Page 59 of Later Bloom

“It was Arthur’s idea.”

“Aubrey! Stop. Just, thank you.” Florence’s gaze searches her face now, like she’s trying to figure something out. “Are you tipsy?”

“What? Obviously not.”

“Are you sure?”

Aubrey slips off her coat, suddenly very aware of her every movement, and whether they would appear normal. “I’ve hardly had a glass of wine. I’m not tipsy.” She winces. Incriminating words.

“A glass of wine? Naughty.” Florence grabs the coat, and the bag, and suddenly Aubrey is empty-handed except for the other small present she still carries in her right hand. “Why didn’t you come here to drink instead?”

“Just for nerves. Louise said I looked tense.” She says it without thinking, her attention already wandering off.

“Tense?” They head to the kitchen on the left, a small, cluttered space that feels very lived-in. Too many mugs sit on the counter and a candle burns next to the sink. The narrow island is covered in finger foods and the stovetop vanishes under pans of cookies. “What’s fraying your nerves?”

Aubrey smiles at the people that meet her eye and tries very subtly to study the room, who’s there yet and who isn’t. She doesn’t remember now what time Arthur had said he’d get here. When she turns to her friend again, Florence says smugly, “Oh, alright.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Can I get you something to drink, then, or are you good for now?” Florence motions at a crowd of champagne flutes sitting on one corner of the island. Then she leans in to add, “Go for it. I’ve got all the liquid courage you need.”

“I’m a bit lost now,” Aubrey admits pitifully.

“Mm. Well there’s no being nervous at my party. This is a fun time, yeah? Holiday cheers and all that.”

The champagne—or the sparkling wine, Aubrey doesn’t care much to figure out the difference—fizzes on her tongue and tickles her throat. She breathes in deep, then out. She wants to ask if Arthur’s there yet. She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “Thanks for having us over.”

“Well, someone has to. Come and talk with everybody.”

There’s a girl there that Aubrey doesn’t recognize, younger than the rest of the group. Aubrey goes to ask Florence who she is, but then two things happen at once—the door opens to reveal a head of blonde hair, and Florence vanishes from Aubrey’s side to join a different conversation.

This leaves Aubrey standing there staring at Arthur, who’s knocking snow from his boots and shaking off a long, brown coat. He’s yet to look up and see her. She drinks more champagne, breathes once again, and weaves her way over to him.

“I blew it with the spices,” she says very quietly.

He’s smiling when he looks up. “What happened?”

“It’s not a very good story.” She shifts from one foot to the other. Her cheeks have yet to cool. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Sure, okay.” He hands over a bottle of red wine. He’s tall and imposing against the door, and when he hangs his coat on the hanger, Aubrey says, “Jesus.”

He looks back with concern. “What’s that?”

“You’re dressed in a shirt.”

“Of course I am.”

“I’ve never seen you in one of those.”

He looks over at her, very quickly. “Well, I’ve seen you in dresses. It doesn’t make this any less special.”

“Oh.” Aubrey looks down at the dark green velvet of her dress. She’s wearing black stockings and black shoes, and her jewellery is gold and cheap, meant to be looked at from afar. “Thank you?”

“I’m saying you look good.”

“Well, so do you.”

He nods politely. He seems serious, formal. “Thank you.”