My Favourite Part

29: friends?

Scott Kellerman was a young man of great importance. At least, that was how he had been treated from a very early age. When he spoke, the room listened; when he succeeded, applause resounded.

It's sometimes said that a boy can grow one of two ways when he knows that people are watching, one being more preferable than the other, and it was that course which Scott followed. He kept up appearances, never seen without a sports trophy in hand, or a pretty girl on at least one arm. He kept his attire effortlessly excellent – stylishly imposing and smartly impressive. He skated by in academia, doing his best to appear to his peers as though he didn't care what the report cards read, but they always read the same, and the consistency was of some comfort to him: 'stellar work; a sparkling young man.'

Coming from money was a key pillar in his importance, although he didn't like to think about that too much. His parents were new money Americans – big names on the New York filmmaking scene whose confidence (and talent to some degree) carried them from opportunity to opportunity, and eventually to London, where Scott was born, with the weight of great importance on his shoulders.

From time to time, being important felt too much of a headache, and around the age of 14, he'd discovered a way to rid himself of the suffocating sensation. When the day was still early, and the doorman dozed off and the drivers were off duty, he'd sneak out. Hooded and surreptitious, he creeped through the formidable front gate of his parents' Knightsbridge penthouse, past the Harrods, take the underground to London Waterloo, and just stand in the morning crowd. In all the jostling and intent of rush hour, he felt peripheral, and he relished the feeling.

Around 16, in the wake of his mother's 3rd marriage, Scott began to believe that he was the wrong kind of important. He was the expendable kind, which occupied a space fillable by any other young man with money, moderate sporting ability and well-aligned teeth. His mother's therapist said it was called 'imposter syndrome'. Scott called it life and didn't mind that he perhaps wasn't so important after all.

He'd stood in Waterloo today, but he hadn't enjoyed it as much as he usually did – likely because he was just passing through, and he wasn't alone. His older sister, Camille, had come to visit from the States, and insisted that the two went to Royal Ascot together, for 'old time's sake!' Scott didn't see why not. He didn't much like the pomposity of the whole event, but between planning her winter wedding and leading the demanding life of a New York magazine editor, Camille hadn't had much time for anything, let alone her little brother back in London – he said yes, and bound himself in a tailcoated monkey suit, determined to enjoy some family time. Sure, it meant engaging in some high-society hogwash, laughing at bad jokes, paying £75 for tea and the like, but he'd prepared himself for those prospects. What he was totally and utterly unprepared for was spotting Evangeline, rosy-cheeked and strolling alongside Mr. Macklin with linked fingers. Nonetheless, he'd done his best to ignore his acute awareness of her, given how things had turned out the last time. He'd only seen her out of school attire a handful of times, but today she looked an entirely different shade of glorious. She'd left her dark red curls to fly in the gentle wind, and that alone made his heart skip a beat, but the way her dress fitted and flowed in all the right places, the way she sparkled when she smiled without inhibition... He tried to focus on other things – the weather and the races and hey, Camille, do you think we should order the steak or the fish?

But when Camille saw her and began waving and hollering her over to their spot, the sound was muffled as though he was underwater, or worlds away.

"Scott. Scott, isn't that Angie Channing? Oh my god, it is! Angie! Evangeline!" As she waved her arm in the air frantically, he tried to shuffle behind her, look up, look down, look anywhere but at the girl approaching in the butterfly clips and blue dress. When Camille tapped him again, saying his name, saying her name, he was left with no choice but to gulp, straighten his posture, and look right into the eyes he often dreamed of; although in his dreams, he'd hoped they'd look into each other's eyes under rather different circumstances.