Page 8 of The Life Experiment

‘So I told her to get out or I’d call the police!’ Jasper roared, banging the table with his fist, making the patterned china and silver cutlery jump in the air.

While the rest of the diners guffawed, Angus stifled an eye-roll. How anyone could believe Jasper’s story, that he once dated a woman who tried to rob him, was beyond Angus, but when someone shouted loud enough, people tended to believe what they said.

Sipping his whisky, Angus glanced across the garden to the main house. His parents and their friends sat on the veranda, no doubt having similarly insincere conversations. The only difference was they were at the grown-up table, and he was at the children’s one.

No one called it the children’s table anymore – not now that most of those seated at it were keeping wrinkles at bay via botox or staring down the barrel of a divorce – but that’s what it was.

Pushed off to the side, under the embrace of an oak tree and surrounded by portable heaters due to the autumnal weather, everyone at the table was the offspring of one of his parents’ friends.

Partygoers, socialites and travellers burning through their inheritance like the money was theirs to spend in the first place.

Suddenly, a hand trailed up Angus’s thigh.

Glancing to his left, he locked eyes with Clarissa Dowess.

Set to inherit an expansive property empire when her father died (probably of a heart attack, judging by Archibald’s rich diet), everyone expected Angus to marry Clarissa.

She was, after all, an ‘eligible’ match.

The daughter of Peter’s best friend, four years younger than Angus and classically beautiful, his mother called her ‘a darn catch’.

She was also a tedious bore with a crippling cocaine habit. As Angus placed his hand on top of hers and gently pushed it away, she pouted. ‘Aren’t you in the mood for a little fun?’

‘You mean this isn’t fun enough?’ he replied, gesturing to their surroundings.

Smirking, Clarissa picked up her champagne flute.

‘It’s a riot. Who doesn’t love Jasper’s stories?

Although this one gets more outrageous every time I hear it,’ she said, leaning so close to Angus that her lips brushed his ear.

‘One wonders if perhaps our dear Jasper isn’t exactly forthcoming with the truth. ’

As if sensing he was the topic of conversation, Jasper looked across the table. When his gaze met Clarissa’s, he winked.

Triumphant, she turned to Angus. ‘At least someone’s keen for a good time.’

Angus shrugged. ‘Maybe you should sit with Jasper instead.’

With a haughty glare, Clarissa snatched her embellished bag from the table.

‘You know, you can be a real dick sometimes,’ she snapped.

Rising to her feet, Clarissa’s theatrical exit was hindered by the legs of her chair, which had sunk into the grass.

Furious, she battled with them until finally, with a squelch, she was free.

Angus watched Clarissa sweep to the other side of the table. There, she slid onto Jasper’s lap, twisting her body until her silky dress pulled tight across her chest. As his cheeks flushed red, Jasper couldn’t hide his delight at the surprising turn of events.

Angus knew he should feel something. A kick in his gut or some ounce of anger. After all, he and Clarissa had been hooking up for years, but seeing her entangled with his best friend, Angus felt nothing.

‘Someone’s playing her usual games,’ Fergus quipped beside him. ‘When will you two make it official and save us from this never-ending drama?’

Angus downed the rest of his drink. ‘Never going to happen.’

‘My friend, marriage comes for us all eventually. Especially those with parents concerned about continuing the family name.’

‘And you think Clarissa is the right woman for me?’

‘Angus, you and Clarissa have more money behind you than most of this table combined. If that doesn’t make her the right woman, what does?’

Angus’s mouth twitched, the only response he could muster to such a depressing statement. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, standing abruptly. Without another word, he strode across the grass towards his parents’ impressive Buckinghamshire estate, aware of Clarissa’s eyes boring into his back as he went.

It would have been quicker for Angus to head to the kitchen via the veranda, but he entered the house through a side door instead. Anything to stop his mother stretching out a slender hand and drawing him into stilted conversation with whichever friend she wanted to belittle.

Inside, Angus drifted through grand room after grand room.

With tasteful, opulent interiors, the stately home was luxury in its purest form.

Everyone agreed that Gilly Fairview-Whitley had done an exquisite job with the latest renovations.

Angus wondered if his mother would ever admit to using a top interior designer for the task.

The kitchen was a hub of frantic activity as a team of caterers rushed to ensure everything sent out met Gilly’s exacting standards.

