My Favourite Part

35: picture perfection

I've lost any sense of time, but it's well into the evening, I think – the night's in full swing. Kibou is the night's locale - a swanky Japanese jazz lounge, hired out at Kitty's request, of course.

The jazz is live, and every time the sax toots its cool blues, the sound bounces off of the clinking crystal glasses and the uproarious cheers of the room when our grinning chef tosses the contents of his pan up in a formidable burst of flames.

Eric and I are right at the head of the table – the heart of the perfect party. Except, it doesn't feel quite so perfect.

It looks it, without a doubt. It's bright-eyed merriment as far as the eye can see, and even where it can't, with giddy laughter pouring from even the darkest corners of the lounge.

And the Macklins, Jesus. I don't know how they do it - go on like this, I mean. Looking at them you'd think nothing was, ever had been or ever could be, wrong. They're all smiles and 'smizes' and social nights with soft lights like this one. They're snapshots of faultlessness in perfect lighting constantly, and I can't get my head around the idea of having a picture-perfect face, a picture-perfect life, at every second.

At intervals, Nelly shoots me glare as though when we accidentally catch eyes it's my fault. I understand it, though. As far as I, or anyone else, can tell, she's back to her condescending, cool-headed self. But I know she was broken up less than an hour ago. I know that she's still haunted by her little sister's death. I know she's human, and I think the thought pisses her off.

The birthday boy's on my right, oozing effortless excellence with the rest of them. With one hand on base of his champagne flute, and a gentle, gracious beam as he chats away, his charisma pervades like an expensive cologne. What the hell do I say to him?

"On the house," comes a kindly voice from behind, as a pair brightly coloured margarita glasses are set down on my left between Pip and I, "for the gentleman... and the beautiful lady."

The waiter's in all black, from his mop of curls to his Converses, save for a name tag and a thin chain around his neck, both gold in colour. When he carefully sets the drinks, crimson, sour-scented and chilled, he only gives us his near-black eyes for a moment, to flash a cautious smile.

I feel my lashes tickle my cheek when my gaze drops,

"Oh, um, I don't think we ord-"

Pip and I catch eyes when his sandy brows crease, and he blinks, bewildered.

"Evangeline..." he holds the bowl of his glass comfortably in his palm, "free fruity alcohol. This is the part when we say 'thank you' to the dishy man and start sipping. You, sir, are a top lad."

I blush as I murmur my thanks - he is dishy - and the wide-shouldered waiter bows out with the corner of his lips turned up in amusement.

"Oh my God," I hum once I take a sip, and Pip grins his salud with a cherry-red tongue.

The swing and song of the jazz band lulls momentarily. It's only for a second, and as soon as it passes, the slender saxophonist strikes them up again, but a second is long enough for the truth to pounce, and it's biting and bold, and were you really stupid enough to think that any amount of music could drown it out? He's broken. He didn't tell you.

Without missing a beat of his conversation, Eric moves a hand over my knee, exposed in the slit of my dress, and gives it a reassuring rub. I love when he's so unaware, so unpretentious with his affection, but I wince a little at his touch because his hand is cold, and his sister is dead.