My Favourite Part

32: la vie en vert

Sure enough, I don't see much of Eric once the morning really begins. Ana brings us up his favourite breakfast, meaning that I get my first taste of eggs Comtesse without having to go downstairs and 'bump into' Louisa – a win-win in my book.

Once Eric's gone, though, I'm a sitting duck – one that'll eventually have to waddle down those damn stairs. Naturally, I delay it as much as possible.

"Now," I mutter, "which of ye is opera worthy?"

I narrow my eyes Old Western-style between the two dresses laid out on my bed. The face-off: the spaghetti-strapped rose-coloured pouf dress vs. the emerald, floor-length strapless. My phone's got some wistful-sounding French song on loop – the one that's always playing from the brasserie by school – and I'm hoping that the spirit of Édith Piaf will descend, with sassy and liberated flair, to tell me which one to pick. I pass a minute of silence in desperate optimism.

Nothing, Édith? Really? Fine.

Spaghetti strap looks like something I'd wear to Year 11 prom. Or rather, something I'd wear to the Year 11 prom where my boyfriend of 3 years (who's only really with me because we're both the most popular people in our year) kisses the new girl who transferred from public school, and confesses that we both know this isn't going anywhere.

But emerald looks like what I'd wear to a charity gala if I was about £4 million richer and was in love with my married boss but couldn't tell anyone, so resorted to wearing his favourite colour in the hopes that if I look elegant enough, he'll leave his wife. Jesus, am I projecting lives onto these dresses?

I flop back onto the bed, defeated, with a heavy exhale. Maybe I'll just go like this, I think, straining my neck to look down at my dressing robe. This could pass, right?

A knock against the door pulls me from my thoughts before I can make any more dramatic decisions.

"Ms. Evangeline?" Comes Ana's demure voice. 

"Come in!" I call back, but she still opens the door cautiously, with timid eyes. "Is everything okay?" I ask, propping myself up on my elbows. 

She smiles comfortably upon hearing the soft sounds of Édith and seeing me slumped on the bed between Dumped at Prom and Hopeless Mistress – I meet her kind smile with a helpless laugh.

"Just come to see if your breakfast was alright," she glances at the clear plates stacked on the desk.

"Oh – yes! Yes, it was amazing, thank you!" I enthuse, heaving myself up to pick up the pile.

As sweet as she is, at first, I had found it hard to speak to Ana. Her unassuming fringe and cherubic face made me inclined to hug her, and to tell her not to be silly whenever she picked up my glass the moment I finished drinking, and to insist that she could just call me Angie – but around the others, around Kitty, it was clear that things didn't exactly work like that.

I didn't understand the likes of Kitty and Nelly, who'd known the sweet woman for years, decades, and never allowed themselves to see her as anything more than a means to the end of a tidy house and tasty meals. It had become plain to me that when it came to dealing with people, it was the Macklin men who had the hearts for it – I'd see Pip telling her jokes while she hung the washing, even if she'd never let him help; Jono always gave his effusive thanks when he could, and thankful beams when he couldn't.

I chose to follow Eric's lead, grinning my thank-yous and clearing the table in defiance of Kitty's glares or Nelly's scoffs. And though I didn't imagine Ana would be inviting me for a sleepover any time soon, to be met with a real smile rather than the perfunctory ones she gave the Macklin women, had become what I most looked forward to at breakfast.