Saturday

The weekend is a little too punctual with its arrival. I’d have preferred an extra day to grill Jaq for expected party etiquette, though he’s really not a very good teacher. I suspect he doesn’t know a lot of the intricacies himself. Worst comes to worst; I can fall back on the fussy overwrought Elizabethan-era manners I learned as a theatre nerd and play it up as a joke. I hope his parents like jokes. I don’t get the sense that they do.

The hotel room is almost alien to me now; far tidier than it's been since the day I arrived. I’ve packed all my work into carefully organised folders. All those fit neatly into a suitcase, ready to take back home tomorrow morning. I’m as well prepared as I can be.

The room’s telephone rings; the concierge informs me that a car has arrived to pick me up.

I head to the lift, my new heels clicking loudly on the polished floors. I don’t feel like me. I don’t sound like me when I walk. I don’t even look like me in my reflection on the mirrored elevator doors. It makes it easier for me to embody the character I must become for the… I try not to think about what’s about to happen. I'm not an actor. This isn't something I'm good at. I can't let myself think about it, or I'll start to panic at the absurdity of Jaq putting someone like me in such a key role in his deception.

The door opens, and I stride out into the lobby – I see a driver in a grey suit nod to me, and I allow him to lead me to a car. He opens the door for me, and I hop inside, careful not to crease the back of my dress or bump my overly styled hair.

The drive is long and silent – I imagine that my character would be comfortable with the silence, so, despite everything, I must be. I try to focus on the street signs whizzing past. It doesn't help.

Instead, I feel guilty that I’ll be missing Casey’s opening night. It’s unfortunate, but there will be other opening nights. I can make it up to her. I hate Streetcar anyway. It's an awful play.

I fiddle with the hem of the dress. It's a little shorter than I'd like, but it's not too bad. Jaq said the venue would be warm enough without a coat, but I insisted on wearing a bolero with the dress. I'm not sure if I trust his judgment on temperature - men's clothes tend to cover a lot more skin than women's clothes. If he's comfortable, the women around him might still be cold. He wouldn't know. I doubt he'd be perceptive enough to notice unless someone specifically and directly pointed it out.

I feel my phone vibrate in my teeny tiny purse, and pry it out. It’s new and unfamiliar – Jaq insisted on buying it for me. My old phone was too cheap. Too old. Too ratty. Of course, the beautiful scratch-free screen on this one is too big for me to operate with one hand, and my minuscule, expensive purse is so small that the phone barely fits. Why must opulence always reject the importance of function? At least the new phone came with a good explanation for why I have no old texts or calls from Jaq in my call log – there’s no call log prior to the day I got it. That won't correct the problem with Jaq's lack of call logs, but it's something.

I make a face and take a selfie. In the photo editor, I cross out my eyes, tone my skin green, and send it to Casey.

> I’m dying here. LMK how the show goes. I bet it beats this.

She doesn’t reply immediately. That’s to be expected. She probably has her phone turned off. I stare out the window and adjust the position of the very real diamond engagement ring on my finger. It’s extremely ugly. I hope it didn’t cost too much. I didn’t want to ask. If I knew, I'd probably be scared to wear it.

We approach a huge iron gate where uniformed attendants greet people in expensive cars and tell them where to park. We’re ushered through, and I see one of them touch their earpiece and speak as he watches us go. I wonder who he’s notifying of my arrival. Jaq is the most obvious answer, but…

We get to the front door of the mansion, and Jaq is there to help me out of the car. I put my arm around him, and we stand together while photographers flock to flash their lights at us. He’s already struggling to cope. To people that don't know him, he'd just look a little stiff, a little awkward. It's fine. The façade hasn't broken yet.

It won't break, it won't break. Everything is perfect.

Once the cameras have been appeased, we turn and walk together into the building. Jaq is tall, so his stride is long. He isn’t used to measuring it to allow a woman in heels to keep up. I’m making the disparity much worse by being so unaccustomed to heels. We undoubtedly look an ill-matched pair, so out of place in the perfectly coordinated elegance of the entryway. I feel insignificant under the elaborate vaulted ceiling. The grand staircase, baroque floral arrangements, sparkling chandeliers, and romantic era paintings so large that they're oppressive in their heavy gilt frames feel unreal to me. Though full of people now, the venue is like something from a Gothic horror novel. I half expect that I'll accidentally bump a decorative wall panel with a hidden switch behind it and uncover a secret room with the actual portrait of Dorian Gray, alongside an antique wardrobe full of human skeletons.

Instead of letting my imagination run rampant, I pull my focus back to the crawling crowd of people in glamorous outfits, drinking wine and eating tiny… hors d'oeuvres. I recognise a few faces from movie posters, or at least I think I do. I could be fooling myself. They chatter among themselves, all smiles and knowing glances. Some turn to watch us as we cross the room. I can't shake the feeling that we're in a cheap horror story. These perfect faces, their perfect hair, surely they're a gathering of immortal vampires, playing at being human for their own amusement. Perhaps I'm dinner.

