Page 36 of Every Silent Lie

A black dress. Simple, plunging, satin, long sleeves. I very nearly don’t buy it because of a single gold button at the top of the back slit, but I reason with myself. If it can be worn outside of December, it’s not Christmassy. I grab some black suede slingbacks, gold hoops, and head for the pay desk.

Easy. Done.

But I’m still feeling breathless, and by the time I’ve paid and made it out of the store, I’m hot, bothered, and short of breath. My flustered state is a reminder that I haven’t been to a social event for over three years. I haven’t mingled or made conversation.

Smiled.

When I make it to the corner of Regent Street, the accounts Jeff promised me land, and reading them is the best distraction while I take the Tube home, the walk too long to fit into tonight’s out-of-scope schedule. Even if, as Jeff predicted, I don’t like what I read. It’s worse than I thought. Terrible, in fact.

Deep breath, Camryn. I even almost smile thinking of Jeff’s suggestion that he wanted to say goodbye to me once I saw this report. He’s not fucking far off. “Jesus, Thomas,” I murmur, as I hop off the train and push my way through the clueless, lost tourists with the rest of London’s impatient commuters.

Dread coils up my spine like rising, thick smoke as I enter The Dorchester. I’m directed to the ballroom around the side, and I count five Christmas trees from the lobby to where the function’s being held. Endless giant baubles are scattered among snow-peppered foliage hanging from every available space. It’s over the top in a classy kind of way. I’d appreciate it if I didn’t hate December so much.

Christmas.

The season of joy and laughter, gratitude and perpetual hope.

Until it wasn’t. Until it only meant devastation.

I suddenly feel sick, my hand wrapped around my beaded clutch like it’s a life jacket. A dozen waiters and waitresses loiter by the double doors, wide smiles on their faces, a tray of champagne balanced artfully on one palm, the other tucked neatly away behind their back. My eyes instinctively scan the clusters of glasses full of golden popping liquid, searching in vain for the non-alcoholic option. Please don’t make me ask for it.

“Champagne?” a young lad asks. A student, no doubt. “Or an elderflower spritz?”

My relief is palpable. “The elderflower, please.” More so when he hands me a glass that’s only slightly paler in its golden appearance than the champagne. Not different enough for anyone to raise a brow and wonder why I’m not drinking. Because it’s Christmas, of course. Also the season of perpetual insobriety. “Thank you.” The sound of the crowds beyond the open doors, matched with the hordes of people dressed to impress, brings a mild sweat to my brow.

My feet refuse to carry me over the threshold into the room that glitters and sparkles, with fairy lights draping from one side to the other, forming a glowing crown above the Christmas kings and queens, who are all drenched in glitzy gowns and sharp tuxedos, smiles as wide as the hotel. The sight is blinding, the cheer deafening.

I need a moment.

Backing away, my hand squeezing the flute to the point I might shatter it, I divert to the ladies’, pushing my way in and taking a breath. I promised Thomas an hour, but I have no idea how I’ll make it through that hour. I’m struggling to even put myself in the room.

The marble vanity unit chinks when I place my beaded purse and glass down, and I take a breath. Two. Three. “Goddamn it,” I whisper, in a starring deadlock with myself in the mirror, glaring at my reflection while silently screaming to not let myself down. A drink will calm you. “No.” My voice is broken but adamant.

I puff up my already failing waves—I’m out of practice—and rub my lips together. The low neckline of my dress makes the dips above my collarbones look exaggerated too. Bony. I sigh, paying attention to my body for the first time in forever. I’m too thin. The long sleeves of the dress and the tight fit make it impossible not to notice. I can’t remember the last time I ate three meals in a day. Shopping and cooking for one feels like an impossible task. And pointless. I’ve never been a foodie. But I ate a lot, and I ate healthily. He insisted. And I didn’t object, because it was his arena, the kitchen, where he’d spend most of his evening prepping and serving, while I . . . did other things. I ate to live. He lived to eat. I was healthy without trying, and I was grateful for that. Completely. As I was grateful for the nutrition lessons with each meal.

“Fuck,” I curse, snapping myself away from my memories and rummaging through my purse for my lipstick. My shaky hands don’t help when I reapply, the colour falling outside the line of my lips. Or is that because I’m out of practice in this area too? I peek down at the gold Charlotte Tilbury tube, wondering if I should even be using this lipstick. I can’t remember the last time I did. When your life had colour. Finding it was like a haphazard stumble around the landmines in my life as I blindly felt through the box marked CAMRYN - DRESSING TABLE endless inanimate objects from my past waiting to be pulled free so they could explode in my face.

I reach for my mouth and trace the tip of my finger across my bottom lip, tidying it up.

You don’t wear lipstick, but you don’t need to. Because your lips are naturally rosy.

Ringing from inside my purse makes it vibrate on the counter, and I snap out of my thoughts, pulling it out and answering. “Thomas.” I pop the lid on my lipstick and stuff it back into my purse.

“Just checking you’re still coming.” I hear the caution in his voice as well as I see the stranger in the mirror before me.

“I’m just walking in.” I hang up, collect my things, and drag my game face from deep down. My shoulders are back, my spine straight as I hoof the door open. Three strides in toward the ballroom, Thomas appears at the doors, his green velvet tuxedo beyond the realms of extravagant. He’s walking proof that money doesn’t buy you taste. He looks like an elf gone wrong.

His eyes fall down my black dress when he finds me.

“Problem?” I ask.

“Not at all.”

“Good.” I pass him, and he quickly catches up, falling into stride beside me. “One hour,” I remind him.

“Yes, yes.”

“I might hang around longer so you can explain why your accounts look like a CFO’s nightmare.”