Persuade Me. By Ena
The modern Persuasion.
Author's Note: Chapter Ten! Here we reach the end of the original, and thus truly begins the rewrite. This one gets a teensy bit angsty toward the end. But no spoilers… this book has been around for nearly 200 years, read it.
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The evening starts of suitably well. My grey dress fits perfectly and with the shoes I wear, I don't trip over the fabric. I consider that a bonus, as well as an infinite amount of kudos directed towards whoever had sewn the dress. As I give a few practice twirls in front of the wall-sized mirror in Liz's room, I contemplate just how well I'm going to make it through the evening. At twenty-five I am perfectly aware that I'm entering what is known in the celebrity world as "the marriageable period" in which I'm now old enough to marry someone many, many years my senior, as well as being able to marry someone who is barely legal and not have the paparazzi automatically spin the romance into a creepy, one-sided, vaguely paedophilic marriage of convenience.
Not that I would do such a thing, but at the same time it's comforting to know that if I get desperate enough to marry someone who is geriatric that I wouldn't be judged too harshly. After all, who wants to be alone in life?
Since dad, Penelope and Liz have already left for a pre-party party, I've been provided with the car and driver to deliver me to the Pirellone where the Design Party is being held. I feel as ridiculous as Cinderella as I grab layers of the dress and tug it into the car, doing my best to get everything inside the door.
The drive there is unmemorable, with the sun only just having set, the sky still too light to make the street lights stand out, it is dusk, the end of the day and still too early for the nightlife to take over the sprawling city of fashion.
I apparently arrive just on time, for as I'm handed from the car, dad comes from out of nowhere to escort me up the stairs and into the lobby where the guests pass through on their way to the conference room further inside the building. Much of the Pirellone is now office spaces, leased by various companies and used for all manner of enterprises. However the large conference room on the second level makes most conference rooms shrivel with embarrassment and many a ballroom green with envy.
The room is enormous, even with a catwalk dominating one side of the room, a DJ booth set up with all the equipment and close to five hundred of the most influential designers, models, and rich people circulating the room and the one next to it.
The faces are nothing but a crowd to me, with names being thrown left, right and centre at me, all I can do is nod, smile politely and shake the proffered hands. Luck appears to be on my side, because dad never leaves mine whilst Penelope and Liz are modelling on the catwalk. Afterwards I know it'll probably be a different story, when Liz and Penelope are released into the crowd wearing the highlights of the show, but for now I let dad's constant presence by my side be a source of comfort.
Dad's grip on my elbow tightens momentarily when Lady Dalrymple and her step-daughter Carrie are announced, and as dad drags me closer to where they are conversing, dad's shoulders sag in relief when it's apparent that the McCall man (who I suspect is directly related to the same man that Aunty Agony is trying to set me up with) isn't there.
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It turns out that I am incorrect about dad leaving my side when the fashion parade finishes. By that time we are firmly ensconced in a group with Lady Dalrymple, Carrie and several other high-profiles of the fashion and design world. Penelope worms her way in between an oil tycoon and dad, wearing what I think is a hideous shade of eye-watering orange. Liz's outfit is far more demure, and the material of the dress looks like liquid metal. She wraps an arm around my waist as she wriggles in between dad and I, winks at me, and introduces herself to the owner of Lamborghini, who is standing on my other side.
When the introductions are done, the clothing suitably praised and conversational topics are chosen, Liz turns back to me and tells me how well I've cleaned up. In response I scrunch up my nose at her and grin, and she mirrors it, the same little habit we did as kids when we were left to our own devices, playing with old dress up clothes. She tightens the grip she has on my waist, a sharp intake of breath and I think I hear a small growl emit from her.
I look in the direction she is looking and to my complete surprise is Aunt Agatha in all her glory. She is the embodiment of "mutton dressed as lamb". A low-cut dress that is a little bit too tight for someone of her age, bedazzled and studded with gems, the look completed with a ghastly diamond studded necklace that takes up most of her neck and shoulders. Only on the rarest of occasions have I seen my aunt dressed like this, and on all of those occasions she had ulterior motives for the way she was dressed.
When Aunt Agatha worms her way into the group we're standing in, it's almost like someone has poured ice water over the general atmosphere. Penelope seems to almost freeze in place as Agatha stands on dad's other side. The others standing in the group seem to be hesitant about accepting this newcomer into the group, but the whole thing passes in a few moments.
It never ceases to amaze me how the blatant display of wealth can overrule any issues of appearance.
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The party truly starts after a handful of speeches, the lights change in ambience and the music changes tempo. Dad and Penelope disappear with a handful of dignitaries, and Liz is whisked away by a few model girlfriends and an ever-growing bunch of rich guys. Aunt Agatha pulls me from connection to connection, each of them more boring, oily and creepy than the last.
Eventually I manage to break free from her when she starts gesticulating wildly about something as she speaks in Italian to a man that I suspect is one of Italy's ex-prime ministers. I end up by the bar and order some ridiculous looking martini that has more alcohol that I should be imbibing. The rim of the glass is encrusted with sugar and the liquid is a shocking colour of pink and blue.
