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The third woman batted her arm. “This one’s for saving the bees.”
“Oh, yes, yes! Even better!”
My gaze flicked back up to the chandelier, as if my will alone could cause it to fall.
“I wasjusttelling Henry about the bees. He’s been killing them, but I say, ‘what about the honey, honey?’”
Everyone gave a giggling laugh. Except me.
“Oh, Margot.” Ms. Jennings made atskingsound as she looked me up and down—more specifically, looked my designer suit up and down—the disdain in her eyes clear. “Let me take you shopping, dear. We’ll find you a dress you feel pretty in.”
“Doubtful.”
“Wouldn’t you like to feel feminine?”
I fought the urge to tug on my sleeve again. Though it might’ve been my favorite jacquard fabric, the navy material light as it draped over my figure, it would not do to fidget like a grade schooler in it. I made a mental note to throw the jacket out the second I got back to my room. “I feel feminine.”
Ms. Jennings scrunched her nose. “How? You’re wearingmen’s clothing.”
No man would be caught dead in any of the suits I wore, with the waist narrowly tailored and the pantlegs tapered to accentuate the curve of my thighs. The way my lace dress shirt stretched to emphasize my chest had been fit for my figure, something a suit tailored for men would never have. But Ms. Jennings didn’t see any of that. Noone ever did. She simply saw lapels and cufflinks and thoughtman.
“I don’t need to put skin on display to feel feminine,” I told her flatly. “But judging by the fact that you had your dress tailored with a hemline four inches shorter than its stock design is, and had the neckline deepened two extra inches to reveal most of your sagging cleavage, I’d argue youdo.”
The white skin Ms. Jennings had exposed now flushed a splotchy red, nearly matching her smudged lipstick. The surrounding women murmured amongst each other. “I—I didn’t have it tailored?—”
“It’s a Malstoni from their spring collection two years ago,” I interjected, bored. “Though you practically massacred it, it’s still recognizable.”
My mother grabbed my arm, fingers crinkling my jacket. “Margot Massey, not another word?—”
“And if you’re going to continue making out with men in the coat closet, check your lipstick when you’re finished, at the very least.” I tapped my lips with a finger.
I wondered if her partner had thought to wipe their own mouth off. A game ofguess which married man Ms. Jennings kissed this timemight’ve been just what I needed to lighten my mood.
“At least I can find a man to kiss,” Ms. Jennings snapped as she scrubbed the back of her hand against her mouth, stooping to the level of a sixteen-year-old girl once backed into a corner. “I bet you haven’t even kissed a man yet.”
I tilted my head. “Who said I’m into men?”
“Margot!” Mother’s scandalized voice screeched loudenough to cut through the piano being played in the center of the room.
This time, I did allow myself to smile a little, if only because of the sound of her distress coupled with the horrified expression on Ms. Jennings’s face.
My gaze caught on the waiter standing a few feet from our little bubble. He looked possibly my age or a little older, maybe twenty-five, and he stood out even further from the careless way he held his drink tray. It tilted haphazardly, not supported correctly with his fingers. It was obvious from the way the two champagne flutes tilted in one direction.
The servers at the Alderton-Du Ponte Country Club were trained to maintain masks of indifference for events, and here this man was, staring straight at me as if I’d called out his name.
The waiter must’ve been new, but the club typically put new servers through extensive training before assigning them to serve at events. High-profile guests deserved the best waitstaff. This one slipped through the cracks.
He was also the one, I realized, who’d been stopping by me time and time again to drop off a champagne glass. The one who’d been strangely attentive.
“Oh, Charlotte!” a new voice chimed, joining the already dreadful circle surrounding me like a swarm of relentless insects. I didn’t even try to cover my sigh.
Yvette Conan, another former cheerleader type who’d never grown out of that phase, smiled up at my mother. She was on the board of directors for the country club.
“There you are!” she exclaimed. “I’vebeen bouncing around from group to group looking for you—and got pulled in to talk to everyone, of course!”
Yvette clearly didn’t pick up on the tense atmosphere, but then again, judging by the way she stumbled in her kitten heels, it seemed she’d gotten the good champagne. Dr. Conan, her husband, came up alongside her, his hand curving around her waist lightly enough to not be reprehensible for the event.
The touch was most likely a gesture for show, anyway, given that he had mauve lipstick smudged on the corner of his thin mouth.