“Mom,” you say, heading into the den. “Which one of my shirts counts as ‘smart casual’?”
Your mom looks up from her laptop with a deadpan expression. “That plaid shirt we got you last Christmas. The one you shredded a few weeks back.”
You seal your lips, too smart to say anything, and just nod. Instead you head up to your wardrobe, poking around until you find a pair of cargo trousers that aren’t stained and a polo shirt. Posh kids play polo, right? It’s got some goofy crocodile on the left nipple, but who cares. You shove it on and head back out for the short drive to the larger, stately houses just south of the Masonic cemetery. There, you pull up in your truck and wait patiently. Brooke emerges shortly afterward, wearing a stylish summer dress. She takes one look at your truck and furrows her brow.
“What’s wrong?” You ask. She thinks for a moment, almost as if she’s not willing to say, before she points down the road.
“Park down there, we’ll take my car.” You shrug, start up your engine and drive away from her house, before walking back as she pulls out of the drive in an Elantra. You climb into the passenger seat.
“You look good,” she says. “So, the basic plan is that we’ll head inside, make our own circuit, then you make the introduction, OK?”
“Why don’t you just talk to them yourself?” you ask. Brooke looks at you.
“Because you don’t do things that way,” she says. “We’ll stick around for about an hour and a half if that’s OK. The only person you’re probably going to know is Kelsey, who’ll do her best to pretend she doesn’t know you.”
You nod, and lean back in the seat as you start heading the short distance to the club, up the farm road. It’s already appearing on the other bank of the Mohegan. “You’re friends with Caleb Johansson, right?” Brooke asks.
“Yeah, pretty good friends.” Though I really fucked up not getting him that Salopek gig.
“He ever mention me?”
“What? Uh, should he?”
“No, no. He’s just tutoring me, is all. He’s pretty funny. And really smart. I sure hope he’s got a good college lined up.”
Before you can answer, Brooke makes a left, then another left, and you find yourself driving down a private road that winds up to the country club. She parks out front and hops out, not bothering to wait for you to open the door, before handing the keys to the attendant. “C’mon,” she says. “Remember: best behavior.”
You follow Brooke into the place. The staff seem to know her on sight, collect a card she offers, and direct you outside onto a wide verandah, all neat slate tiles and ornamental trees, where you can see the expanse of the golf course extend back toward Acheson. There’s a table set out with drinks, and you’re immediately offered fizzy, flavored water with a little mint leaf inside. You quickly grow nervous: there isn’t any sign of a tent, marquee or anything that could reasonably be classed as a canopy.
Half the people gathered seem to be edging toward the grave, well past 80, while a cluster of youngsters are running free on the grass. Conversation snippets drift across the air: of financial incentives for small business owners (somehow you doubt anyone here has a small business); of the future of their bright young things; of the cream cheese slathered over miniature slices of bread on offer here. You help yourself to a miniature wooden spear offered by a waiter, the shaft impaling a series of shrimp dripping with a strange yellow sauce. You try and eat them as you follow Brooke through the crowds, simultaneously wiping your mouth with the square of tissue offered and wiping your fingers all around the pockets of your cargoes.
“Of course, the canapes aren’t as good as last year’s soiree,” an older woman wearing a dress at least two sizes too small and a belt far too tight says in your direction, leaning out of her conversation with a plastic face that’s suffered one too many botox injection.
“Yeah,” you say. First Toblerone, and now canopy? Fuck, is my IQ slowing drifting toward Keith’s? Up ahead, an obese man, belly bursting out of his chest and straining the resistance of his braces, has stepped in front of Brooke. He already seems drunk, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath from where you stand.
“And who, young Galloway, have you brought with you? Hmm? Mmmhmmph?” You’re not sure if he’s clearing his throat or asking a question. Brooke, for her part, manages to maintain her composure.
“Good afternoon, Dr Jacobs. This is Will, my escort for the afternoon. Will, Dr Thomas Jacobs.”
“Pleasure,” he says, staggering forward to clutch you with a meaty, sweaty palm, even as he leans in close to your ear. “Fabbagabba pretty young strumpet, hmm? Mmmmhmmph? Pert white tits. Baaah.”
