Characters property of SM, but I made up the uncle. Actually, I didn't. He's a character from mythology. True fact! I've even mentioned his real name.

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My mother is ridiculously vain. Yeah, that's the word for it. She's a fright, really. She was pretty young when she had me, and I reckon that's when her development was arrested. Her dress sense is appalling and embarrassing, because she thinks she's still twenty-one, and a very tacky twenty-one at that, but her behavior is even worse. She flirts with anything in trousers. She spends more time at the hairdressers than I spend sleeping, and then there's the nail parlor, and that torture-chamber where she gets her legs and underarms and eyebrows waxed. And elsewhere. I mean, she gets other body areas waxed - areas where nature intended woman to be as woolly as a mammoth, not bald as a coot. I don't find my body hair offensive, I really don't, but my mother is askance at the very thought that I have any. She thinks it reflects badly on her. She is as smooth as a peach.

"Mom, relax, would you? It's not like anybody sees me naked anyway, and even if they did, plenty of guys like their women au naturel," I've told her, to receive grimaces in response.

"Men are very visual, Bella," she insists. "They like to see what they're getting into."

Well, yuck, thank you very much for that.

"No, seriously, darling, you're a pretty girl. You could be really lovely if you'd just let me give you a makeover," she keeps offering, and, have you ever seen Edward Scissorhands? You know that neighbor woman, the one who tries to seduce poor Edward? My mom is like that woman, but a heck of a lot worse. If she'd just lay off the hairspray and the eyelash dye and the inch-thick makeup she puts on with a trowel, and the high heels and the push-up bras, she'd be beautiful. But no, she's such a caricature. The lipo made her thighs superskinny, the botox stopped any possibility that she could ever emote a single feeling using her face alone and the implants have given her breasts a perkiness previously unknown to man. Just to confirm all of her dubious endeavors, she found herself a misogynist wanker boyfriend who actually likes her this way. She has single-handedly put the feminist cause back by decades, and she doesn't even know it.

So I never take anyone home to meet her, ever, and she thinks I must be socially handicapped in some way, because she never meets any friends of mine.

"Bella, darling, why don't I introduce you to some of Phil's friends? A lot of them have sons who'd be the right age for you. Or, wait a minute - he has a brother who's a bit younger than him, a half-brother, really, and he's in insurance. He earns a lot of money, and he's a member of the golf club. He'd be perfect for you!"

Some slimy golf-playing, insurance-brokering uncle? Oh, please, Mom, even for you, this is going too far!

"Actually, no thanks. I think I'm gay," I say hastily.

"Bella, you couldn't possibly be gay! You have long hair!" my mother exclaims in shock. "Although, you never put on lipstick and you do insist on wearing those lace-up shoes..."

I flee, leaving her to doubt my sexuality.

And that's the pattern of my life, or part of it. Mom doesn't even work - she's a trophy bride, except that they're not married. Phil is such a pig that having Mom as arm-candy proves to all his friends that he's affluent enough to afford a girlfriend who doesn't have to work, and I'm the only fly in their ointment. Mom really wants me to be attached.

"Bella, I'm setting you up with Phil's brother. He already owns his own house. Don't worry about his age - an older man would give you some guidance. He'd bring you down to earth, you've got your head in the clouds most of the time, I don't understand you at all. Anyway, I've told him you're beautiful, and he's very keen to meet you. We're going to have a barbeque, it'll be the social event of the year. I'm inviting everybody. I've already planned my outfit, and I'll get my hair done, of course - and Bella, you're coming to the salon with me. I know you like this untamed, dragged-through-a-hedge look, but it's not going to work with Phil's brother. We'll get your make-up done too. You have so much potential - wait until I work my magic on you!"

Could I leave town? Could I heck.

Mom follows me around for days, fussing over me, wanting to get me ready.

"We'll get you a gel bra, you won't believe what it'll do for your cleavage, darling. You're a bit small, like I used to be, but if you save up you can get your breasts done. Honestly, my boobs are so gorgeous now - getting them done was the best investment I ever made. They drive Phil wild!" she says, which I really don't need to hear.

