The Mad British (15 page)

I gasp and pull the gear stick up, a little too quickly, and the engine emits a brief grinding noise. I shriek and let go.

James is unwisely watching me instead of the road as he throws his head back and laughs, grabbing my hand and repositioning it on the gear stick. I’m laughing as well, my hair falling forward, almost hysterical. Our laughter is rapid and genuine, coming deep from our tummies, and I lean over and gasp out, "Oh
God
. I told you I'd break it."

It’s at this moment, right before he has to break hard to avoid rear-ending a taxi, when his eyes are shining and we laugh with total abandonment, that I never want this feeling to end.

I never thought I would return to Wonderland Hotel, back to where it all started. But this time I’m here with James Hatter and not with some twit like William whatshisname.

There are some other people in formal wear milling around the hotel entrance. I stare at them through the car window, wondering what they’re like, what they’re wearing, and most importantly, if they’re looking to buy some paintings.

Someone knocks on the driver's window before the car even comes to a complete stop. James cracks the window an inch and barks out, "Give me a minute, will you?"

At first I’m slightly distressed about the way he speaks to valets, but the eyes peering back from the open window are grey and familiar. Two sets of fingers wiggle in. "Shut up and get out of the car, you pain. Or at least open the window some more. God Almighty."

James mutters something unintelligible about fingerprints and swings the door open, shoving aside the person on the other side. A valet opens my door, and when I look over the roof of the car, a friendly face greets me.

"Preston?"

"Adelaide. Fancy meeting you here. I hear you sold that behemoth painting to some poor sucker. . . Ah, look, here's the sucker himself."

"Shut up," James responds.

"No worries, James, maybe you can cut it up into like, ten thousand little squares and use them as drink coasters or something. You actually got off easy. You should see the monstrosity I had to buy once. Come to think of it, you have seen it. It's in the second guest bathroom, right across from the loo. The one that makes it hard to pee without thinking the thing in the painting is going to magically jump out and hack you to death with an axe."

I wish desperately I had something heavier to throw at Preston's head than the tiny clutch bag that Jessica had loaned me. Maybe if I manoeuvre the right way I can get one of my heels off and—

A petite woman, clicking in heels underneath her sequined silver dress, interrupts my GBH plot. Her hair is pinned up loosely, revealing giant diamond earrings, and I’m suddenly aware that my own jewellery was bought at a street fair and is probably made of glass and fishing wire.

Her dress is stunning. Strapless, slim, adorned with thousands of glittering silver pearl beads, a stunning column that reminds me that the peacock feathers on my own gown is held on with hot glue. Her skin is so fresh and dewy that it seems to sparkle pink and silver under the hotel lights as she takes my hand.

There is something really familiar about her face. . .

"I simply adore your dress." She reaches out unabashedly and brushes the feathers on my bodice, and my eyes are nearly blinded by the diamond solitaire, the size of a hailstone, sitting on her fourth finger. "The colour is absolutely dashing, I love the blue, it's so beautiful on you. Preston," she calls out suddenly. "This is the colour we should paint the guest bathroom."

Preston saunters over, the shit-eating grin having never left his face, with James by his side. "I don't know, dear, it may remind me of Adelaide standing there, looking at me with criminal intent in her eyes. Adelaide, I don't think you've met, but this is my wife, Camilla. Camilla, Adelaide is a friend of mine from way back."

"Pleasure to meet you," Camilla says, still clinging to my hand. "Really, my brother's told me so much about you and I couldn’t wait to meet you in person. I saw your painting, by the way. It's wonderful."

"Uh. . . " I can barely get that much out.

James comes from behind me and says, "That would be me."

I can’t believe it. The guy I’m obsessing over, the one who is currently and potentially very successfully getting into my knickers tonight—
for the fourth time!
—is indirectly related to Preston, and has been for some time. Preston, my friend for years, who knows everything about my past, including picking me up at late hours in sketchy places whilst in different levels of intoxication, and sometimes sobbing hysterically, including the times when I was flat broke and my heating was shut off and I was too ashamed to tell my family.

Including the disaster that was Ethan.

I straighten my spine. "I make a better first impression than my brother."

Camilla beams and links arms with me. "You look absolutely fabulous. We are going to make this a night you will never forget."

The booze is good.

Very, very good.

I’m drilling away through a third martini. The gin is so smooth that I could chug it down like an energy drink. I’m tempted, just to deal with everyone staring at me.

It had started with Camilla introducing me to the rest of the board, a cluster of women with smooth, straight hair and black Lanvin dresses, wearing gemstones worth hundreds of thousands of pounds.

"Lovely gown," one of them had said to me, an older woman with a name like Winny or Binky or something. "Who is it?"

"Uh," I’d stuttered. "It's nothing. It was an old dress of my friend's I took apart."

The Winnys had given their short condescending smiles, but Camilla had squealed. "You made it? That is so fabulous." She had turned to the women. "She is my brother's girlfriend. An artist. She is super-creative like that."

They had all smiled and nodded, barely able to conceal their disdain, while I had internally dealt with the new uneasy feeling that Camilla's words had shot through me.

She is my brother's girlfriend.

That is a little too fast. . . I mean, we haven’t even been on a proper date yet.

The second martini hadn't taken away that awkward feeling. Or the stares. But the third and current one is getting me there slowly.

James comes up from behind me without my knowing. He seems to be very good at that. One of his hands rests on the small of my back, and I shiver at the light touch.

"Having fun?" he murmurs deliciously in my ear.

"Uh. . .” I say through a tight smile. "I'm not really sure. How do you have fun at these things?"

"Easy. You just keep drinking until you forget you're human."