I don't get more than one sip before a body slides up beside me and nudges my side.
I nearly drop my drink.
It's him.
He's grinning at me, that God-awful grin that has always managed to cheer me up.
A question flashes through my mind, why is he here?
I can't take my eyes off him, I know my mouth is hanging open and my eyebrows have disappeared up into my scalp, but I cannot and will not take my eyes of him.
That shit-eating grin of his doesn't dissipate as he turns to order his own drink, his gaze flickering back to me as he waits.
Finally I relent and splutter out the same question that ran through my mind – what is he doing here?
That grin turns into a smirk as he answers, 'I was invited to the party, of course.'
It's like he expects that answer to have been obvious, which it probably was, but irrelevant to my question.
'We flew in yesterday, Adrian and Soph are here too somewhere, chatting to some guy who wants to help fund a new bridge in Venice'
I realise then that when this party's description was "design", it wasn't just talking about clothes, jewellery and cars, after all, the taxi driver I had praised the building we were in as a masterpiece.
'Adrian and I also were locked up in architectural planning meetings all morning up on the thirty-second floor, so I've had vertigo since lunchtime, hence the need to drink.'
He winks at me and takes a sip of whatever it is that he's ordered. I'm not used to this Fred, this flirty, friendly Fred. I honestly can't say that I'm not enjoying it, but I'm not used to it.
We talk about the Musgroves for a few minutes, how James and Lou are now going steady, and how unexpected it was. Behind us, the music blaring from the speakers begins to slow in tempo, the lights slowly dimming as the mood of the room changes.
'Want to dance?' he asks. Out of habit, a long-unused one, but one nonetheless, I say yes, and taking my hand he leads me out to the floor, leaving our empty drinks behind.
With his hand on my waist, the other encompassing mine, we somehow fall into a pattern, slowly moving to the beat. This feels like home, and it's now that I truly, completely realise that I am still hopelessly in love with him.
I'm selfishly wishing he still harbours even the slightest bit of affection for me in return.
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We dance together for several songs, the tempo kicks back up again, and swaying to the beat is no longer an option when the bass decidedly drops. Eventually his hand drops mine and instead finds its way to meet his other, still firmly and decidedly placed at my side. If we were at the same bar we were at just last week, dancing to the same music as we are now in the same position it would be considered grinding and everyone in there would assume that we were a couple, but this is Milan, we're in the Pirellone and surrounded by several hundred of the richest and most influential people the world of design has to offer. And like an Andy Warhol project, nothing is off limits and (almost) nothing is unacceptable.
I peek around one of Fred's arms and see that a small group of people on the other side of the dance floor space have begun what can only be described as a chain of snogging, guys and girls, all intermingled – still standing, and embracing whatever body and face is closest. From where we stand, it appears almost comical, but when I notice the cameras on them and the small film crew, I remember that this Design Party isn't just a chance for designers to congratulate themselves and pet each other on the back – it's a chance for all the wannabes to network their ideas, and the paparazzi and press to get the latest scoop and gossip.
Thankfully I am anonymous enough to escape the glare of the flashing cameras, but it's only a few minutes until the cameras truly invade the room. I spot Dad and Penelope posing by the DJ booth, Liz and her gaggle of models each sidling up to different rich boys. Even Aunt Agatha is doing her own PR work, standing regally in her awful dress next to the Emir of Qatar. A camera flash illuminates Fred's jacket, and its then that I know the cameras have made their way towards us and judging by the way Fred's grip on my stiffens, our moment has ended.
Apparently I am incorrect in my assessment though, because Fred doesn't release me, instead he manages to draw us further into the crowd of dancers, away from the cameramen who still work on the fringes of the dance area. There are more people here and we are swallowed up by the bodies. I look up at Fred to see him grinning at me, a grin so infectious that I find myself grinning too, it's so familiar but so bizarre to be here with him.
But the moment between us truly does end when my arm is wretched away from its spot on Fred's shoulder, Aunt Agatha has wormed her way over to us and starts whispering about how there's a perfectly good photo opportunity for me to be seen with the heir apparent of a fabric designer.
'He's standing over by Lady Dalrymple and Carrie, come with me and let's see if we can get the two of you onto the cover of the magazines.' She hisses into my ear. Without giving me time to say no, or make any sound, she rips me way from Fred, her grip almost bruising my arm as she drags me toward the stranger in question.
I try to tell her to stop, but she is deaf to my pleas, wrenching me back around when I look back towards my dance partner. He's looks as though he intends to come after us, but when it registers who it is who is holding onto me, he stops, his outstretched arm dropping by his side.
Internally I go into panic mode; no, no, no, this cannot be happening, I can't lose him again. Outwardly it's only a millisecond passing and I try to look back at Fred, but I can't see him amongst the ocean of faces and bodies, and I am too short even in my heels to see over the crowd.
In that moment – I lose him. I've lost him. Again.
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