You just smile and extricate yourself from his grip, wiping your hands again around your pockets and returning that strange yellow shrimp sauce to your fingertips. But, by this time, Brooke’s decided to tactically slip into another conversation, so you’re alone. You still haven’t spotted Mary yet, although you’re pretty sure you caught a brief glimpse of J.M., the quiet redhead, over by the drinks. You begin to make your way over when—
The hottest girl you’ve ever seen suddenly stands before you. A flowing, sublime cascade of light brown hair; pillowed, kissable lips; and a perfectly proportioned nose that draws you up into the deepest, most expressive eyes you could imagine. You’re so taken aback by her that you forget to breathe for a second, while a giddy feeling rises up from your stomach and washes down into your loins.
“Oh, hello,” she says, with a light smile and a light, sing-song voice. It takes far too long to realize she’s talking directly to you. Oh shit, she’s talking to me. Why is she talking to me? “I haven’t seen you here before. I’m Abigail. And you are?”
“Uh,” you try and remember your own name. “Will. I’m with Brooke. Here with Brooke. Came with Brooke, I’m not with Brooke.” You can’t stop looking at her eyes. Jesus, what fucking eyes. What color even is that? Chestnut?
“It’s really nice to meet you, Will. Oh! I love Lacoste. I especially like how you’re wearing the collar, making it your own. It suits you.”
“Thanks.” Are her eyes swirling? You’re sure they’re swirling, like miniature galaxies. Oh god, don’t get an erection. Don’t get an erection. Don’t get…
“Say, Will. Do you think you could do me a small favor? It’s nothing major, it’s just important to me, is all.”
“Wha-hmm?”
“Well, you see, I’ve got a friend in town, I met him through this charity I work for. He’s got Asperger’s, and if he doesn’t hear from me every so often, just silly phrases between us, then he gets panicked. And, here’s the thing, I forgot to bring my phone. I know it’s kind of stupid, but… do you think I could borrow your cell so I can send him a message, let him know I’m thinking about him?”
“Uh, yeah,” you say. “Of course.” Why wouldn’t you do that for Abigail and her amazing, sensuous, impossible eyes?
“Thanks, Will! I’ve only just met you, but I can already tell you’re the best! If you can give me the cell now, that’d be great!” My God these eyes go on forever. I want to drown in them. I— ouch!
Someone is pinching you, hard. “Hey, Abi,” you hear a familiar voice say: Kelsey Blankenship, queen rich bitch of Westside. Fuck, why is she pinching me? Why is she cock-blocking me and this dream girl? “So great to see you here,” she continues. “I’m just going to borrow Will here a moment, sorry to bother you.” Kelsey’s hold looks friendly, but somehow she’s twisting your arm into a chicken wing, even as she beams cheerfully at the beauty before your eyes.
“Oh, sure, Kelsey!” Abigail chirps. “It’s no problem at all. I’ll go get a drink. See you in a moment, Will!”
Kelsey’s smile lasts precisely for the ten steps it takes for her to lead you around a corner, spin you against the wall and put her hands on her hips as she stands in front of you like a disappointed teacher.
“What are you doing?” she snaps quietly.
“What? Here? Brooke invited me so I—“
She rolls her eyes. “Of course she did, you’re just her level of class. I don’t mean what are you doing here. I meant why are you talking to her.”
“I? Who? Abigail? Uh, she came over and asked if she could use my cell, and…”
“And you were going to let her?” She visibly winces, like a chess grandmaster watching a novice set up the board all wrong. Kelsey’s not worried about you doing something wrong. She’s offended by it. “Will, I’m going to give you this warning once. Do not give her anything. I don’t care what her story is: she can’t get your phone.”
“Why? What’s the harm?”
“To her, none whatsoever. To you—” she pauses. “You know what, if you want to let her, so be it. But if I were you, I’d suddenly find out my cell’s battery is dead.” She looks at you with a shiver, like you’re a piece of gristle left over from a steak dinner. “And, ugh!” without warning she grabs your collar, turning it back the way it should be, before storming away with a muttered “why do I even bother”.
You sidestep to the edge of the corner, and glance back at the assembled crowd. Abigail is chatting happily to a duo of elderly patrons, so old their backs have twisted to a hump and their jowls hang almost below their chins.
It can’t hurt to let her use your phone, can it?
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