze, smoothing invisible wrinkles on my dress.
And just as suddenly as it came, the spell disperses. The energy has shifted, the moment has passed and his stance is once again relaxed and casual. His usual arrogant smirk is back on, stretching his lips. His thumb is hooked over his trouser pocket as he leans on the doorframe with his shoulder. He lets out a long whistle.
“Not bad, Mermaid, not bad. You clean up very well, in fact”, he offers.
“Thanks”, I scoff, relieved and upset at the same time. I’m afraid of the return of that energy, but somewhere deep inside, where I don’t even want to acknowledge it to myself, I want that moment to come back.
Sam looks like a movie star in his perfectly fitted black tuxedo, putting to shame my feeble attempt at sophistication. His bow tie is still hanging untied around his neck, adding to his irresistible ‘Hollywood star gone bad’ look. His hair falls perfectly over his eye and now and again he raises his hand, casually sweeping back his glossy waves.
“Now we need to put on some lip gloss and we’re done”, Tabby sounds pompous like a professional make-up artist. Then she smears the lip gloss over my lips. Thank god it’s a light colour, otherwise I’d look like a clown.
“Done.”
She jumps off the couch and takes a few steps back, assessing her work like a true artist.
Sam takes that as a cue and strides over to me, offering his hand. I take it and he gently pulls me to my feet.
“You look beautiful, Mermaid”, he murmurs into my hair. He is so close to me. He is not taking a step back, not making a move to release me. He just stands there, holding my hand in his, hovering above me.
I lift my head. I’m so close to him that our breaths mingle. His gaze is hot, searching. I can smell his aftershave, laced with his usual scent of the undergrowth and a tang of mint on his breath and, surprisingly, I like the proximity and warmth of his body next to mine.
“Okay, shall we go?” Tabby’s chirpy voice cuts into my foggy mind. Reality comes back, flooding in, crushing the dream rudely, reminding with a slap that guys like him never have anything to do with girls like me. I fiercely blink to disperse the spell, angry with myself, and take a step back, pulling my hand out of his and adjusting my glasses on my nose to hide my discomfort.
“We should go”, I tell him. He nods and follows me out of the dressing room.
The lift ride is uncomfortable, but luckily for me, brief. Tabby seems to be oblivious to any of it. She is busy chatting, speculating about the food and entertainment planned for tonight.
The lift pings. The doors open and I’m immediately deafened by the noise of the band playing and hundreds of guests talking, laughing and clinking their glasses. The party is already in full swing.
Sam offers me his bent large muscular arm and I take it, grateful deep inside for this lifeline.
The immense banquet room is lit with hundreds and hundreds of candles in chandeliers under the ceiling and on the walls, in crystal candle holders on the tables. Everything glitters and sparkles in this room, the people, silverware, crystal chandeliers, glasses and jewellery. The walls are covered in deep blood red velour, interrupted by an array of large and tall windows on both sides of the room, now black with the darkness outside.
Red velour is clearly the theme in this building and I wonder if they got a bulk discount on the purchase. The high, glistening white, dome ceiling above me is covered in large artfully painted and intertwined gold hieroglyphs, somewhat reminding me of the ones on the panel in the lift. They intertwine like branches of an old tree, flowing, dancing on the ceiling, becoming a perplexing, beautiful work of art.
Wings of different shades, colours and sizes are neatly folded behind guests’ backs. Only a few guests here have four wings like Sam and Baza while most of them have just two wings behind their backs. I’m the only one in this vast room without wings and oddly enough, I feel naked.
The air in the room is filled with the smell of jasmine, freesias and a melting wax.
A half moon stage is raised against one of the walls. A group of two winged male angels in white tuxedos are playing soulful and brooding Blues on their instruments. A gorgeous blonde with a luminescent pair of white wings and dressed in a pure-white dress is in front of the band, crooning something seductively into the microphone in a language I can’t understand.
As we walk farther into the room, the crowd parts in front of us, giving way as guests turn in our direction. Some angels smile at us and a few salute me with their drinks while others just watch with scathing glares. Some gazes are assessing and speculative. There are even some with open scowls on their faces, directed at me. Not everybody is pleased to see me here, that is for sure.
