The Invitation

“Can you believe that prick?!” I spit, slouched like a discarded sock in Evelyn’s bougie bedroom. She’s perched elegantly in front of her mirror, dabbing her plush lips with a velvet-red lipstick like she's preparing for a Vogue cover, when she's not actually heading anywhere. Meanwhile, I’m hunched over in a creaky armchair, hacking away at my uneven nails like a woman on the edge.

“I mean,” I groan, flicking the nail file like it’s to blame, “this guy just turns up from nowhere, struts into someone’s coffee shop, MY very own workplace, by the way—in his flash posh-mobile, acting like he owns the bloody shop. Such a rude, arrogant piece of shit!"

Evelyn pouts in the mirror, then turns toward me, her smirk borderline aristocratic. “Lottie, darling,” she purrs in her perfectly enunciated drawl, “don’t slag off the rich. It screams broke. And… desperate.” She rolls her eyes, then waltzes over and flops on the bed beside me. Her movements all grace and silk, while I resemble a slug in leggings.

“So tell me, this mystery guy,” she continues, eyes twinkling, “is he, at least, fit?”

I grimace, the memory of him hitting me like iceberg. “He’s a walking mahogany plank, Lynn. With the emotional warmth of a soggy fence. And you..." I jab a finger in her direction, “you’re a bitch for even asking.”

She laughs, unbothered, like I just paid her a compliment. “Here,” she says, tossing a sleek black card at me and I pick it up lazily. Bold silver letters at the back scream: V.I.P.

I squint at it. “And this is…?”

“Exactly what it looks like,” she beams, all coy and smug, “a masked ball. Exclusive. Lavish. Daddy managed to sneak me a few extras. One for you and one for Cameron.”

“O...kay?” I groan with a raised brow. “And what the fudge does it have to do with me?”

“Don’t be so uncultured, babe,” she quips, patting my hand like I’m a terminal case. She knows that I know where this conversation is going. “It’s a once-in-your-lifetime event, and a good chance to be seen. And you can consider this your early birthday present and stop sulking like a child. Melinda would've been more grateful y'know.”

I slump further into the chair, still groaning dramatically. “And what’s Melinda got to do with any of this?"

Evelyn spins on her heel, brushing her strawberry-blonde hair for the hundredth time with a glossy paddle. “Everything," she says smoothly, with eyes sparkling, "Because, sweetie, Melinda would kill to get a rich, young, handsome son-in-law. Unlike her lousy daughter who wants to get married to a human coffeehouse.”

My scowl could melt varnish. "I never said I wouldn't get married... it's just..not the right time.”

She tuts and continues her makeover. “Anyways, don’t get hammered, alright? I want to be carried away by champagne, mystery, and a dashing prince. Not dragging your half-dead self out of a fucking fountain again.”

“That was one time,” I mumble into my jumper. “And just so you know, the fountain was warm. Besides, I can hold my liquor now, so don't go underestimating me."

She gasps, spinning around with a wicked glint. “Lottie, darling, your alcohol tolerance is as tragic as Jeremy’s sex drive.”

I snort out loud. “Ugh, please don’t talk about him again. My ears still haven’t forgiven you.”

Jeremy Dickson. Her ex with many names: one of which was the Victorian monk. The guy's libido didn't come with the package, as stated by Evelyn. When they dated, she used to vent about him every day like it was a public service.

“I do hope he comes though,” she murmurs dreamily, fluffing her fringe in the mirror as my mind jumps back to reality. “He’s been super busy lately. I mean, he's already rich...and sexy, why does he work so hard?”

"Who? You mean Jeremy?” I ask, uninterested, still filing my nails.

Her face contorts into pure horror, and disgust. “God, no Lottie! Jesus. Jeremy’s name shouldn’t even be in the same sentence as sexy.”

I smirk without a care. “Noted, your highness.”

She suddenly perks up. “You’ve still got the entry card I gave you, right? You'd need it at the ball."

Entry card? What the hell is...

Ohh, fuck.

Panic swirls in my belly. “Erm… sort of.”

Her head snaps around. “'Erm...sort of'?” she repeats, staring at me questioningly. "Do you have it, or you don't?"

“I think… I might’ve lost it.”

“Lost it?” Her eyes narrow, deadly. “Or did you bin it like your social life?”

I wince. “Actually though… it was stolen, to be more precise.” I wait for the next question to drop as I sit in the chair, my palms on my knees like I'm awaiting some serious scolding.

She blinks. “Stolen? By who?” I take a deep breath and then,

“A puppy, really. Tiny thing. Grabbed my bag and off it went. Haha... ha.”

She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You must think this is funny, right? You really expect me to believe that half-arsed fairy tale? A thieving mutt just happened to mug you in broad daylight?” I nod quietly.

“You are so unbelievable, you know that, don't you?” she sighs, slamming her palm on the dressing table so hard the perfume bottles do a little waltz. “Why do you always do this? Always bail when something good’s about to happen! Look 'ere, you will come, Charlotte. Even if I have to stuff you in a corset and drag you by your bun, you MUST come.”

I try reasoning, clutching at straws. “And if they don’t let me in? What then, eh? Do I stand outside, pretending to be the entertainment?”

She tosses her hair and winks. “Who do you think I am? Don’t worry, babe. I’ve got your back.”

She blows me a kiss and I collapse into the chair, clutching my chest. We both laugh, but mine’s got dread stitched into it.

I know very well that she’s not kidding. And I also know that I’m bloody doomed.