Deviant by Helen Fitzgerald Page B

the hell would she have left her to Nieve? And Abigail wasn’t angry at Nieve; she
loved
Nieve. She loved Nieve more than she would ever love Sophie Thom. But was it that simple? Had her mother been as misguided as Becky and her friends? Was Abigail’s fate all some part of some stupid protest against rich people?
    Melanie, a tireless and gracious host, tugged Abigail this way and that and she played her part as best she could. It was surreal, perfect. Underneath, Abigail was only left with two desires: she wanted this to end, and she wanted to find Becky.
    Then her father reappeared.
    “This is Matthew,” he said, tugging a lanky boy alongside him. “He and your sister are friends.”
    Abigail blinked. The guy was gorgeous, over six feet tall, with wavy dark hair that defied his Fudge hair product (she could smell it) and fell into his eyes—
    Jesus Christ
.
    Matthew was Stick? Stick was Matthew? This guy?
    Her pulse quickened. Her right hand was damp, she realized to her embarrassment, as she shook his. Those puppyish eyes flickered. He smiled politely.
    She lowered her gaze. He wore smart trousers and a crisp shirt with a couple of buttons undone. She found herself staring at what she could see of his chest. Tanned. No hair. She shifted her gaze to the shoulders she’d not noticed the night before. Broad and straight.
Inappropriate
. She didn’t know where the hell to look.
    “Although Becky calls him Stick on account of his height,” her father said.
    “That’s right,” Matthew said evenly. He continued to stare back at Abigail as if she were a stranger, and released his hand. “I grew to this height at twelve. Used to be even more of a rake.” His stare hardened, as if commanding:
Don’t say anything, not a thing
.
    “Nice to meet you,” she croaked.
    The words stuck. Time stopped. Everything in the room, everything but his eyes, faded.
    “Well, you’ve certainly filled out now!” Grahame exclaimed, snapping her out of her trance. “And this is Matthew’s father, my oldest and dearest friend, Mr. Howard.”
    Abigail forced herself to shake hands with a shorter, sterner, grown-up version of Stick. His father’s hand was even clammier than hers.
    “Friends since kindergarten, Dennis and me,” Grahame said jovially. “Just like our kids. Dennis is the Lieutenant Governor of California.”
    “Oh! I heard you on the radio,” she said automatically, mostly to distract herself from Stick. Bad move. How could she have heard him on the radio? She hadn’t even been to the States when he’d been interviewed. And she couldn’t explain what had really happened, that Becky had played the interview as Exhibit A of his evil ways.
    Stick’s father didn’t seem to notice. He smiled with a politician’s mock humility. “What did you think?”
    “About unemployment and poverty? I thought you wereright. Something has to be done.” Abigail’s heart thudded in her chest. When she was this nervous, she knew it was always best just to stick to the truth.
    “Smart girl,” he said. “My son seems to disagree.”
    All eyes were on Stick now. He did a duck and dive: “I’m gonna go find Becky.”
    “I’ll come with you!” Abigail knew she sounded over-enthusiastic. “Nice to meet you, Howard—I mean Mr. Howard.”
    Mr. Howard nodded. She followed Stick, but couldn’t help glance back at the two men. They were already huddled in deep and serious conversation.
    T HE SHOES WERE A nightmare to walk in. Abigail wriggled each step, and felt ridiculous. How are legs supposed to do their job with a four-inch spike of red leather under each foot?
Shite
, that reminded her. The shoes were making her butt point upwards like a horny simian. She banished monkey-mating images from her mind and tried her best not to stare at the butt in front of her. It was difficult, though. The shape of him! Feck, now
she
was a man-monkey.
    She focused on the carpeted stairs. She couldn’t believe the gooey feeling. So yes, Stick