The Living Statue

16.

I was thunderstruck by the breath-taking scenary in front of me.

Before my eyes laid a beautiful, beige-coloured, neoclassical house with an iviting, prominent portico in the front. The walking lane that led to the front porch was covered with long, maroon carpet, encircled by flaming, outdoor torches. The front facade was covered in climber greenery that made perfect contrast to the light colour of the walls. Despite the dark night surrounding us, the whole place shone like the brightest of stars, adorned by beautiful, warm light that was flickering out of spacious windows.

The lawn in front of the house was a buzz of activity, women swaggering in their long, elegant dresses, men chattering in groups, enjoying the beautiful, uncommonly warm evening and light orchestra music playing in the background.

Mr Torres led me down the red carpet with his hand on the small of my back. My bare skin shivered under his touch and I mentally cursed Caroline for persuading me into wearing a backless dress.

"Just smile and stop fidgeting," he whispered into my ear as he noticed my uneasiness.

Then stop touching me, I wanted to say, but restrained myself from doing so.

I felt as if I were transported into The Great Gatsby. Everything was so perfect, so surreal, and yet I felt as if I didn't belong there. I've never attended parties like these before, and the pubs that Lena, Caroline and I usually visit are the complete opposite to this pageantry.

Somewhere in the middle of the walking lane Mr Torres stopped to greet the group of gentlemen. They were all middle-aged like himself, dressed in fine, expensive suits. One of them in particular, the man in modern, navy-blue suit, was standing out among the others, and not because he was breath-takingly gorgeous, but because he was the Frenchman from the picture Hugo and Mr Torres had shown me.

For a split second I could feel the bigotry between the two and then it was gone. Puff. Vanished. Finito. They shook their hands and gave one another a polite, restrained smile. However, even though the revulsion in their eyes was gone, the atmosphere was still tight.

Then, the Frenchman took my hand, his transparent, gray eyes piercing through me, and planted a kiss on the back of it, his thin moustache tickling my skin.

"And who is this lovely lady?" His question was obviously referring to Mr Torres, but his eyes never left mine. He didn't bother looking away, as if we were playing who-blinks-first. Let me tell you, if we did play the game, I would have been defeated miserably.

Mr Torres tightened his grip around the small of my back and pulled me closer to his side, taking me off guard. Just when I was about to punch him in the face for touching my bare back, I remembered something - what was it again?

Ah, yes. We were supposed to play a couple.

Not that Mr Torres would ever touch me in that way, or any other way for that matter. The only time he would actually place his hands on me would be if he had to tie me up or stuff my mouth with something to prevent me from speaking. I wager he'd pretty much enjoy that.

"That," Mr Torres started, his hand still firm around my back, "is Alena Griffin."

I expected him to introduce me as his girlfriend or at least a date. Then again, it is Mr Torres we are talking about. If he did introduce me as his girlfriend, it would've implanted a suspicion. Someone could've figured out that this was all a pretense, and that was the last thing Mr Torres wanted.

"It is my pleasure," the man said in a very conspicuous French accent.

"The pleasure is all mine," I forced a smile.