Growing, 4/?
Change your thoughts and you change your world.
Norman Vincent Peale
* * *
Interlude I
Twenty-one years, two months and eight days ago.
I’ve got my fake smile on.
It’s this smile that I give to all the foreign dignitaries, all those rich people in their tuxedos and their cocktail dresses. I almost vomit at the thought of it. I’m holding a champagne flute by the stem, sipping just a little bit too fast. I’m fake smiling at something the - God, I don’t even know who he is. Is he an Ambassador? Royalty? His voice is far too slurred for me to discern his accent. Behind him, a bodyguard of some description rolls his eyes, as if this is a common occurrence.
He gives a loud, bellowing laugh, sounding more like an animal in heat than the sophisticated emissary that he is supposed to be. In my political experience, if you get to a certain level of importance, people expect you to be loud and raucous. I appease him with a fake laugh, though I have no idea what is so fucking funny.
The bodyguard whispers something into my companion’s ear. He gives a disgruntled noise, and wanders off, without even saying goodbye. It’s not like I care, though. The bodyguard gives me an apologetic smile. Immediately, I realize that he is apologizing, not for me losing my company, but for the fact that I was forced into a conversation with him in the first place.
I take a long sip of my champagne.
‘He’s looking for a trophy wife.’ The voice comes from behind me, and it’s one that I don’t recognize. I turn.
She’s about my height, light brown hair, blue eyes. She’s wearing a strapless black dress.
‘I’m sorry?’ It’s true that I hadn’t quite comprehended her words, but mostly I just want to see those lips move. They’re very nice lips.
‘My father,’ she says. ‘He’s looking for a trophy wife. He doesn’t seem to care that you’re the same age as I am.’ I almost retch at the thought.
‘Katherine.’ She holds her hand out, and I shake it.
‘Emily.’
‘Ambassador Prentiss’ daughter, right?’ she asks, and I nod in affirmation.
‘My father just started his assignment as Romanian Ambassador.’ I nod. It makes sense - I had heard talk about the house of a new Ambassador. ‘He’s slightly more diplomatic when he’s sober,’ she tells me. She glances in his direction. ‘I think he’s still trying to find the right balance.’
This time, when I laugh, it’s real.
* * *
Her kisses brush lightly against my neck. We’re both slightly tipsy, but not at the stage where our inhibitions are severely impaired. This is nothing if not consensual.
‘Have you ever done this before?’ Her breath is warm against my skin. I realize at that point that my hands are at the thigh slits of her dress, pushing upwards.
‘A few times,’ I say. It’s true that I’ve had more experience with the male of the species, but this is by no means my first rodeo. She looks down hesitantly at my hands.
‘Does it bother you?’ I ask. ‘We can stop, if you’d like.’ I pull away, letting her dress fall down.
‘No.’ She takes my hand, and replaces it on her thigh. ‘No, I want to do this.’
* * *
It’s a stroke of luck that this particular function is taking place in a private residence. If we were at an Embassy or a hotel function room, we would have had a much harder time finding somewhere private.
At events like this, it is almost expected that one or two couples will excuse themselves for more interesting ventures, but in any case, I’m not worried about getting caught. I’ve got far more important things on my mind.
Her dress is hanging limply on the corner of the bed. My lips are gently caressing her lower stomach, while her hands push back the straps of my own dress. I move my lips lower, starting to experiment with my tongue. My fingers hook into her panties.
She gives an ecstatic moan at the movement of my tongue; it’s rather loud, but I don’t really acknowledge that fact. I’m somewhat occupied.
Her back arches almost violently, so I think I’ve done something right.
‘Emily?’
Oh fuck. Oh, fuck me. I didn’t even hear the door open. I freeze, a deer in the headlights. Apprehensive, my head turns towards the door. My mother is standing there, watching.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
* * *
Katherine leaves rather quickly - as soon as she has redressed. It is a standoff between my mother and I. She’s staring at me, and I get the sudden urge to go wash my face.