The dreaded day approaches and I try and try to think of ways to get out of it. Fake an illness? Mom would make me put in an appearance even if I dropped dead. She'd arrange for an open coffin, and get the undertaker to put lipstick on me. Simply get on a plane and fly interstate to where my grandfather lives? I don't have any money, and when I rang Gramps to say I'd love to visit if he could spring me the airfare, he said regretfully, "I'd love to Bells, honey, but it won't be this month. I've had to do a few repairs on the house, and the coffers are bare. There's not much between me and the poorhouse. Give me a few weeks, and I'll gladly get you a ticket."

No help, there. And Mom's determination to fix me up with Phil's brother through pimping me keeps sinking to new lows.

"A thong, darling. It's a must. You can't have a pantyline showing, it's vulgar. And I've chosen the most stunning dress for you..." she burbles on, oblivious to my reluctance. "It's very tight, but you don't have any cellulite. Of course, neither do I..."

"Mom, really - couldn't you just lay off? I don't want a boyfriend, I certainly don't want one who's some kind of uncle removed, or who probably should be removed, and if I did want a boyfriend I'd find one for myself..."

"Bella," she says, reproachment in her tone, although not on her face, since she can't muster expressions. "I'm only doing this for you."

So I figure I'll just attend this bound-to-be-awful barbeque, make small talk with the bound-to-be-awful brother of the certifiably awful mother-consort and it will be a forseeable non-event. I will have been a dutiful daughter, and Mom will realize that trying to set me up with someone of her choosing is a lost cause.

That's the plan, and as plans go, it's pretty sweet - wouldn't you think?

The morning of the dire day, my mom, Renee, drops me at what I privately call the ugly parlor, with instructions that she'll pick me up in two hours' time.

"I know I said I'd be here with you, and really, it would have been so much fun, but I'm getting Cerise to come by and do my styling at home, darling, so that I can still supervise the dressing of the house, and the setting out of the stemware," she says. Dressing? Stemware?

"I want you to have the full salon experience, though, and Azure will be looking after you," she adds. Cerise and Azure, heaven help me. I have refused point-blank to have any de-fuzzing performed, so it's hair (of the head) and make-up only, and I'm barely sure I trust someone named Azure even with that. I've said I'll meet Renee afterwards at eleven at The Rock which is a cafe down on the pier, overlooking the harbor.

And I'm wearing what I normally wear on any day of the week - jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers. The full horror of the pouring me into some skintight and garish dress will come later.

Azure is as fake as her name, and in the ghastly make-all-women-look-generic torture chamber she does her level best to do just that. She sets my hair in giant rollers so it has big fat curls, which she lovingly tends until I'm a brunette Barbie, and she puts all sorts of gloop on my face - concealer, toner, foundation, highlighter, kohl, eyelash strengthener, eyelash lengthener - I lose track. It's enough to sink a ship by the time she's finished. Some collagen-enriched synthetic mask looks back at me from the mirror, gleaming along the cheekbones, and shaded underneath them. She drew along the outside of my lips before coloring them in, so my mouth appears bigger than it is. My hair looks like I escaped from the eighties in a time machine. It's all just awful.

I come out of there reeling, because I just can't cope with the fact that I look like I live in Wisteria Lane.

I slink into The Rock, and I can't even order anything because it would mess my mouth up to try to eat or drink. There is so much stuff painted onto my lips that they feel like they've been varnished and will never move again.

I take the furthest table from the door, the one in the corner, and settle down to wait for Renee, who may or may not be on time.

And while I'm waiting, looking out over the water wanting the day to be over already, I hear a voice behind me.

"I told Santa I couldn't wait until Christmas for my present, and it's only July, and here you are!" the voice says.

Oh, no. I determinedly keep looking the other way, hoping whoever it was would think I was hearing-impaired and go away.

"Are you waiting for someone? Wait no longer, I've arrived!"

