My Favourite Part

13: juicy

I hold the outfit out, beholding the white tennis dress in all its glory, although truthfully there's not much there to behold.

Girls, trust me – the shorter the skirt, the better the flirt, Caz told us when we picked it up in Net-à-Porter.

Pretty sure that's not a thing, Caz, Babe had said sceptically.

Oh, trust me, she smized salaciously, before we burst into fits of giggles, it's a thing.

"Caaaz," I moan. I thought I liked the feeling, but the butterflies flitting about in my stomach are making me irritable and whiny,

"What if his family don't even play tennis!"

She doesn't respond, so I zip up the dress, completing the outfit with the white and beige Balenciaga's. I feel like a mini Caz. Finally, Babe breaks the silence,

"Angie, she's shooting you some proper daggers, mate."

I guess that's my answer then. I laugh and turn to the mirror, smoothing out the pristine dress. It looks... good. I look good. It's sleeveless, V-neck, and certainly on the short side, but it's not so revealing that it's distasteful, and something about the way the white material flares comfortably on my upper thigh, and clings to the outline of my waist, makes it feel innocently adorable. I think I like it...

"Ugh, whose idea was it for girls to play this bloody sport in skirts anyway?" And where do I go to thank them, I think as I turn, and admire how my figure looks in the getup.

"Oh... my... God." Caz gasps.

"What?"

"Oh my God!"

"Caz, what?" I can hear Babe's patience already wearing thin.

"Oh, mon pu-tain de dieu ! "

"Oh my God, Cara, can you fucking elaborate! ... Oh. Oh, my God."

I step out from behind the screen, pulling my hair into what I hope is a 'sporty' ponytail,

"Are we mon dieu-ing about anything in particular?"

Caz and Babe are sat with their necks craned over Caz's phone, and neither of them say anything for a second. Then Caz, still gawking, and without looking up, says in simple awe,

"Angie. They're rich rich."

Oh, God. As if I need the extra pressure.

"I know."

"Ange, they're, like, nobility rich." Babe clarifies, still captivated by the screen, too,

"I know."

"Evangeline. They are private country club, private jet, private fucking ski lounge in the Alps rich! Did you know Mr. Macklin's 'the honourable' Eric Macklin? Oh my God, dude!"

Somehow, Cara freaking out about the Macklins whilst sat in her 7-bedroom Chelsea house makes my stomach bubble. I had every reason to be nervous before, but if Caz and Babe are in awe of them, I don't know how I'll fare.

I exhale heavily, throwing myself back on the bed with a bounce,

"I know, guys. I know." Although, I didn't know Eric was an honourable. I'll have to tease him about that later.

They've found a picture of Eric and his family, in what looks like an empty museum, although I can't tell who's related to him and who's not – all rich English people, or at least the ones in this photo, seem to have the same well-structured nose and look of condescension.