The chaos was overseen by the Fairview-Whitley’s housekeeper, Ms Tillman.

Employed by the family for the last eleven years, Angus’s interactions with Ms Tillman usually centred around her rustling up a hangover cure for him.

When she saw Angus enter the kitchen, Ms Tillman frowned and moved towards him, but a chef arranging a selection of delicate desserts got to him first.

‘Is everything okay with the food, sir?’ she asked.

‘Everything is wonderful. I only came inside for a beer.’

‘Haven’t they been served?’ she replied, shooting a withering glare at a passing waitress.

‘There are plenty of drinks outside, thank you. I just fancied getting away from it all, you know?’

The woman nodded, but her expression indicated she had no idea what Angus was talking about. Get away from what – a lavish party? Being waited on hand and foot?

Shying away from the judgement, Angus headed to the fridge.

As his hand wrapped around the neck of an ice-cold beer, he heard his father calling him from somewhere inside the house.

Angus paused, debating whether to shout back or hide in the kitchen, but as he turned, Angus discovered Peter had already found him.

Even with his casual suit rumpled, Peter Fairview-Whitley was a man with presence.

His broad frame and thick head of hair marked him as good looking despite his sixty-plus years, but even without such strong physical attributes, he would still command attention.

There was something in the way he strode into every room, like it should be grateful for his presence, that made people stand straighter and try harder.

Not for the first time in his life, Angus wondered how someone like Peter could have a son as pathetic as himself.

The hubbub in the kitchen doubled now Peter was there, but Angus wanted to tell the staff not to worry. Peter Fairview-Whitley was a teddy bear. Gilly, on the other hand… Well, the less said about her ability to reduce people to tears, the better.

‘Did you come inside for a drink too?’ Angus asked.

‘Actually, I followed you. I thought we could talk.’

Angus tried not to react, but in his surprise, the beer nearly slipped from his hands.

‘Don’t look so worried, son. Come on, let’s get out of the kitchen.’ Peter clapped his hand on Angus’s shoulder and steered him away.

Angus expected Peter to take him outside to join an exchange with one of his boorish friends, but instead Peter led Angus to his office.

Traditionally styled with wood panels, it was filled with antiques and rare first editions.

Fiction had provided escapism for Angus as a child, so his father’s book-lined office became one of his favourite places.

Not that Angus had often been allowed in.

The contents of that room are far too precious to be handled willy-nilly by someone so reckless , Gilly would scold whenever she caught Angus inside, usually when Peter was away on business. Go play elsewhere.

For the most part, Angus obeyed the ‘stay out’ rule. But on his more rebellious days, sneaking into the room that smelled like Peter and curling up in an armchair with a book was the closest Angus felt to being at peace.

When the office door was closed behind them, Peter led Angus to the window.

Side by side, the pair observed life on the other side of the glass.

The garden seemed alive. Four of Angus’s schoolfriends lay on the grass, watching a drunk member of the party try to do a handstand.

At the main table, Gilly was entertaining her audience with another carefully constructed story.

Over by the oak tree, Jasper was doing the same.

Two expert hosts, two larger-than-life personalities.

Two people who fit in exactly where Angus didn’t.

‘Clarissa’s looking well,’ Peter commented, taking a bottle of whisky from his desk. He poured two generous glasses. ‘Your mother would be happy if you pursued her.’

Accepting the drink, Angus stayed silent. In the distance, Clarissa chugged her champagne, held the empty flute in the air, then whispered suggestively in Jasper’s ear.

‘I, on the other hand…’

From the corner of his eye, Angus caught his father’s dubious expression. The pair exchanged a smile.

Peter took a long drink before facing his son. There was a mistiness to his eyes that Angus had never seen before, and for one terrifying moment he thought his father was going to cry.

‘This isn’t real, you know,’ Peter said. ‘This party, this life… it isn’t real.’

It took Angus a moment to process the words. Another passed before he could speak. ‘What do you mean?’

Turning back to the window, Peter absorbed the scene before him. ‘When I met your mother, she was unlike anyone I knew. Opinionated and passionate, at times she verged on arrogant in her disdain for everything you see outside right now.’

‘Sorry, are we talking about Gilly Fairview-Whitley here? The woman who insists on throwing these god-awful parties?’