What sort of a loser would trot out such tired and pathetic lines? Against my better judgment I turned to look, and yep, loser - no room for doubt. He's younger than you'd expect for a desperado, but for crying out loud, he has a pony tail. Blond hair, medium height, medium build, medium everything, except for the vague psycho-killer look in his eyes. His stare is a little too intense to be flattering. Just one look at him and I have the jitters.

"I'm waiting for my fiance," I answer, hoping to deter him.

"Well, I'll keep you company until he gets here," he says, and he actually has the nerve to pull a chair out and sit next to me at the table. "He hasn't given you a ring yet?" he remarks, looking pointedly at my left hand.

"Yes, it's lovely, a very sparkly diamond, we're just getting it re-sized," I reply, turning a little so that I'm not facing him, hoping he could read body language. Body language that says loud and clear GO AWAY.

He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Your fiance doesn't know the size of your fingers?" he asks, and there really is something not quite right about his eyes, about the look in them. "I'd call that a vital statistic," he continues. "You fiance doesn't know your vital statistics?"

"Look, I'm just sitting quietly watching the water, and I was having some me time, if you don't mind," I state as calmly and politely as possible. "I've got quite a lot to think about."

"I could give you a lot to think about," he says with a leer, oblivious to my having hinted that I wanted to be left alone. God, where is Renee? She's already late. It's nothing new, but I hope she's on her way and I'll be able to get out of here real soon.

"Oh, my phone just buzzed. I have a call. Excuse me, I need to take this in private," I say, and I get up and leave the table. I've got two choices - the restroom, or the front door. I choose the front door.

Of course, there's no-one on the phone, really. I hold it to my ear, and say loudly, "Darling? You're nearly here? In the team RV? I thought you weren't supposed to use it for personal business?"

The creep is right behind me.

"Oh, the whole team is with you? All those great big huge guys?"

The creep is walking right alongside me, grinning. "I don't think you're talking to anybody," he drawls. "Now why would you do that?"

He reaches and grabs my phone from me before I can prevent him.

"Nope," he shakes his head, holding it to his ear. "Nobody there. Your fiance hung up. Why don't you just relax and chat with me?"

He is actually starting to frighten me now, and I have no idea what to do. We're on the path that leads to the bay, which looks deserted, and I decide I should head back into the cafe, but this scary guy is blocking my way.

"A walk along the beach. How idyllic. We could get to know one another. I'd like to be better acquainted with you," he says, but it comes out with a sneer, and he's not even bothering to smile any more.

We're immediately under the cafe and can't be seen from the windows. Looking around urgently, I realize that we can't be seen from anywhere. I open my mouth to start yelling, but his hand comes up quickly and covers the lower half of my face.

"Now, now," he mutters and I bring my fist up and hit him as hard as I can. He staggers back, hand to his mouth, scowling, and the second unknown voice of the day speaks.

"What's going on? Are you all right?" from behind me.

Apparently the beach hadn't been deserted after all. A man stands there, looking warily from me to the creep. He's tall, taller than Ponytail, and looks like he means business.

"Everything's just fine, and why don't you piss off? My girlfriend and I are having a discussion," Ponytail says.

"I'm not his girlfriend, I have no idea who he is - he accosted me," I state quickly, and the newcomer frowns.

"Looks like you're unwelcome here, buddy," he says to Ponyboy, who seems to weigh up his chances, and then thankfully, he takes off.

"Do you want me to go after him?" my rescuer says.

"No, he's some jerk who followed me out of the cafe. As long as he's gone, that's good," I reply, feeling a little shaken, but relieved I'm under no immediate threat.

"Thanks. I'm glad you turned up right then," I add, taking a better look at Sir Galahad, who smiles at me.