Beside me, back in reality, I notice Jaq is struggling to maintain his composure; his eyes are on his feet.

He’s getting worse.

I lean over and whisper;

‘It’s fine. Everything is fine. Nobody here cares about us. These people are all too busy networking and trying to get ahead in the world to even notice us.’

He looks at me with surprise.

‘You’re not nervous?’

‘Not at all.’

I’m dying inside.

I spot a quiet-looking corner and propel him over to sit. I hold his hand and squeeze it.

‘I’m not nervous because I’m insignificant to these people. They will only speak to me to be polite. They won’t remember our interaction, and by tomorrow morning, they won’t even recognise me on the street unless you’re with me.’

He looks concerned.

‘That’s not true…’

‘It is. And I’ll prove it. I bet you can tell me every single embarrassing thing that ever happened to you as a kid.’ His eyes immediately grow distant, remembering past errors.

‘But now tell me, can you remember just one embarrassing thing that the kid sitting next to you in ninth grade did?’

He looks thoughtful, then surprised.

‘No…’

‘How about a single bad recital by literally anyone other than you?’

‘I… no.’

‘Not even one inappropriately timed fart from someone you know?’

He chuckles

‘No.’

‘I could throw you into that absurd fruit salad over there, head first, and you could get stuck in it, flailing around with your legs kicking in the air like an upturned turtle. People would laugh now, but within a week nobody will remember it.’

I squeeze his hand

‘Okay, that’s pretty funny. It might take a month for that one to fade.'

He laughs, finally looking a little at ease. Of course, I’m still dying. I’m not scared of what these people might remember about me tomorrow. I’m scared of what they want now. I’m scared of his parents seeing through me and throwing me out immediately. I’m scared of walking home barefoot, because I am not walking home in these heels.

We sit in our nook while party guests drift past, occasionally stopping to chat for a few moments. Jaq seems to be on top of his social anxiety for now. Some of his old school friends gather in a little group around us. A lovely sheltered bubble of pleasantries. I begin to feel a little more comfortable. A particularly dazzling woman pulls me aside and whispers;

‘Okay, what’s your secret? Did you slip him some ecstasy? This is not the Jaques I know.’

I laugh.

‘No, I gave him a pep talk.’

She playfully pushes my shoulder

‘No way! That worked?’

I grin at her.

‘You tell me.’

The group starts to separate out by gender – men chatting with Jaq, women gathering around me – you’d think they were all still teenagers, not grown adults. The girls want to know how we met, how he proposed. I hear snippets of the boys’ conversation – the intent behind their questioning is similar, but the way they ask skirts around the point. It seems like they don't want to appear to be too curious. Jaq's answers are sparse. I make up for it with lurid detail. I'm sure the gossips in this group will share the story with the poor, deprived lads in Jaq's group, but for now, they will have to wait.

I feel a little proud of Jaq. He's doing well, keeping the specifics to himself. Maintaining his reluctance to talk about me, or us, is key. On my side; this tale is easy for me to tell – it’s all pre-packaged and practised anecdotes, ready for me to serve to my hungry audience. He knows all these stories too - it would be so easy for him to say too much, breaking his normal pattern of behaviour. In his shoes, I wouldn't be able to keep it all in, that's for sure.

Though, I suppose I'm projecting my own love of storytelling onto him. He's generally tight-lipped on all topics. Perhaps this is his default state, even when he has things to say.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jaq freeze. I turn to look for the source of his sudden disquiet. An older couple approaches, the man holding an almost empty glass of wine. Jaq stands and awkwardly stares at his feet. His friends seem to shuffle away slightly.

Glancing back at my new acquaintances I proclaim;

‘One moment.’

I pick my way back through the congregation, to Jaq, and link my arm with his. He doesn't lift his head to join me in staring his parents down. The gabbling crowd quickly dissolves around us as the couple come within comfortable striking speaking distance… Then, all too soon, we're standing alone. Abandoned by our school of human fish, each desperate to flee these sharks. I had hoped at least a handful of friendly faces would stick around. I overestimated their bravery.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

I hold the woman’s cold gaze.

‘Come on now Jaques, stop slouching,’ says the man.

Jaq tenses even more.

‘Yes, introduce us to your girlfriend,’ says the woman.

I can feel him trembling. What did these people do to him?

I give an endearing grin.

‘Oh! You must be Frances and Isaac! Jaq has told me so much about you!’

The man smiles warmly;

‘All terrible, I presume.’

I pat the older man’s arm.

‘Not at all – I hear you’re quite the card player! I mean to challenge you to a game to see if you live up to your reputation! I’m sure you won’t disappoint.’

