Nobody in Particular(18)

Alfie’s mood is always chipper at events like these. He has the very disposition I imagine Father bitterly wishes I possessed—charming, a lover of the spotlight, and a natural ease with strangers. I would do anything to sit with Alfie during the meal. Alas, he’s joining his family down at the far end of the country’s longest table, and I mine. I’m to spend the entire four-course meal speaking to the prime ministers, and I had better get my heart rate down while I can, because an hour and a half of small talk tests my patience at the best of times.

I haven’t even prepared conversation topics lest there’s a lull, what with the busyness of our return to school. The best I can come up with right now is “Do you know this cutlery has been in our family since the 1800s?” which is bound to fill fifteen seconds at most. And that’s only if one of the prime ministers happens to be particularly enthusiastic about knives and forks.

If Alfie were allowed by my side, this wouldn’t be a problem, as he always seems to know which personalized-yet-appropriate question to ask to nudge a conversation along. In more ways than one, he would be far more suited to this position than me. If royalty were elected, I wouldn’t have a chance in hell against him. Or in general, to be quite honest.

“How’s Molly?” Alfie asks as we weave through the crowd.

“She’s furious with me about Amsterdam,” I say, and Alfie’s eyes flicker down, his lips thinning at the mention of that night. “I’ve barely spoken to her since school went back. She’s spending most of her time with Danni Blythe.”

Alfie clears his throat and focuses back in on the discussion. “Who?”

“You met her at Molly’s party. She had the—” I pull at the sleeves of my dress, and his eyes widen in recognition.

“Oh! The girl with the ugly puffer jacket?”

“And the blond hair,” I say. Caramel blond, I would say. With the odd strand of burnt honey.

“I remember her. Wow. Molly’s been spending time with … her? Isn’t she a scholarship student?”

I pause and shoot him a questioning look. “Are you judging her, Alfie? What would your father think about that?”

He looks rather offended by this. I meant it as a reminder of his father’s own middle-class background, not as an insult, and I’m surprised he’s taken it as one. “I see your point,” he allows, but there’s an edge to his voice.

“Please don’t make comments about her being on a scholarship. I’m sure she’s well-aware of it already.”

“Okay, okay. As though I would, anyway. I just thought this was a safe space.” He softens. “What’s she like, then?”

I shrug offhandedly. “Like I said. She’s Molly’s friend. I hardly know her.”

Through the crowd, William Montgomery, one of the family publicists, catches my eye. He cocks his head to summon me, his expression unreadable. “More on that later,” I say to Alfie, who gives me a sympathetic look.

I’ve gotten to know William rather intimately over the past several months. Though I’ve always been aware of him in the peripheries, he’s taken my shattered reputation on as a personal project. Or, perhaps, he was assigned it—I’m unsure. What I can say for certain is that he’s here to keep a close eye on my behavior today: it’s hardly a common occurrence for them to attend state banquets alongside us.

“I’ve been speaking to other people,” I say to William before he gets a word in.

He gives me an exasperated smile. “I haven’t seen you speak to one guest, Rose.”

“I spoke to three of them,” I insist. “Perhaps you were distracted? To think, all that work for nought on my end.”

“Three is a start, but you can do better than that. You have a golden opportunity here to remind some important guests how very charming and mature you are,” William says.

I wonder who he’s describing. It couldn’t be me, surely. “I’m trying. All anyone seems to want to do is gloat.”

“Let them gloat! Laugh with them. This crowd loves a touch of self-deprecation.”

“Almost as much as they love other-deprecation.”

William looks pointedly away from me. I think he’s doing his very best not to laugh. “Have you spoken to the deacon yet?” he asks, still facing the crowd.

“Not yet.”

“Speak to the deacon. If he asks how you’ve been, act repentant.”

“Is this a state dinner, or a confessional?”

“No reason it can’t be both. Oh, and your father wanted me to remind you about Alfie’s birthday.”

“Alfie’s…” I repeat, and then I blanch. Tomorrow is September 7th, his seventeenth birthday. Though he’s in the same year level at school as me, his birthday falls right after the cutoff, so he’s the oldest in his year. How could I have forgotten?

“Don’t panic.” William chuckles. From his jacket pocket he whips out a velvet box and hands it to me. “Your father organized something for you to give him. Just pretend you were building the suspense. He’ll never know. But then, for god’s sake, socialize with the guests, Rose. Do you want me to lose my job?”

Father has never once bought somebody else a present on my behalf. But I’m so grateful, I don’t pause to wonder why on earth Father was so aware of Alfie’s upcoming birthday, or why he didn’t simply remind me to organize a gift myself.