"He's the one who should be glad. You were just about to deck him," he responds, and I have to blink a couple of times to clear my vision. This guy is gorgeous. The sort of guy you see waiting on tables in Hollywood just before their model-movie star career takes off. The sort of guy who likes the sort of plastic-fantastic hair and makeup I've got on now. The sort of guy who doesn't notice girls who don't subscribe to any of that sort of artifice. He's got designer hair, designer stubble, designer torn jeans, and cheekbones that surely some artist of a surgeon created. You'd clone him, except that his sort of good looks aren't DNA-derived, they're something money can buy.

"Ah, yeah, well, thanks anyway. You saved my knuckles," I tell him, and my phone beeps for real then. It's my somewhat tardy mother.

"Excuse me."

Renee is in a complete fluff. "Oh, baby I put the wrong time on the invitations. People are already here. I can't come and get you - I can't leave!" she wails. "Can you jump in a cab, baby? Come through the back way, text me, and I'll come and help you get dressed. I'm so sorry, honey!"

Well, it's not completely unlike her to have her best-laid plans go awry. But I don't have the money for a cab. Turquoise-face at the Ugly Shop had charged me a hundred-fifty bucks, which Renee had kindly given me.

"Uh - yeah, I'll see you real soon, Mom," I grimace. "Actually - can you pay for the cab when I get there? I've got no money."

"Sure, baby sure," she agrees, and ends the call.

I look up at Mr Handsome.

"Well I'm on my way to my elsewhere now. Enjoy the rest of your day," I say.

"Sure. You, too. Can we at least exchange names, though?" he says. "You're my first damsel in distress, but if I go into business I'd like to give you as a reference."

Cute. Very cute. "Isabella Swan."

He looks surprised. "Edward Cullen. Are you related to Chief Swan, by any chance?"

Now I look surprised. "The Boy In Blue? Yeah, I kind of am. Please don't tell me you're in one of his notebooks or photo files."

A thousand dollar grin parts his perfect lips, and looks actually real.

"No, my father is Carlisle Cullen, and he's a pathologist at City Hospital. He has a few dealings with Charlie, none of them of a happy nature, I'm sorry to say."

I've never met Carlisle Cullen, but Dad's mentioned him plenty of times. Dr Cullen has performed autopsies on most of the nasty death cases Dad has investigated. Dad is a member of the Carlisle Cullen Appreciation Society.

"My father speaks very highly of yours," Mr Cullen junior says, and I nod. This is all very nice, but I have this nagging knowledge that I must get to my mother's awful party. And Smooth-boy here would surely rather be talking to some girl from model-school than me, never mind who my dad is.

"I've kinda gotta get going," I mumble to him and he nods.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it sounds like you could do with a lift home. How about I take you?" he says.

I think about it. Catch a cab, skulk into my own house through the back door, then have to find my mother, humiliating both her and myself by being underdressed - or actually overdressed, since a fair amount of my skin is covered by my jeans and t-shirt - and then come back out again with money for the driver. Or - take a ride with Doctor's son here, definitely scenic, though probably not that much worth trying to talk to. The thought does cross my mind that I've just had a narrow escape from a possible psychopath, and here I am contemplating getting into a car with someone I don't know.

"A lift would be great," I venture. And I text Mom. Getting a ride with Edward, Carlisle Cullen's son, be there soon.

That should trigger search parties if I'm not back in twenty minutes. And everyone will know who to check out first. Son of CC. Have I safeguarded myself enough?

And it turns out Cullen Junior has a volvo.

"Nice," I say, and he reels off a fact or two about its safety features. Oh, okay, he's a bore.

"So what was happening with that guy, anyway?" he asks, before I actually get the chance to nod off.

"I don't know. He just came up to me at The Rock and went monster," I say.

Son of CC's car is highly comfortable.

"That was an impressive hook you've got there. A good right arm. He could have charged you with GBH," he remarks, which is in pretty poor taste I think.

"Yeah, well, don't make me mad," I warn.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he nods. "Is The Rock one of your regular hangouts then?"

"Nope. Never been there before," I say. "You?"

"It's not really my kind of place," he shrugs.

"Why not, then?" I ask, not that I felt any curiosity. I think I might as well keep the conversation going, rather than sit in silence for the duration of the drive.