I turn to the woman and lean towards her, conspiratorially.

‘And apparently, you’ve got an eye for champion greyhounds – I adore them, such beautiful animals. I’d have loved to meet them if they were in the country.’

The two of them regard me in their own ways – the man beaming happily, the woman’s expression far more reserved. Still, blank is better than a scowl.

Jaq is still frozen. I squeeze his arm, hoping he will say something. I am not entirely disappointed.

‘Mother, Father, this is Joanne. She is my wife-to-be.’

His monotone makes him sound robotic. It’s fine. He’s awkward. This is awkward. I just can't be awkward. I extend the hand with the engagement ring to the two of them;

‘I’m so pleased to meet you both.’

‘Yes, yes. Come, dear. We mustn’t monopolise the children's time.'

Ignoring my hand, the woman leads the man away.

RUDE.

I feel Jaq start breathing again.

He looks at me wide-eyed and terrified.

‘It worked.’

Feigning ignorance, I say;

‘What did? Let’s go get a drink, honey.’

I don’t know what his tolerance for alcohol is – or what kind of drunk he is – but I need to get him away from the unsubtle stares currently aimed in our direction before he notices them.

As we collect drinks from a caterer, I spot the friendly woman from before and guide Jaq toward her.

She sees me.

‘Oh wow, you survived! I’m amazed!’

I laugh a little bitterly. Probably too bitterly. I should sound more pleased. The interaction was short, but not particularly bad.

‘I may have, but Jaq is struggling. I don’t know this place. Is there somewhere I can hide him until he’s feeling better?’

I watch him drain the wine glass.

‘A garden, a closed-off side room? Anywhere a bit quieter.’

‘You haven’t been here before?’ she asks, smiling kindly. I shake my head, and she leads us away, through a door, past some caterers, and down a hallway.

‘He was really making an effort to keep you a secret from them then. I swear he never leaves this place unless he has a performance… I think his room is here somewhere…’

His room? He lives here?

She stops and knocks on a nondescript door. A door on the opposite side of the hall opens. A man resembling Jaq with longer hair pops his head out.

‘Oh, Sophie, I didn’t think you were going to be here. I’d have come out if I had known.’

‘Hi! That’s okay. You can make it up to me later. Which room is your brother’s again?’

Brother?

‘Oh, right. Yeah, he’s looking terrible. Over here.’

He has a brother?

The ‘brother’ leads us up some stairs to a large, tasteful bedroom. It looks like it’s straight out of an interior design magazine. I wouldn’t know it was Jaq’s if it weren’t for the violin on the shelf and the music stand in the corner.

He can’t have a brother.

Sophie takes the ‘brother’s’ arm, and whispers to me,

‘We’ll leave you two to it.’ She winks as she closes the door behind them.

Why don’t I know about the brother?

Jaq just stands awkwardly by the door, holding the empty wineglass, staring at his feet. He has no answers for me now. I tap his shoulder.

‘Hey. Hey buddy.’

He shifts his gaze to my hand. I sigh, then push him over to his bed.

‘Sit.’

He sits, staring at his knees.

‘Are you going to be okay?’

‘Mmm.’

‘I have my phone on me. I’m going to go back out there and tell people you’re feeling unwell. If you need me, call me, okay?’

‘Mmm.’

I take the wineglass and leave the room. I think I hear a sob through the closed door.

Shit.

Do I go back and comfort him? Will that stress him out more?

I close my eyes and purse my lips.

Snacks. Snacks are good for panic attacks. Assuming this is a panic attack. If I grab snacks he’ll have time to get the crying under control, he won’t have to worry about me seeing him, and I won’t have to watch. If he's still crying when I get back, I can hand over the snacks, he'll probably feel better for having let some of his feelings out, and then I can offer some better-planned comforting words. Wins all 'round.

I return the way I came, stopping at the point where caterers seem to be most concentrated

‘Uh, excuse me?’

‘Yes Ma’am?’

‘Jaq – the Jaques that lives here – isn’t feeling well. I don’t know where the kitchen is, but I’d like to bring him a non-alcoholic drink and maybe some light snacks.’

‘Oh! Of course! I can get those for you.’

The man hurries off, and I see the ‘brother’ taking a tray away from one of the waiters and retreating toward his room. He nods at me.

‘Hi!’

‘Hello.’

‘You’re Jackie’s girlfriend.’

‘Yes.’

‘Huh. I didn’t think you were real.’

‘Apparently, that’s not an uncommon misconception.’

‘Hah. You’re funny.’

He nudges me with an elbow and continues on his way.

That certainly seems like the behaviour of a brother.

Shit.

The caterer returns with a selection of dips and fancy crackers, a jug of orange juice, and two glasses. I think he must be a magician because I’d have dropped the whole lot on the floor by now.

‘Here we are! Now, where shall I take this?’