With every passing minute and with each new hostile glance, I feel more uncomfortable, more out of my depth, vulnerable. Even Sam’s presence and warm strong arm does nothing to settle me. My hands are clammy. I feel hot and sweaty, as I’m trying to keep my feet from bolting back through the entrance door.
Sam turns his head to me, taking in my flushed face.
His gorgeous face is a peeved stony mask. His lips are set into a thin line. He is angry. And for a moment I think that he is angry with me, and I take a surprised step back, pulling my arm out of his hold.
But his face warms up the second his eyes meet mine. He places his warm hand over mine, threaded through the crook of his arm, and gently rubs my knuckles, and just like that I feel better. He smiles encouragingly at me and then gives me a playful wink. I know my answering smile is weak and pathetic as his forehead wrinkles at the sight of me.
And then I trip. Lost in his eyes, I miss the step, tripping over my long skirt, but before I can start my flight across the room and humiliate myself further, Sam’s arm locks me in place, holding me up. Then his arm releases mine, snaking around my waist, keeping me close to him. His arm is like solid warm metal, anchoring me in place.
“Are you okay?” he whispers above my head, leaning in closer. His breath strokes the top of my head. His lips are like a butterfly, fluttering above it.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you”, I raise my face up. Our faces again are just an inch away. My eyes are locked to his. Curtains are falling around us, blurring my vision, leaving only Sam in it. My head is filled with his smell, his warmth and pull of his eyes. My eyes slowly slide down his face and lock on his lips.
I swallow.
An invisible power pulls at my body, urging my face closer, against all the reasons and doubts that are muffling something important somewhere deep at the back of my brain. My toes are itching to stretch, to push my body for the last inch.
But he just stands there, not making a move. But not pulling away either. I can’t read his guarded expression.
I wrestle with myself, for a long minute or maybe an hour, I don’t know. I reluctantly pull my gaze away from his only to slam into the deadly iceberg of Lis’ eyes. She could kill and freeze at the same time. The Titanic would have no chance against her icy stare.
Oh, for Christ’s sake! I inwardly roll my eyes. That’s just getting old.
Fine. You want the drama? I’ll give you the drama!
I narrow my eyes at her in a challenge and before I get cold feet and change my mind, I spin around to Sam, reach out and lay my trembling hand at the back of his neck. His big shocked eyes are fixed on me, searching my face for an explanation.
Sudden fear, brought in by the common sense at the back of my mind and the possibility of public humiliation, punches at my chest, shrinking my lungs, filling my head with vivid humiliation scenes. But I’m already in the game and leaving it now would be just as humiliating as to see it through. Taking in a shaky breath, I decide to take a chance and jump into that abyss. Maybe that’s the problem with my life? Too much ‘chancing’?
My mouth is dry and I hastily run my tongue over my lips.
With numb fingers, I gently pull his head down, towards me, towards my lips.
My decision is made. I’m about to kiss a boy. For the first time, ever. And I only hope that he feels the same way about me or at least is willing to kiss me now. My hand is shaking on his neck, my eyes darting between his eyes and his lips.
I’m so out of my depth here and don’t even know how to do it. I’m starting to hyperventilate, instinctively licking my dry lips over and over again, desperately trying to think what to do next. My heart beats a jumpy tempo.
Finally, understanding lights up behind Sam’s eyes. His lips are leisurely stretching into a knee-melting smile as he bends down, closing the last inches between our lips.
His soft lips are on mine, gentle and tender. His arms bound me, pulling me closer, fingers rubbing the nape of my neck. He is not pushing, not rushing anything, letting me set the pace.
He is letting me know that I’m in control.
I reach on the tips of my toes and entwine my hands around his neck. His smell fills my nose, exploding in the kaleidoscope of blinding shards in my head, cutting through reason, morphing the reality.
I don’t want to let go.
“Ah, young love”, Baza’s soft voice like an upcoming train, rushes through to the surface of my fogged up mind, grounding me, waking me with its blinding beam. “I remember being in love once. Although that was eons ago.”
My face heats up as I pull away from Sam, keeping my eyes down, reluctant to look at anyone. But Sam’s hands are on my waist, steadying me, not letting me go.