"I'm not much for scenes. I hang with my brothers, or I go running, or I listen to music, or read," he says. "I'm a very boring, non-social guy."

He's sounding a little non-boring after that admission.

"What music do you like?" I ask, with slightly more curiosity.

"Obscure early Renaissance compositions for voice," he says, and I think he's trying to be a smartass. That makes him less boring, too, although two can play at that game.

"Like Greensleeves?" I answer, and his lip actually quirks in a grin. "And what do you read?"

"Medical textbooks."

"Working towards a Cullen medical dynasty? A father and son practise?"

"I'm going to be a surgeon, so no," he says. "Are we playing twenty questions? Do I get to ask you some?"

"Sure. Ask away."

"What music do you like?"

'Oh, anything by Henry the Eighth," I reply breezily.

He grins again. "You do know his authorship of Greensleeves is hotly contested?"

"I mean Henry the Eighth the band," I state, as if he should know who they are.

"There's a band called Henry the Eighth?"

"Yes, there is and they're brilliant, and if you hung around in this century you'd know about them," I say. I have no idea if there is indeed a band named after England's most married King, and I have no idea why I was taking the piss out of Son of CC except that his hair looks so styled.

"Okay then, what do you do in your spare time?" he asks and my sense of humor completely runs away with me.

"I hang out on internet dating sites," I declare in complete dishonesty, with an expression I hope is somewhere between brave and embarrassed, as if I had admitted in my spare time I liked to try and give up bad habits.

He coughs, and is quiet for a few moments. "Ah, do you meet a lot of people that way?" he finally asks.

"Well, you know, it's not exactly meeting. Just looking at their details, you know? Say, are you single? Doesn't matter if you're not... you're just the kind of guy a lot of girls are looking for. Handsome, a doctor-in-training, a Volvo... the complete package. If I saw you online I'd press click and send," I say. Luckily, I am an aethiest, because if there was a god I'd be experiencing death by lightning bolt right now, for being so mean to the nice boy-man.

"I'm too busy for dating," he says hastily, and we're nearly at my place by then. I have to work out a way to get in undetected. I have to work out a way to survive the whole horrible ordeal. I have to work out a way to keep Phil's awful brother from developing any interest in me whatsoever.

Son of CC pulls smoothly into the driveway, and turns to face me. I suddenly think of a masterly, genius plan, just from looking at him. Handsome, a doctor-in-training, a Volvo... the complete package.

"Hey, what are you doing right now?" I ask Edward.

"Going home to read medical textbooks," he says.

"Look, I know you've already done me a favor by rescuing me from the Ponytail Creep, and another one by driving me home, but how would you like to make it an even three?" I ask. I can't believe my own nerve.

"Three's a good number. What would be involved?" he inquires cautiously.

"My mom has planned this awful party to introduce me to an awful guy because I never go out with anyone - oh, sorry I made up that stuff about the dating sites - and could you come in for a while and pretend that you're with me? Just for half an hour or so? Then you could escape, and mom would have to give up on me and this uncle person..." Now I was wishing I'd been friendlier and nicer to Edward Cullen.

"Your mother is setting you up with your uncle?" he asks, with due horror.

"Yes," I mumble pathetically. "It's not illegal. Just unbelievable."

"And why did you invent that story about the dating sites?"

"I don't know. I just say stuff sometimes. I'm sorry, though."

He sighs. "I'll help you out, but only because of the uncle. Unless you made that up, too?"

"My imagination isn't that twisted," I say.

And in we got, and he takes my hand.

"Everyone's staring at us," he mutters within about two minutes.

"Yeah, well, you can see why, can't you?" I answer. "You're gorgeous, and I haven't had a nosejob."

"You don't need one," he say. "Would your mother have canapés? I can't do this without food."

We make our way through the reception room and towards the bi-fold doors out onto the deck and the swimming pool, which are compulsory in this part of town. My mother has organized catering, of course, and there are trestle tables piled with plates of itty-bitty fattening foods, which will no doubt make a reappearance in the lavatory bowls of the city after having been ingested by the rake-thin women at this party.

