Page 44 of Claim
I grimaced. “Please don’t tell me you’re planning to name the child after the location of conception.”
He considered it far too seriously. “You don’t think Porcelain has a ring to it?”
“You are a Hale-Fitzroy married to a Kingsley.” I bounced on my heels. “You cannot tell me it wasn’t bone china.”
He huffed a laugh. “Sadly, it was plastic.”
“Scandalous.”
“Quite.”
“I’ll assume that detail won’t be making the Tatler cut.” I tipped my glass subtly towards the photographer crouched near Eloise, currently capturing her delighted reaction to a particularly ostentatious Moses basket. Wicker, draped, gently rocking on carved legs. It looked less like a place to put a baby and more like something one might be laid out in for a tasteful funeral. “Were we meant to leave the price tags on our gifts? Or is that only for items over four figures?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Tristan. Your tragic little three-pack of muslin cloths will be discreetly returned and exchanged for the blankets Eloise actually wanted.”
“I am a junior barrister, Marcus. I earn very little.”
He hummed. “Funny. Forbes seems to think you’re worth at least half of that.”
“Ha. Ha.” I took a sip of champagne and nodded towards Eloise, who was shaking hands with someone who looked suspiciously like a board member. “And how does Eloise intend to maintain all her patronage and committees whilst heavily pregnant?”
Marcus smiled, fondly. “You are very old-fashioned, Tris. Women are remarkable creatures. Unlike us, they can multitask.”
“I realise that. But how many things is she actually on?”
I’d always assumed my sister-in-law threw herself at causes the way some women threw themselves at Pilates. Anything to keep her mind off the fact the Hale-Fitzroy heirs hadn’t arrived quickly enough. Now that one finally was, I’d half-expected her to slow down.
“She’s patron of three now.” Marcus peered over to his wife, a fondness in his eyes I wasn’t at all used to. “Two hospitals and something involving vulnerable young mothers. I lose track.”
“Vulnerable young mothers?”
“The ones who fall through the cracks. Underaged girls. Or those…impregnated in the wrong circumstances. No family support. Sometimes fleeing violence. Sometimes just… nowhere to go. Homeless.”
“I see.”
“Eloise funded the purchase of a property in North London,” Marcus took a sip of his drink, watching his wife with such pride it sort of hurt. “Big old place. Was earmarked for luxury flats. She had it converted instead. Residential support. On-site childcare. Midwives. Social workers. Parenting courses. Help with education. Work placements. A chance at something resembling stability. All rather noble and lovely.”
“Indeed.”
Marcus shifted to stand beside me, both of us taking in the room. The crowd ebbed and rearranged itself, a tide of linen and silk and muted laughter. Until a gap opened and I noted a familiar face. To be fair, most faces here were familiar. People I’d met. People I’d seen in print. People who existed permanently adjacent to charity dinners and first nights and lists. But that one, over there, half-turned in conversation with a group I didn’t recognise, I knew personally.
“What the ever-living fuck is Benjamin Rothwell doing here?” I stepped closer to Marcus.
He didn’t even look surprised. “The Hale-Fitzroys and the Rothwells go back decades. We couldn’t exactly invite the parents and blacklist the offspring.”
I took a sharp sip of champagne. “It would have made a rather clear statement.”
Benji hadn’t existed in my life since I’d had him removed from our student house via my father’s exquisitely polite email chain to his family, after I’d seen the video of his and Ollie’s shared orgy. Ollie had been my boyfriend at the time. A clean excision. Surgical. Necessary.
And the person who had shown me that video? Razor.
Across the room, Benji glanced up.
“If it helps,” Marcus dipped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “he lost his West End role after acquiring a rather committed drug habit.”
I swallowed. “It does not.”
Though annoyingly, it did. A fraction.