“Ariel, I hope you are hungry”, Baza says to me. “I have been told that I have the best chef in the universe.” He winks at me, his soft smile deepening the millions of wrinkles around his eyes.
Baza is in an exquisite tuxedo today, his bow tie hiding under his round beard. As he stands, he’s leaning on a black, shining walking stick with a silver intricate handle.
Baza turns to the crowd, raising his arm with his cane in the air. The music dies down and so does any chatter. Silence spreads over the room.
“Friends, it’s a remarkable day today. We welcome a new member into our family. She is eminent, strong, extraordinary. Her arrival will mark the beginning of a new era for us all. We will take back what has been taken from us, and we will show that we are a force to be reckoned with. Our family is now formidable. We are joining forces. We are finding allies and we are growing. We are growing in numbers and in power, shaping our own future. Now we can make the world our own”, he calls to the room, a powerful and charismatic leader igniting his followers.
“But that’s tomorrow. Today we drink, eat and enjoy the lovely company. So let us show our guest of honour a good time and welcome her warmly into our family.”
An uproar of applause, whistling and cheering takes over the room. Some wings shoot up towards the ceiling. The floor is vibrating under the stamping feet.
Baza offers me his arm. “Shall we?”
I hesitate for a minute, but Sam releases his hold on me and I take Baza’s arm and he leads me to the table. Baza is taking the seat at the head of the table, gesturing for me to take a seat to his right. Sam takes the seat next to me.
Baza’s speech has confused and unsettled me. The outcry for a battle, where I seem to have been assigned a side already, doesn’t sit well with me. I decide to push Sam for answers after dinner.
Our extremely long table is flanked on each side by two mile-long tables, creating an entertainment space in the middle, which is promptly taken by the earlier singing angel. She is singing a broody ballad in that strange language with an accompaniment from one of the male angels in a white tuxedo, playing a miniature harp. Her voice is pure, bright and haunted.
The tables are covered in white, crispy linen, with candlelit candelabras placed in a highly organised fashion. A ridiculous volume of cutlery and crockery in front of each seating starts another wave of perspiration on me. With so much stress, I will need to have another shower soon.
About twenty pieces of cutlery are fanned around and above my plates, six different glasses and a few ceramic bowls to my right. I frantically turn my head from side to side, scanning the plates’ settings on either side of me, hoping for some clue on this poncey setup. How am I supposed to know what all these things are for and when to use any of it?
Sam’s warm hand comes over mine, which is shakily strangling a napkin on my lap.
“Just follow my lead”, Sam’s warm breath tickles my ear.
I lift my eyes to his and nod.
At that moment, the doors open to let in an army of waiters in scarlet red suits with crispy, white shirts underneath and black bow ties. Each waiter is as handsome as the next, with beautiful faces and a muscled physique, but behind their backs flutter a set of large butterfly wings in different shades and patterns.
The waiters are carrying trays heavily laden with food and pitchers of drinks. But I barely pay any attention to the food and drinks appearing in front of me, as I sit there, mesmerised by a colourful show of the moving butterfly wings, which flutter in time to each owner’s move. Their wings are thin as rice paper, letting the candlelight through, illuminating and changing the colour on them.
I seem to be the only one gawking at the waiters, as the room slowly fills with the noises of a ravishing party, with hundreds of voices talking and laughing, cutlery scraping on plates and glasses clinking.
I lean over to Sam.
“What are they?” I whisper, jabbing my chin in the direction of the nearest waiter.
“How much do you know about ancient civilisations?” he whispers back, leaning in closer.
“Very little”, I admit. The school curriculum is filled with Romans but nothing older than that. I watched some TV programmes about Ancient Egypt and Tutankhamun, but that’s about it.
“They are ‘istana’”, he whispers back at me. “They’ve lived here with us since their Sumerian goddess visited and left them as collateral”.
“Sumerian. Wow. So is that the language she’s singing in?” I turn my head in the direction of the space in the centre where the singer is still serenading to the guests.
“Yes. All of us speak old languages but some relics”, he carefully inclines his head to a group of older-looking angels at the nearby table, “still stubbornly refuse to learn modern languages. But come on, Mermaid, this is a party in your honour, so eat, drink, and be merry”, he grins.
I pick a spoon and start on my first course, which, thankfully, I can recognise as soup.