Your Mark on Me

The Party (II)

It looked more like a wedding than a birthday party. It was decadent, eye-popping and luxurious. Everything, from the chandelier to the number of items of cutlery on the tables, or the impressive bouquets of flowers, to the string quartet providing the background music, screamed upper class. I had resolved to be strong, but the anxiety swirled in my chest the very moment we stepped inside.

I could already feel the stares, imaginary or not, burning into my skin. My shoulders hunched. I was trying to become smaller, invisible if possible.

"Don't worry", he whispered. "I won't let go of you, not even for a second."

"Would you like some champagne? Sir? Madam?"

I did like being called "Madam". I reached for the glass, but Mark's eyes stopped me. He was right: even if I weren't underage, it was definitely too early in the evening, given my history.

He nodded and smiled, greeting and responding to greetings on the way, while we walked towards the front of the banquet hall, looking for his sister. I followed him, unable to look anyone in the eye.

"Hey Marcus, long time no see! Your sister's going strong, isn't she?"

"Indeed she is", Mark laughed, replying to the short plump man that had approached us with a big smile. It wasn't his usual chuckle, but a burst of short, abruptly-ending laughter, which I hadn't heard in a while — the perfect counterfeited laughter for social situations. 

"Someone had to take after our father, after all. This is David Morgan, an old family friend. Scarlett Preston, my girlfriend."

The man's friendly smile turn into an envious grin. "I see you're taking after your father, too", he said. 

Mark's body stiffened. 

"Not at all", he replied coldly. "Good evening."

"What was that?" I asked him when the man was out of sight.

"Father was involved in politics too, just like Jane."

"Not that", I insisted. "The other thing."

"He was just being a dick."

I didn't have time to inquire any further; there were other people to talk to. The manner in which Mark was handling the situation was impressive. Controlled, neutral, introducing me with his usual assertiveness as if it was perfectly normal for him to be walking around all those middle-aged posh people with a teenager by his side. No one else dared to make any comments or allusions, at least not to our face, pretending it was perfectly fine, only their eyes showing that they didn't actually think it was. Mark, in turn, pretended not to notice. 

My chest tightened more and more, not as much because of the stares I was getting, but when I imagined what he must have felt, under the shell he was putting on.

We had been there for only about thirty minutes, and I was already exhausted. It was all too dazzling, the lights, the music, the fancy dresses the women wore, and too many people around, many of whom I had to be introduced to. Politicians, investment bankers, businessmen. One was a theater director. Another one was a painter and invited us to her exhibition at the Tate. An opera singer, with her husband, conductor - a couple who also seemed to display a big age gap, but it was less obvious and less easy to frown upon since they were both adults. 

We even spotted Claire with her partner. When they saw us, they walked away briskly, to the other side of the room.

Mark was different when talking to these people. His eyes, his gestures and his voice, even though well-mannered, were dry and cold with that hint of superiority, that cutting sharpness that I wasn't used to anymore. It was the way he spoke back at the beginning - when his voice didn't go all soft and smokey when he talked to me and the blue steel of his eyes didn't melt and shine when they met mine.