Sophia’s Point of View
“Tonight 8 pm. The Swan. Wear the black dress.”
Mr Prescott’s note was short and straight to the point even though the emotions his words evoked in me were far from straightforward.
I wanted Mr Prescott. I wanted him with a passion that scared me. But this sudden shift in his behaviour was too startling.
From that startling confession in the bathroom to the feeling of his smouldering gaze on me, and now this note from him inviting me to this date.
No, not inviting me but demanding I turn up. And I knew that this date was going to be when we finally cleared the air about this thing between us.
I didn’t know if the nerves I felt building in the back of my throat were from excitement or fear.
Fear that somehow somewhere I had misunderstood Mr Prescott and he would only reaffirm our partnership rather than romance. Fear that this one good thing that could happen to me would be jinxed.
I left my bed to find a black dress that I definitely didn’t own hanging in my closet. It was a lovely dinner dress that seemed to shimmer as it moved with a slit up the side and a flattering cut but what caught my attention was the fact that it was in my exact size and preferred style.
I wanted to believe that Mr Prescott had paid enough attention to me, that he’d noticed the little things but I knew there was a higher probability that he had simply just asked my stylist.
Get a grip, Sophia.
There was a knock on the door startling me out of my head.
“Coming.” I said as I pulled on a robe trying it up.
I opened the door to see Rita standing outside dressed to the tees with a stunning maroon pantsuit.
Rita stared at me, her eyes wide with surprise as she took in my dishevelled state.
“You aren’t dressed yet?” She asked.
I blinked unable to process her words and presence.
“Dressed for what?”
Rita’s eyes grew wider.
“For our hangout.”
Oh. Oh. The hangout from last night. I had completely forgotten.
“I don’t-” I said, about to exempt myself from the outing only to stop myself in time.
I needed a breather. A moment to unwind and not obsess over this dinner date.
“Give me a second.” I said instead.
Then I got ready and we went out. Whatever I had expected from this outing, my expectations couldn’t have matched the rollercoaster ride that was the hangout.
The five of us moved from store to store, with bellhops at our service, and personal attendants appearing from who knows where to assist us in carrying our growing purchases.
And as we moved, we discussed and gradually, I began to draw pictures of these women.
Jill Wilford. A trust fund only child who was arranged from childhood to marry her best friend turned husband. She was kindhearted but often spoke tongue in cheek due to her closeted upbringing like she had last night.
Eliza Dynast, the only one amongst us apart from me who didn’t come from old money. Her parents landed it big by patenting a futuristic technology that boosted pest resistance of food crops by over a hundred per cent. She was business minded through and through, a trait that endeared her to her old moneyed husband.
Margery Terry was Jill’s best friend and almost as cunning as Eliza. She had also caused a major high society uproar when she married a man old enough to be her father.
“But what about your losses?” I asked Rita who smiled at me.
Rita Terrence was as nice and friendly as her husband Derek, another arranged marriage. Rita was humble, trying her best to make sure I was comfortable at all times despite the fact that from the little I could glean, the Terrences were far richer than the Prescotts or at least they would be if they were interested in continental expansion.
“What about the losses?” Rita said with a casual shrug. “You can’t get anything worthwhile without risk.”
Hmm. That was true. If I hadn’t taken the risk of trusting a man I didn’t know, then this marriage with Mr Prescott might never have been.
I met Rita’s frank gaze.
“You are-”
My words were cut off when a group of the store’s attendants suddenly hurried past us to the door, splitting into two lines in front of it.
Then two of the attendants pulled the door open and she walked in.
Even if Rita hadn’t bolted to her feet, I would have known there was something different about the woman who just walked in.
She was an older woman in a designer pantsuit, her dark brown hair with gray streaks cut to a crisp pixie cut that flattered her delicate bone structure. She easily dorned an elegant air about her that women like Anastasia Baxter would only aspire to reach.
It was in her straight backed confident stride, her ability to look down her nose at everyone around her despite her small height. It was in the casual aura of superiority she wore like a shrug.
And she was heading right for our table.
Rita closed the small distance to her as I got to my feet as well.
“Mother,” She greeted the woman, sliding me a side glance that almost seemed apologetic as she spoke. “Mother, I didn’t know you were coming.”