‘Excellent – do you know where his room is?’

‘Yes! I’ll take it there right away.’

‘Might be best to leave it outside the room.’

‘Ah. I’ll pop it down and knock on the door so he knows it’s there.’

The caterer hurries off.

I, on the other hand, wander out into the party.

A brother. Shit.

I look around, not really seeing any of the faces. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Maybe some of his friends, other than Sophie. Actually, I can probably rely on her to let people know Jaq is unwell and I'm playing the perfect fiancée, looking after him.

Maybe there's something I can bring to him to distract him? Maybe something to distract me from the uncomfortable feeling growing ever more intense inside my stomach.

Whatever it is that I'm looking for, it doesn’t jump out at me.

Until it does.

‘Hello there!’

I look up.

The mountainous figure currently looming over me smiles down with perfectly symmetrical white teeth.

‘Hello.’

‘So you’re the girlfriend that Jack has been hiding from us all this time?’

I feel a sense of déjà vu as I stare up into the two luminous pools I assume to be eyes.

‘That would be me.’

‘I can see why he was keeping you all to himself – you’re far too cute to share.’

What? I blink a few times, and my power of facial recognition seems to return. I think this guy is a popular singer. What was his name? I try to play it cool;

‘That’s very sweet of you, but I’m already spoken for,' I wave my hand to show off the ring, 'thus your flattery will get you nowhere.’

His smile broadens.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you.’

What the fuck was that?

‘If you will excuse me, Jaq isn’t feeling terribly well, I only came back out here for…’

I spot a tray of gourmet looking spring-rolls (maybe?) and swipe a few in a napkin

‘…some hot food for him. If you will excuse me.’

I hurry back into the empty hallway, praying the guy doesn’t follow me. Did he think that was a cute line? It sounded like a threat.

I hurry back past the brother’s room.

SHIT. HE HAS A BROTHER.

I hurry up the stairs.

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT GUY SAYING TO ME?

And to the door of Jaq's room. The juice and snacks sit neatly where the caterer left them.

WHAT THE FUCK DID HIS PARENTS DO TO HIM?

I sit against the wall, next to the snacks, holding my knees to my chest.

What have I gotten myself into?

I fumble around looking for pockets until I remember this idiotic dress has none. My handbag was barely big enough for the phone, let alone a bottle of pills. I was going to wrap some in a tissue to bring with me… But I forgot. No panic pills. We can't both have panic attacks. We can't both be useless right now. Shit shit shit shit shitshitshitshitshit.

I hear footsteps on the stairs and snap to my feet, open the door and drag the tray inside as gently as I can, close the door and slump against it. Nobody saw me. I think. I want to scream.

Jaq is fast asleep on top of the covers with his shoes on. Bastard.

The footsteps pass by and disappear deeper into the house.

I can’t leave the room. My chaperone is out cold, and the people out there…

IDIOT. This is why we don’t go to parties. Parties are full of people we don’t know, doing things we don’t want to know about, wanting things we’d rather not. This is especially why we don’t go to fancy parties. Those people think they're entitled to whatever they want to take. IDIOT IDIOT IDIOT.

I look over at Jaq. At least he’s peaceful now. I notice I’m struggling to breathe and pull my shoulders back to try to relieve the pressure in my chest. I force myself to inhale deeply.

FOCUS.

I need to think about only the things I can do now.

I walk to the bed and fold the free side of the covers over Jaq so he doesn’t freeze. That’s useful.

I don't know how to summon the car to go home. I don't want to wake Jaq. He's better off unconscious right now. I don't know who else to ask. I don't want to risk asking the wrong person.

I will need to make some kind of arrangements to sleep here.

I look back at the bed. He’ll die of shock if he wakes up in the same bed as me. I won't cope well with him in a state of distress that early in the morning. I’m going to have to sleep on the floor.

I check the closet and find some coats. Those are useful. I can use them as blankets.

I feel stupid. I feel cheated. I feel angry. I try to focus on the anger – any emotion other than panic. My saboteur of a brain won’t let me.

I can’t be too mad. It says

I spent all week in a nice bed. It taunts.

One night on the floor isn’t much of a price to pay. It heckles.

I eye the dips on the tray. They look disgusting, but in that way that tells you they’re expensive, and probably have that kind of complex, unbalanced flavour that rich people claim is delicious even though it tastes like garbage to anyone who didn’t grow up with it. Acquired tastes are for people with money to waste.

My optimistic brain goads; I get to eat these fancy snacks for free.

SHUT UP.

I don’t have any pyjamas, and this dress was definitely not designed for comfortable sleep.

Solutions…

I take a woolly jumper from a shelf in the back of the closet. Hopefully, he won’t be too bothered by me rifling through his clothes like this. No. HE HAD BETTER NOT BE.

I turn out the light and try to sink into the coat pile, never to be seen again.