Rory's Proposal by Lynda Renham Page B

speak, I’m feeling so breathless.
    ‘Mugler, Womanity.’
    ‘Ah, it suits you. Are you here with Luke?’ he asks looking around.
    ‘Yes, he’s mingling.’
    ‘Are you allowed a drink?’ he asks.
    ‘Yes, why wouldn’t I be?’ I laugh.
    ‘I don’t know, maybe you have to drink healthy juice or something. They’ve got champagne on the patio, and desserts. I think you’ll like them.’
    I look for Luke but can’t see him anywhere and then I spot Grant Richards and feel myself fume. The further away from him I get the better. I follow Tom. I tell you, I’m anyone’s for a profiterole. The fresh air hits me and I breathe in gratefully. Heaters are at each end of the patio and under a canopy are desserts and champagne. Another banner hangs above the food and I find myself tutting.
    ‘It’s a bit of a contradiction isn’t it?’ he says his eyes following mine. A small group pass us and acknowledge Tom. My eyes feast on the desserts and I look behind to see if there is any sign of Luke.
    ‘What would you like?’ Tom asks, holding a plate.
    My eyes scan the desserts in a second. Eating dessert at functions when Luke is around has become quite a skill for me. I memorise everything and make a choice in my head.
    ‘I’ll have a small slice of the lemon meringue, but only if it has a biscuit base. Two profiteroles, a small dollop of cream, on the side not on the profiteroles, a spoonful of chocolate mousse, and a tiny piece of cheesecake but only if it has a biscuit base, I don’t like pastry.’
    He stares at me.
    ‘Cheese and biscuits?’ he asks after a few seconds.
    ‘Yes please as long as it’s not Gorgonzola. That smells like a pig farmer’s bunions. I hate it.’
    He laughs.
    ‘I’ll be right back.’
    I watch as he approaches the table, slapping a few people on the back as he does so. He returns with two plates and we sit on a bench overlooking the lawn. Food somehow tastes better when it’s forbidden. He dips a strawberry into the champagne and pops it into his mouth.
    ‘How are things with your salon?’ he asks.
    I look lovingly at the cheesecake in my dish.
    ‘Good actually, I’m organising a protest. My mum and her friends are coming, and loads of other people.’
    ‘I’d like to talk to you about your salon …’ he begins when Henrietta Jackson wanders towards us.
    ‘Hi guys, what do you think of our little fundraiser? Brilliant isn’t it? I can’t tell you how much work has gone into it. I’m absolutely exhausted. And Tom, I can’t thank you enough.’
    He shrugs and I wonder what she’s thanking him for. Her black shiny hair hangs beautifully around her shoulders and she has on the most stunning dress. Her make-up is immaculate and diamond stud earrings sparkle at her earlobes. I openly admire the chiffon of her dress.
    ‘That’s a lovely dress,’ I say.
    ‘Paris darling, where else?’ she says flicking back a stray hair.
    Where else indeed. A string of pearls adorn her neck and on her wedding finger is the hugest bling I have ever seen. I could gladly murder her. Her smoky grey eyes survey me. I’m wondering how much organising she had to do for the party aside from go through her address book of course. I can’t imagine that exhausted her that much, especially when she is overrun with hired help. Seriously, her house is something out of Downton Abbey .
    ‘It’s very nice,’ I say.
    ‘Aw, thank you, you’re so sweet. That’s a pretty little dress you have on too. Where is that from?’
    ‘Good old London,’ I say, forcing a laugh. ‘Oxford Street, Zara to be exact.’
    ‘Oh, how quaint,’ she says, but how common , is what she means. The wrinkling of her nose says it all.
    The way she said pretty little dress deflates me. I feel like the poor relation. My little black dress suddenly feels too tight, too cheap, and exceptionally unfashionable. I finger my cheap drop earrings and stare jealously at the bling on her finger. Christ, that alone would feed the