Page 49 of The Other Twin
Apparently, Tori and I went to school with the owner, Madeleine Fairfield. And apparently, we don’t like her. According to Tori, Madeleine is a stuck-up cow. According to a recentTatlerarticle, which I speed-read during the cab ride over, she’s now an influencer and philanthropist. And according to Tori’s radar for free drinks, Madeleine and her husband, Monty, throw New Year’s Eve parties that are basically legendary, and Monty himself is ‘a topbloke, absolute sweetheart, would literally give you the Gieves & Hawkes shirt off his back’.
As my gaze sweeps over the lavish display of fairy lights, cascades of champagne, and the clique of minor celebrities vaping near the entrance, the nerves kick in even deeper.
It’s the kind of mansion whose rooms are named after dead poets, where the windows are taller than most people’s houses, and the guest list comes with a pre-approved social pecking order. The moment we step on to the checkerboard marble of the vast, double-height entrance hall, Tori goes full extrovert, tossing out compliments with the speed of a machine gun. ‘Mel, you look fucking incredible! Cara, that dress is criminal, hand it over!’ She does a round of air kisses while I hover at the edge, trying to smile at all the right moments and not betray that I literally just googled ‘posh party small talk’ in the cab on the way over.
‘Bells! Tori!’ We both turn, and I’m proud of myself for reacting to Bella’s name so instinctively. Tori drags me into a reception room where a cluster of former netball captains, now repurposed as glossy magazine editors and tech-startup founders, are propped on velvet armchairs, swapping gossip at a decibel level that makes my head ring. I try to keep track of the names, but the room is a blitz of perfect teeth, power brows, and names that sound like luxury skincare brands. The music – something house-y and relentless – vibrates up through the antique carpet, and I realise immediately that if I don’t get a drink soon, I’m in danger of having a full-blown panic attack.
‘Hey guys,’ I say, aiming for cheerful and almost getting there. ‘Everyone looks amazing. Sorry, I just need to—’ I mime a drinking gesture and start to slip back towards the entrance hall, hoping no one noticed how my hand is shaking.
‘Hey, Bella, where’s that fit boyfriend of yours?’ A petite brunette with a snake-like expression asks before I can make my escape.I can tell her type straightaway. Predatory. Wants my boyfriend for herself.
I discovered, through Bella’s phone messages, that his name is Reece Kernan-Jones. From scrolling through their chat, I can already tell he’s self-obsessed, and that Bella was a doormat in their relationship. My online search confirmed that he’s a bit of a dick, albeit a rich, handsome one. I can’t deny I’m a bit nervous about meeting him in the flesh. What if he gives me the ick? They’ve been together a while, so he’ll probably be able to tell that something’s different. But Tori was fooled, so maybe Reece will be too. Anyway, I’m committed to pretending to be in love with him for the next five hours, and then ghosting him forever.
‘He’s not here yet,’ I respond coolly to snake-woman before turning on my heel in search of the bar.
‘Wow, boss, you look hot.’ I look up to see a youngish lad with floppy hair and a cheeky grin.
‘Hey... Ben.’ I recognise him from the ‘Meet Our Team’ photos on Newbury’s website. Although this evening he’s wearing a tux, like most of the other men here tonight. ‘Thanks, liking the James Bond look.’
He waggles his bow tie in response.
‘Where’s the bar?’ I ask.
‘They’ve never had a bar.’ He gives me an odd look and signals to a waitress, who comes over with a tray of champagne flutes.
I take a glass. ‘I really can’t remember.’
‘You’ve been here plenty of times,’ Ben says. ‘Thought Maddie and Monty were good friends of yours.’
‘I have, they are,’ I reply. ‘Just a little out of it. Knackered and a bit... squiffy.’
He continues, ‘If you want the good stuff, there’s single malt in the library.’
‘Which way is that?’ I say before I can stop myself.
Ben points. ‘Just follow the sound of grown men pretending they know how to play chess.’
‘Actually, this will be fine.’ I wave around my champagne, feeling like an idiot for asking for directions in a ‘friend’s’ house. I hope Ben will just put it down to too much alcohol.
Behind me, a plummy voice purrs, ‘Haven’t seen you in ages, Bella! So glad you could make it.’
I turn to see a tall, slender woman in a floor-length cream shift dress and an emerald necklace that looks like it’s the real thing. I recognise her from a quick, earlier online search. It’s our host, Madeleine.
‘Maddie! You look absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.’ I think my accent is getting better by the minute. Being around all these public-school types is rubbing off on me.
‘Thanks, Bella, darling. So do you.’ She gives my outfit a cursory up and down glance, her expression saying she isn’t impressed. ‘But you know I hate being called Maddie.’ She gives me a mock glare.
Oops.I’ve already fluffed the first test. ‘Sorry, Madeleine, too much champagne.’
‘You can never have too much champagne,’ she drawls. ‘Oh, and Monty’s looking for you. He’s in the kitchen trying to beat Richard H in an arm-wrestling match. He’ll never do it.’
‘I’ll go and find him,’ I say, before adding: ‘Beautiful party, as always.’
‘You’re sweet,’ she replies.
I head left, and Madeleine calls after me. ‘I said he’s in thekitchen, Bella.’ She points in the opposite direction.
I flush. ‘Silly me.’
