Page 81 of A Dead Man's B-Side
I blinked after her, watching as she walked as if there were people fawning over her from one side of the wall to the other. Except, the store was empty and the poor cashier looked entirely too exhausted to focus on Paris’ glossy boots or her fresh blowout.
I eyed the packs of cigarettes behind the lady and nodded my head towards them, asking for enough to last both myself and my thieving dorm neighbour.
She rang us up and rattled off the price as Paris admired herself in the small compact mirrors they were selling at the front. Only then did the cashier get a proper look at her, and something akin to dry sorrow, once strong and hateful, turned a shell of itself after years, twisted in her worn face.
I turned away and focused my complete attention on pulling out the cash I’d stolen a while back and had been meaning to spend, proud of the little money I’d been able to hold off on blowing. Usually, any money I’d gotten my hands on was stretched thin in fear of running out.
It felt almost exciting to drop a few bills on mundane things and not have that worried voice in the back of my head hissing about how much I’d have left to spend on bus tickets.
I mumbled my thanks and shook my head when she tried returning the change. Upon stepping out of the shop, Paris walked with her shoulders back and the smooth strut of a feline, sending kisses to tipsy boys that egged her on from the storefronts they were posted up against. She smiled and giggled and threw her head back to laugh when someone sent a racy comment her way.
From the distance of my slow steps, she looked lovely, almost picturesque. As if she’d been taken out of the novels I’d spent time reading, the ghost of a dead wife, her lively memories haunting the narrative. She looked unattainable, like if I’d reached out to her, my hand would move through fog, hiding her for itself.
Her vibrant steps slowed as she turned to wait on me with a smile in her eyes, but her lips set.
When I’d caught up to her, she slipped her arm around my own and didn’t let go until we reached The Gallery.
I didn’t question it until I opened the door for her and let her go in first before turning to look over the sidewalk one last time; I was a creature of habit.
There, I spotted, down the way by a few paces, one of the men I heard throw a comment at Paris. He wore ripped jeans and a studded leather jacket that might have appeared cool had he not been so old. She must have noticed him following her and slowed in her steps.
I didn’t move towards him, however, because he didn’t look to be the sort allowed inside the establishment we were entering; abruised ego would hurt more than a bruised cheek. And would last longer.
I waited until he met my eye before sending him a barely-there smirk and allowing the door to close behind me.
I was just as much a part of the lower class as he, if not more so, except I didn’t find solace in behaving like a degenerate.
Letting my eyes roam over the entrance lobby, I found Paris waiting by the host stand.
They were right, The Gallery was something out of The Great Gatsby. All glitter and glam, gold accents on walls and original paintings hanging high. From where we stood, I could see the second floor, held up by pillars circling the ground floor, and a dome-shaped ceiling visible overhead. The chandelier in the middle didn’t rival any I’d seen at Castle Hill, but it was still just as excessive.
From the armchairs to the decoration, it was all unbridled. I’d never imagined I’d be entering an establishment such as this and be seated without a second glance.
The hostess smiled politely and greeted me when I joined them as she looked for any more guests of the Saltford-Windsor party in the book in front of her. She nodded and looked up. “Follow me and I’ll take you to your seats.”
Paris smiled. “Wonderful.”
We followed her through the dimly lit, and clearly fully booked restaurant, as she led us to the back, pushing a heavy set of curtains to the side before leading us further down a hallway. The din andassault of cutlery against plates we’d been previously surrounded with turned muffled rather quickly.
Strangely enough, I noticed that the wealthy seemed to have an affixation on imported curtains used as doors.
There were candles lining the length of the wall for every few quiet steps we took on the carpeted floor. She stopped in front of a door and pushed it open, and the bickering we’d begun to hear cut off into a deafening silence as we entered.
The nice hostess parted quickly after that with a short, “We hope you enjoy your dinner here at the Gallery.”
Once the door clicked shut, Paris let out a sigh. “Oof, it’s quite chilly out there.”
The private room was a smaller version of the restaurant’s main floor, with a domed ceiling and just as many unrestrained gold accents and crown moldings. It felt as if the designer were trying to recreate a French chateau before the revolution.
Paris threw her coat carelessly on an unoccupied chair of the large round table, and I shrugged off my own before hanging it on the coat hanger in the corner. I took the empty seat next to hers, Wolf already seated on my other side, and watched Rain eye Paris from above the rim of her glasses like an old high school teacher ready to dress code her. “Men bring their wives to establishments like these, not their mistresses.”
Paris didn’t look offended in the slightest, only smiling wider as if Rain had complimented her, and jutted her hip out to show herselfoff. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re both unmarried. Or else, they’d have thought your supposed husband double booked.”
The black dress beneath the heavy coat was tight and short, but Paris didn’t mind.
Rain looked as though she wasn’t willing to dignify those words with a response, only peering back down at her menu stoically.
I wondered, for a moment, if anyone would ever speak to Rain in such a way before the Founder’s Society. When she reigned supreme, and the board didn’t demand she equate herself with others.
