Page 68 - Raffles09_March2022

Someone made a toast, and they all clinked glasses, making sure to make eye contact, and when her eyes met his they both broke into smirks.
“Oh, stop it,” said Kristin, one of Andrew’s oldest friends. “You two are insufferable.”
She liked Kristin, even forgave her the black silk camisole she was wearing, which plunged so deep that nearly her entire back was naked.
“Is that – I love Gabriela Hearst.”
“I know, right?” said Kristin.
“I was this close to getting her camisole dress.”
“Right now,” another young woman said, lifting a forkful of fish to her mouth, “twenty percent of each sale goes to Save the Children.”
Andrew topped up their wine, then his, and held up his glass. “Altruism.”
“I know that dress,” Kristin said. “With the silk plissé at the bust. You’d absolutely slay in that dress.”
“My complexion ...”
Andrew was in a good mood. “Do you think they have a bell? Ding! Another sale! What’s that – twenty percent – another two hundred for the kids!”
“Try six hundred,” murmured Kristin sotto voice, and all the women at the table laughed.
They were absurdly blessed, acknowledged it with amused guilt while at the same time believing they deserved all they had.
The fish made her skin feel greasy. In the guest bathroom, she admired the gall of the antique mirror, extensively desilvered with black spots, dimly lit by sconces on either side. Mood over lucidity. Leaning in to examine her face, she located the blackhead that’d been troubling her all night. Bracketed it with practised fingernails, hesitated, squeezed. Then another one nearby, then another. It was trance-like, calming. There was some fluid. The chloracne had been getting worse. She wet a hand towel and held it against the puffiness, then pulled it away to reassess. She’d gone too far. She unzipped her bag and brought out what she needed: primer, foundation, concealer. Blush, bronzer, highlighter.
Contour, some setting powder.
At the table, their host, a man named Maxim, was holding forth. Kristin’s look was querying – you okay? – while Andrew’s face flashed an expression she couldn’t make out. He was drunk: he was sitting straighter in his chair. He looked handsome.
“Here she is,” he said. “Here I am.”
“We need you to settle an argument,” called out Maxim. He’d momentarily shared a co-working space with Andrew and decided they were friends; word was he’d recently sold his start up for squillions.
“Is anything wrong?” Andrew asked her – not quietly enough. “Do you need to go?” “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You were in there an hour.”
“I wasn’t,” she protested, then stopped when she saw Kristin’s
face. She smiled sociably. “I’m sorry.”
“What were you doing?”
“Andrew!” exclaimed Kristin.
“Your phone was here. You’re not sick.”
Her mind had gone completely empty. She lowered her voice. “I had to do my face.”
“You had to do your face,” he announced. He picked up his wineglass, sipped it distractedly.
“You know how long it takes me,” she whispered.
She was sinking; even his face appeared to her as something steadily receding, becoming more and more inaccessible. He set down his wineglass with such gentleness it crushed her lungs.
“Andy,” said Kristin. “Come on, mate.”
“Where I come from, when you’re invited somewhere, and share someone’s beautiful house, and their circle of beautiful friends, and enjoy their beautiful meal, the general quid pro quo is that when you’re there, you’re there. You’re not locked away – hogging up the bathroom – ”
“We have other bathrooms, it’s all right.”
66 RAFFLES MAGAZINE
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