"People are still staring," Edward mutters, stuffing his face.

"Well, I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion," I say, since everybody female is wearing something very tight and very short and very low cut.

"You look fine," he says, shrugging, spilling pastry crumbs which is actually quite endearing.

"Fine? I've got my own body-weight in cosmetic matter on my face and the contents of exactly one dozen cans of hairspray on my hair - and that would be about all that would meet with my mother's approval," I say. "Except for you. She will approve of you."

"I can't work you out," he says. "You're snarky one minute, and sarcastic the next. Where's your mother? And where's this uncle I'm saving you from? I already dislike both of them."

He really doesn't have any right to say that he doesn't like my mother, but I guess what I've said about her doesn't paint a very positive image. She's trying to arrange a marriage for me, with a relative, and she thinks hairspray is good. That's pretty much all I've said about her.

I don't have enough time to compose a more flattering verbal portrait though, because said mother makes an immediate appearance. She's wearing a peacock-blue very tight, very short, very low-cut dress, and Cerise has done something peculiar to her hair. She's threaded it with fiber-optic filaments, or something. It's twinkling. My mother looks like she has a constellation on her head, and I'm worried the whole thing could explode.

"Bella, baby darling, here you are at last," she begins, and she going to accelerate very quickly into whine mode if I don't play my ace. My ace plays himself, though.

"Renee? I've been looking forward to meeting you," he says, holding out his hand. As Renee takes it, looking astonished, he reaches for her shoulder with his other hand, bends, and puts his cheek to hers in a perfect air-kiss. She is so stunned she shuts up.

"I hope you don't mind me being here unannounced, but when Bella mentioned you were having this party, I had to come along and make sure everyone sees us together. After all, it's not as though she's on the market, is it? I'm Edward, of course, and I'm sure Bella's told you all about me."

Mom is still stunned. He's stunning.

Then Phil turns up, with someone who must be the brother in tow, and they head straight for me.

"That must be him - the uncle - that guy there with the white polo shirt and the beige slacks," I say in an undertone. His outfit screams both GOLF, and INSURANCE. The gruesome twosome approach and then stop short as Edward firmly slips an arm around my waist. They both kind of melt away, and Edward says he wants to find the drinks.

"Water for you, and water for me," he says firmly, and I lead him to the kitchen, babbling.

"You have saved my life, you really have. Uncle Fester will never bother me again, I'll be able to get at least six months' relief from Mom by pretending I have this amazing volvo-driving doctor boyfriend, and she won't keep thinking I'm such a discredit to her..."

"How could you be a discredit? What do you mean?" he asks.

"Oh, I'm making her sound awful, and she's not at all. She just worries because I don't fit in with her set. I don't subscribe to the whole cult of beauty thing, and I'm not chasing investment banker boyfriends. Really, she does have about an ounce of self-awareness, and with that ounce she wishes I'd find someone responsible to look after me because she knows it's not her forté. She cares for me more than anything, in her own funny way," I say, because I am just realizing that I have stumbled on to an acute analysis of my mother. "She means well," I add.

"Well Bella, if you want to know what I think, and there's no reason why you should, but I'll tell you anyway, you're - how old? Twenty or so? You needn't worry about the investment banker boyfriends, they're all boring and obsessed with money and you're never going to find one that you like, and you shouldn't ever need to affect your appearance to get somebody to approve of you or like you. Be firm with your mother and tell it like it is. You're not her. She should be pretty proud of you, really. You've got a strange sense of humor and you seem pretty clear-headed, and you can punch." He grins wryly.

"Yeah, that's what I said on my profile on the dating sites," I reply.

"Yeah? Click and send," he answers. "What do you really do?"

I'd said he only had to put in an appearance for half an hour and then he could get away, but now he's showing no inclination to leave. I guess it hasn't been quite half an hour yet. He pulls a chair out for me at the kitchen table, and sits next to me, looking expectant.