‘You don’t knock?’ There is venom in my voice. Any privacy I might have had in my life is gone.
‘I saw the two of you,’ she starts.
‘We were talking,’ I shoot back angrily. ‘You’re going to restrict who I’m allowed to talk to now? Does having a bisexual daughter bother you that much?’ I’m not trying to deny what she saw, but I know that the kissing definitely did not start until we were behind closed doors. The only way my mother could have known was if she had been keeping a watchful eye on me from the start.
‘You think I’m stupid, don’t you?’ she asks. I stare back, stunned. Where did she get that from? ‘You think I don’t pay attention to you, to your life. Please, Emily, an Ambassador reads people for a living. You don’t maintain diplomatic relations between two countries with good luck. I’ve had my suspicions since the day you told me you wanted to go to SSE high school.’
‘So why the fuck does it bother you so much?’ Such vulgar language is something that is frowned upon in the Prentiss household. Right now, I’m so pissed off I don’t care.
She does not scold me for the words.
‘She wanted the two of you to get caught, you realize? I could hear her from across the hallway.’
I scoff. ‘You think she was trying to tarnish my good name?’ Sarcasm is another thing that has always been frowned upon. I remember the lectures; lectures that I’ve never really taken to heart.
‘Emily, Katherine St. Clair is nothing but a little girl that wants her Daddy’s attention. Her father is looking to remarry, and she just doesn’t want someone other than her in his life. She’s acting out. She isn’t interested in you even remotely. Why do you think she ran so quickly when she realized that it was me at the door?’ She’s trying to use her “mother” voice - a voice that gives an impression of compassion - but she is still too caught up in “Ambassador” mode.
Deep down, had I already known that? From birth, I’ve had the art of reading people hammered into me, as an extra-curricular activity would be for a normal child. I’ve been taught to know when people are happy, when they’re sad, in spite of other evidence to the contrary. Why is it then, that whenever I find myself engaged in an apparently romantic encounter, I ignore the warning signs completely? Am I giving myself false hope?
And this is the point in life where I vow never to make stupid, primal choices again.
Norman Vincent Peale
* * *
Interlude I
Twenty-one years, two months and eight days ago.
I’ve got my fake smile on.
It’s this smile that I give to all the foreign dignitaries, all those rich people in their tuxedos and their cocktail dresses. I almost vomit at the thought of it. I’m holding a champagne flute by the stem, sipping just a little bit too fast. I’m fake smiling at something the - God, I don’t even know who he is. Is he an Ambassador? Royalty? His voice is far too slurred for me to discern his accent. Behind him, a bodyguard of some description rolls his eyes, as if this is a common occurrence.
He gives a loud, bellowing laugh, sounding more like an animal in heat than the sophisticated emissary that he is supposed to be. In my political experience, if you get to a certain level of importance, people expect you to be loud and raucous. I appease him with a fake laugh, though I have no idea what is so fucking funny.
The bodyguard whispers something into my companion’s ear. He gives a disgruntled noise, and wanders off, without even saying goodbye. It’s not like I care, though. The bodyguard gives me an apologetic smile. Immediately, I realize that he is apologizing, not for me losing my company, but for the fact that I was forced into a conversation with him in the first place.
I take a long sip of my champagne.
‘He’s looking for a trophy wife.’ The voice comes from behind me, and it’s one that I don’t recognize. I turn.
She’s about my height, light brown hair, blue eyes. She’s wearing a strapless black dress.
‘I’m sorry?’ It’s true that I hadn’t quite comprehended her words, but mostly I just want to see those lips move. They’re very nice lips.
‘My father,’ she says. ‘He’s looking for a trophy wife. He doesn’t seem to care that you’re the same age as I am.’ I almost retch at the thought.
‘Katherine.’ She holds her hand out, and I shake it.
‘Emily.’
‘Ambassador Prentiss’ daughter, right?’ she asks, and I nod in affirmation.