"Well then—"I hold up my now-empty martini glass"—in that case, I'm having a fabulous time."

"Good." He bends down, and suddenly his mouth is against mine, and he is kissing me tenderly. We break apart, and my heart pounds so hard that it’s practically constricting my throat. "Want another?"

"Kiss or drink?"

"I can do both." He kisses me again, with more heat and pressure, and doesn’t stop, not even when someone clears their throat behind us.

When he pulls back, I pull the olive out of my empty glass and hold it up to his lips. "Like I said, fabulous time."

True to form, it isn’t long after being kissed by James that my night starts going down the rabbit hole.

For one, like I’d said, the booze is very, very good. A little too good. My head is starting to spin, and my inhibitions are definitely down, beaten, and left for dead by my hormones. I grab James' firm bum, which startles him, and I merely laugh in return. Every single thought floating through my mind for the past hour has been about how and when to shag him senseless.

Secondly, I’m starting to sweat. And molt. The heat from my increasingly intoxicated body and naturally occurring friction has rubbed some of the peacock feathers off. Preston points out just exactly where they are, suggesting a great deal are stuck down James' front.

The third strike comes near the end of the evening, during all the back patting and congratulating and picture taking. I deftly avoid the cameras—now that my dress makes me look like a peacock that’s been run over—when an older man wearing a Penguin tuxedo leans in over my shoulder, his breath full of whisky.

"Nice tits," he whispers, snaking one hand down and pinching my behind. "Would love to see them later."

In any other room, in any other situation, I would belt him without second-guessing my actions, but then a thought runs through my head: Who and what is this man? He could be the police commissioner, or a politician, maybe someone Chloe works with, maybe James' important boss. The possibility of the old leech’s power terrifies me. He is definitely somebody important, and I am a nobody. Just a pretty face attached to a pretty peacock body.

Camilla must have seen something because she’s at my side in a flash, elbowing the older man out of the way. "Are you okay?"

I’m not okay. I’m drunk, that’s for sure. And tired. And humiliated. I feel the colour drain from my face and I’m shaking a little. Camilla barks out orders and ushers me outside.

James' smile doesn’t last long when he sees me. "Adelaide, what happened? You all right?"

I take a deep breath. He looks furious. "I'm fine. . . I'm just tired."

"You mean shitfaced," Preston cackles. Camilla smacks him on the arm. "
Ow.
"

"Do you want to leave?" James asks. He cups my face in his hands and lifts my chin so I’m forced to look at him. But I’m afraid to look him in the eyes, so I lower mine and nod.

I barely speak on the way home, scared that whatever I want to say is wrong and will add to the tension. He pulls in front of my flat and I notice the light is on in Bailey's workspace. James exits the car and opens my door.

"Adelaide." I turn to him. "I don't believe you're okay."

"I very much am, I'm sorry."

Most men would let it go and end the night, whether it’s because they don’t want the burden or that they simply don’t pick up on it. James seems to have a knack for seeing past my exterior. He picks up on the little things, the things that sometimes gnaw their way inside of my head. He doesn’t see right through me. He sees into me. It’s terrifying like a sudden undercurrent appearing beneath me. Yet, I have no wish to swim away.

"I'm just acting like a drunk twit."

"No you’re not. I don't feel comfortable ending the night like this. Tell me what’s wrong."

I can’t leave it like this. "Can you come over tomorrow? Like, about seven?"

James nods. "I'll be here."

I manage a small smile. "You can dress down. Like, no neckwear, unless you really feel like it."

He smiles. "I’ll walk you upstairs."

"No it's okay, my brother's awake, anyway." I brush some errant feathers off his suit jacket.

"Okay, but I’m owed another kiss."

His hair is glowing under the sodium glare of the streetlights, and he’s not gentle when he brings his face to mine. I press my body against his, which is hard pretty much everywhere except his lips. His hands brush down my back, his fingers splayed and I close my eyes as my body undulates against his, teased with the hardness of his hot mouth, his groans.

His hand moves up to caress along my spine, and I start to feel hot sensations begin to burn between my thighs.I feel like dying when h
e
breaks away first. His eyes are dark and heated as I bite my lip lightly.

"If I don't stop," he says, his voice a strained rasp, "I won't be able to." I brush my thumb against his lips, and he takes my hand and kisses it. "I'll be here at seven tomorrow. No neckwear."

"I'll see you then," I reply, gathering my skirts. "Goodnight."

"’Night, love."

Bailey is at his workstation when I enter our flat, clicking on dual monitors with iPod buds stuck in his ears. He pulls them out when I lean back against the door and slide down to the floor, my head tucked into my arms.

"Hey." He is at my side in three strides. "Adelaide, what's wrong?"

It all comes out in an emotional geyser; the stares, the smirks, the helpless, lost, alienated feeling of total alienation in visiting a world so unlike my own. I leave out the part about the old perv groping me. There is no reason to start drama and wake Chloe up.

"Bailey, it’s just weird. Like, any other girl would shave their head and crawl to date a guy like this, but the way he lives is just so different from where I live. I wasn’t comfortable the entire night." I sigh. "Okay, I lie. I had fun in the car when it was just me and him and he let me do the shifting. . . "

Bailey sits down next to me. "Wow. He let you touch something in his car that wasn’t the seatbelt? Jesus. Listen, do you feel weird because of James, or because of other people? Because he can't control other people, you know."

"I know. And it isn’t him, it’s just. . . what if that's how his life is, how he really is?"

My mind races back in time. He
had
wagered me in a card game for God knows how much, which suggests money and power have no meaning to him. . . Could I be okay with that? I’m not really sure I could be.