"I'm studying developmental psychology," I tell him. "First year."

"And how are you liking it so far?"

"It's great. It's interesting. It's exactly what I enjoy," I say.

"And what are your plans after graduation? Clinical work?"

"No, actually, I want to go into schools. When my parents divorced I saw a counselor at my school, and she helped me so much I was inspired. I wanted to help other kids in the same way."

He is regarding me with one eyebrow raised. "Click and send," he says again. "You'd be quite a catch, wouldn't you? Attractive and clever? Why does your mother have to set you up with someone?"

I shrug. "You can see for yourself. I don't wear the right clothes. My boobs are small - that's not an invitation to look at them, by the way. I don't want to host or attend stupid parties for superficial people. As soon as I can scrape this muck off my face I will. I don't pluck my eyebrows the second I wake up every morning and I don't want to marry an insurance broker."

He looks at me sharply, and looks away, and then looks back at me. "There's nothing wrong with your clothes. Breasts are for feeding babies, and it doesn't matter to babies how big they are. Breasts also happen to be very nice to look at and play with, and any man honored and privileged enough to have permission to get his hands on a pair should never be so graceless or disengaged that he has a moment to think anything other than how lucky he is. And, without looking, your breasts appear perfectly fine to me. The men around here must be stupid," he says, "As well as shallow."

"Okay, thanks for that vote of confidence. I'll get a t-shirt printed that says "honk if you like my tits" and I'll hang around at traffic intersections and do a survey."

"Please don't."

But I sit there looking at him in all his male-model perfection, and I feel annoyed. "What about you, Mr Cheekbones?" I say. "How can you be putting these people down? Look at you, with your perfectly torn jeans, and your perfectly messed-up hair."

He frowns. "I've had these jeans for about five years now. I tore them when I fell off a bike on an off-road track. My hair is a disaster - it's always stuck straight out. I can't do a thing about it. I usually keep it shorter, but I hate going to the hairdresser so now it's all over the place. And I didn't choose my face, Bella. You haven't met my parents, but if you did you'd see... Well, let's just stick with my not having had any choice. I just look like this. And if you're critical of these people judging others on their appearances maybe you should have another think about what you just said."

I open my mouth to retort, and then I shut it again, because what he's just said makes perfect sense.

"Where's the bathroom?" he asks, and while he's occupied I'm going to give me another five minutes to think about how judgemental I am.

I give him directions and I sit there and wait, and while I wait, Phil appears again with uncle. Oh no. I am now undefended, and therefore vulnerable.

"Bella, honey, there you are. You look great! I want to introduce you to someone," Phil beams, and I can be certain he doesn't think I look great at all. He would think jeans are particularly crass and unbecoming, unless they are tight and have sequins and swirly embroidery sewn into them, and unless they're neatly pressed, with a seam mark down the front of the thigh.

"Yeah, hey, Phil, nice to see you," I mumble.

Uncle's impeccably pressed and searingly white polo has a little logo on it. "Broker with confidence, broker with Phineus." Ugh.

"This is my brother, Peter. He's been looking forward to meeting you," Phil says, and then he actually says, "I must go and find my lovely wife," - and he bails! He leaves me with Uncle!

As I stare after him with my jaw dropped at his unsubtlety, Uncle starts to chat. "Are you interested in the world of finance, Isabella?" he asks. "All women are interested in finance!" Then he chuckles. "Well, they're all interested in spending, aren't they?"

"Yes and no," I answer, which I figure is a safe answer, and is politer than Get lost. There's no need to be impolite.

"You know, I work in a really innovative field," he starts up. "I'd love to tell you about it. Do you have a drink? Let's get you a glass of something..." and as I wonder whether there actually is a need to be impolite, like a guardian angel from the heavens the most welcome voice in the world says, "Thank you, ah - Phineus? Bella's all right for a drink just now, aren't you sweetheart?"

"Peter," Peter says, blinking.