‘My father just started his assignment as Romanian Ambassador.’ I nod. It makes sense - I had heard talk about the house of a new Ambassador. ‘He’s slightly more diplomatic when he’s sober,’ she tells me. She glances in his direction. ‘I think he’s still trying to find the right balance.’
This time, when I laugh, it’s real.
* * *
Her kisses brush lightly against my neck. We’re both slightly tipsy, but not at the stage where our inhibitions are severely impaired. This is nothing if not consensual.
‘Have you ever done this before?’ Her breath is warm against my skin. I realize at that point that my hands are at the thigh slits of her dress, pushing upwards.
‘A few times,’ I say. It’s true that I’ve had more experience with the male of the species, but this is by no means my first rodeo. She looks down hesitantly at my hands.
‘Does it bother you?’ I ask. ‘We can stop, if you’d like.’ I pull away, letting her dress fall down.
‘No.’ She takes my hand, and replaces it on her thigh. ‘No, I want to do this.’
* * *
It’s a stroke of luck that this particular function is taking place in a private residence. If we were at an Embassy or a hotel function room, we would have had a much harder time finding somewhere private.
At events like this, it is almost expected that one or two couples will excuse themselves for more interesting ventures, but in any case, I’m not worried about getting caught. I’ve got far more important things on my mind.
Her dress is hanging limply on the corner of the bed. My lips are gently caressing her lower stomach, while her hands push back the straps of my own dress. I move my lips lower, starting to experiment with my tongue. My fingers hook into her panties.
She gives an ecstatic moan at the movement of my tongue; it’s rather loud, but I don’t really acknowledge that fact. I’m somewhat occupied.
Her back arches almost violently, so I think I’ve done something right.
‘Emily?’
Oh fuck. Oh, fuck me. I didn’t even hear the door open. I freeze, a deer in the headlights. Apprehensive, my head turns towards the door. My mother is standing there, watching.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
* * *
Katherine leaves rather quickly - as soon as she has redressed. It is a standoff between my mother and I. She’s staring at me, and I get the sudden urge to go wash my face.
‘You don’t knock?’ There is venom in my voice. Any privacy I might have had in my life is gone.
‘I saw the two of you,’ she starts.
‘We were talking,’ I shoot back angrily. ‘You’re going to restrict who I’m allowed to talk to now? Does having a bisexual daughter bother you that much?’ I’m not trying to deny what she saw, but I know that the kissing definitely did not start until we were behind closed doors. The only way my mother could have known was if she had been keeping a watchful eye on me from the start.
‘You think I’m stupid, don’t you?’ she asks. I stare back, stunned. Where did she get that from? ‘You think I don’t pay attention to you, to your life. Please, Emily, an Ambassador reads people for a living. You don’t maintain diplomatic relations between two countries with good luck. I’ve had my suspicions since the day you told me you wanted to go to SSE high school.’
‘So why the fuck does it bother you so much?’ Such vulgar language is something that is frowned upon in the Prentiss household. Right now, I’m so pissed off I don’t care.
She does not scold me for the words.
‘She wanted the two of you to get caught, you realize? I could hear her from across the hallway.’
I scoff. ‘You think she was trying to tarnish my good name?’ Sarcasm is another thing that has always been frowned upon. I remember the lectures; lectures that I’ve never really taken to heart.
‘Emily, Katherine St. Clair is nothing but a little girl that wants her Daddy’s attention. Her father is looking to remarry, and she just doesn’t want someone other than her in his life. She’s acting out. She isn’t interested in you even remotely. Why do you think she ran so quickly when she realized that it was me at the door?’ She’s trying to use her “mother” voice - a voice that gives an impression of compassion - but she is still too caught up in “Ambassador” mode.
Deep down, had I already known that? From birth, I’ve had the art of reading people hammered into me, as an extra-curricular activity would be for a normal child. I’ve been taught to know when people are happy, when they’re sad, in spite of other evidence to the contrary. Why is it then, that whenever I find myself engaged in an apparently romantic encounter, I ignore the warning signs completely? Am I giving myself false hope?
And this is the point in life where I vow never to make stupid, primal choices again.