From London With Love

18 | of vice and men

Ophelia was of the opinion that nothing could save this dinner.

Not even tagliatelle.

She pushed around the long, flat ribbons, slowly drowning them in a bed of mushroom, cream and sage. The bread — a hunk of sourdough fresh from the bakery — sat untouched on the edge of her plate. Only her red wine had been consumed. In fact, Digby had refilled the glass at least three times.

Across the table, Eleanora was droning on and on about some charity ball that UCL was hosting in two weeks' time.

"It's a complete nightmare," she said, shaking her head. "I'm on the organizing committee, naturally, and the logistics alone—"

"Pass the salt," Andrew muttered.

Ophelia complied.

"—are such that we really should have started in November. I mean, honestly; you have no idea what a bespoke Italian gondola costs these days. And don't get me started on the waterfall. It's criminal."

"What's the theme?" Digby asked, leaning over to steal pasta off of Ophelia's plate.

"A Night in Venice."

"You know," Andrew said, frowning as Digby twirled the glutinous ribbon, "you could just stand up and get more pasta from the stove, Fitz."

"I know." Digby kissed Ophelia's cheek. "But I like it better when the pasta belongs to a beautiful woman."

Ophelia couldn't help it; she blushed. Because firstly, she wasn't immune to a handsome man's compliments — so sue her. And because secondly, Andrew was watching them with dark, dangerous eyes that made her want to crawl under the table and stay there forever.

Eleanora delicately dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. "You'll come to the charity ball, won't you, Digby?"

Ophelia couldn't help but notice that she wasn't included in the question. Not that she wanted to be. But still. Rude. Digby leaned back, draping an arm across the back of Ophelia's wooden chair.

"Of course," he said. "I bought us tickets last week."

Ophelia whirled around. "You did?"

"That's alright, isn't it?"

"Yes." Ophelia swallowed. "That's... great."

It was not great. Ophelia could feel irritation pricking at her skin; who said that she wanted to go to some stupid ball hosted by Lady Macbeth reincarnated? Digby didn't know about the whole book-burning incident, but still — shouldn't he have at least asked her first?

And then there was the ball itself.

She was quickly realizing that Digby could be found at the heart of every crowd; if there was loud music, then he was there, kissing cheeks and cheekily kissing up. She had once admired that quality in him, but she was beginning to worry that it was all there was to him. That he was nothing when alone.

Digby would never take a morning walk with her, Ophelia thought wistfully, or bike to a beach, or wish on a bunch of dandelions—

She froze.

No. That was unfair.

Digby had plenty of good qualities, too, she reasoned; he read Kant and Dickens, and he was unfailingly generous when it came to loaning out guns, money or his holiday homes. He was never late to anything. And when Ophelia entered a party on his arm, she felt like the most desirable woman in the room.

He just wasn't Andrew.

But then again, Andrew had also taken her virginity and left her, Ophelia thought bitterly. So maybe it was a good thing that he wasn't.