The Living Statue

37.

All eyes were on me as I, stumbling over my own feet, lurched into the polished ballroom of the Kimpton Fitzroy Hotel. It's not that I was so breathtakingly gorgeous after relenting at last, reluctantly might I add, and letting Caroline do the makeover she so strongly wished for.

It's not the elegant, emerald dress or the immaculately done make up that has stolen everyone's attention. It was the fact that I was late, as I had suspected I would be, and had barged into the marvelous confines of the Fitzroy hotel right on time to see my sister's and the douchebag's first dance.

Or rather interrupt it.

Everyone turned to look at me, including the bride and groom who were preparing to get lost in the passionate art of the Viennese Waltz, with my mother leading the parade of angry, incredulous stares. I was there to watch her transformation and knew, for a fact, that she would turn into a cold-blooded Medusa in a matter of seconds, impatient to petrify me with her merciless, icy gaze.

Arabella, if she were in my place, ever so greedy for a spotlight, would've enjoyed the attention, but with everyone staring at me as if I were an ex convict, to say the least, I was petrified even without the Medusa-like gaze of my mother, my feet glued to the ground as if sealed with molten metal. It was a miracle that I haven't, on the high Jimmy Choos Caroline had picked for me, tripped down and fell.

The first dance went on after what seemed like an eternity, but my mother did not bother pretending, like the rest of them, that nothing had happened. I watched her as she strided towards me like a cheetah, weaving expertly between the guests and looking up every now and again to offer them her sweetest, most humble smile.

She was, as always, the epitome of elegance, the dress cascading in lush flounces behind her, a waterfall of endless shades of blue in perfect balance with the shiny, silver slingback stilettos. Her hair was, unlike mine which was left down to flutter in messy, wild locks, pulled back in a perfectly sleeked bun done by the hairdresser, a hairstyle of the utmost importance if she wanted that colossal, shiny sapphire around her neck on full display. And knowing my mother, she most certainly did.

I knew what she was going to say even before she reached me. "Showing up late, looking like a -" her ice-cold gaze lingered on my dress for a second too long, before settling on my messy hair, "- like a second-class prostitute on the day of your sister's wedding? Really, Anastasia?"

I winced as she called me by my first name, a name which was, during all of my childhood, strictly reserved for those not so rare occasions when I was in some big trouble. Everyone calls me by my second name, which made me so detached from the first one that it takes me a moment or two to realize that the person is referring to me when they use it.

"Calling your own daughter a second-class prostitute. That's very nice, Mother. Thank you very much," I spat through gritted teeth as the ceremony of the first dance proceeded behind her.

The curiouse stares did not completely go away - some of the people in the vicinity were still very much invested in our conversation, which made me oddly self-conscious, about my mother's words and the dress I was wearing. Because although I felt good on my way here, powerful, desirable even, my mother has made sure to suck out every ounce of confidence from my body. I felt like shit, to say the least, and suddenly had no desire of proceeding with the plan.

My mother has opened her mouth as if to speak, but I raised my hand to stop her from insulting me any further. "Spare me the great mommy lecture, will you?"

I turned on my heel to leave the ballroom, but couldn't unhear her venomous nagging before I stepped outside. "Where the hell do you think you're going? Anastasia?!"