Edward's arms encircle me from behind, and he nuzzles my neck for a moment, bent low over me as he's so tall. He finishes the nuzzle with a soft kiss, right where my neck and shoulder meet. I am nearly startled right out of my skin, and I try to disguise it by closing my eyes momentarily, feeling the trace of moisture his lips have left. When I open my eyes again, Uncle is staring in discomfort and annoyance. He almost looks turned to stone. After Mommy Dearest and Phil presumably having assured him of my availability, he certainly couldn't have been prepared to find me in someone's arms.

Edward turns me gently, winks so that Uncle can't see it, and leads me away, leaving poor Fester standing there, not that I feel sorry for the guy.

"Look, that was brilliant, and you've more than fulfilled your obligation. Thanks heaps," I tell Edward, and I'm finding myself a little disappointed that he's going to walk right out of my life any minute now, having done what I asked of him and managed to deflect Mom and Phil and Uncle. He's kind of interesting.

"It was no trouble," Edward shrugs.

"So, it's back to the textbooks now then, is it?" I ask.

"Yep," he nods.

"What particular strand of the medical body of knowledge are you studying today, anyway?" I ask. I don't want him to go. I want to keep talking to him. He's insightful and clever and he's unlike anyone else I've met around here, and the feel of his arms around me was incredible.

"Do you really care?" he says, with a slight smirk. "Or are you just trying to keep me here?"

I feel myself start to blush. Before I can string together an embarrassed mumble of a reply, he takes my hand again.

"You know what? I don't think it's going to be very convincing if I leave here now and you stay behind. Why don't you come with me?" he says.

I chance a look up. "What, and read about the secret life of corpuscles?" I ask, uncertainly.

"I'm not studying haemotology, so no."

"Oh, then, I suppose it would be something like The Beginner's Guide To Finding The Perfect Scalpel?"

He's smiling. "Not that either. But actually, I'm ahead on my reading. You could return the favor you now owe me and come and meet my mother. She's been dropping not-so-subtle hints for months now that I need to find myself a girlfriend."

"You don't have a girlfriend? How is that possible?"

In all my concern about my own situation I hadn't stopped to wonder about his, but now I can't think why he should be single, when after all, he's the complete package.

"Guess I haven't met too many girls with a strange sense of humor, who are clear-headed and really know how to wallop a guy."

Click and send. Really.

"You seriously want me to engage in a deceitful charade with you with the sole intention of misleading your unsuspecting mother and other family members?" I ask sweetly.

"If you want to put it like that, yes." Oh, I will engage. What a very good idea.

"Ah, okay, I'll come along and meet your Mom, and we'll go to whatever lengths you deem necessary, and I deem acceptable to give her the impression that you and I are on some sort of date, but can I chisel this deathmask off my face first?" I say flippantly. "Oh, and I'd better let my Mom know that I'm going."

"Please do."

I go and tell Mom I'm going with Edward, and she looks as disappointed yet thrilled as only the mother-of-a-girl-who-has-just-announced-she's-leaving-her-own-mother's-party-to-go-home-with-a-gloriously-handsome-son-of-a-doctor can, and I get the gunkmuck off my face, and meet Edward, who is hovering in the hall waiting for me.

"So that's what you really look like? It's not so bad," he says, eyes narrowed, head tilted, sizing me up.

And we get into the volvo, Mom waving at the door, smiling and proud, the queen of her own backyard. I haven't even told her the doctor part yet, but she's seen the pretty silver car. Phil is behind her, not so happy. Uncle is presumably still a statue in the kitchen.

But before putting the key into the ignition Edward pauses and says, "You know, my mother's not going to find it credible that I turn up with someone she's never heard of before and claim that we're dating," and my heart suddenly sinks a little. Is he backing out?

"Uh-huh," I answer slowly.

"So, maybe we should actually go on a date first? Would you like to see a movie?" he asks.

Yes, I would! "Sure," I nod, not giving away my sudden excitement. "I'd like that."

We drive off into the sunset. Actually, it's only about four in the afternoon, but the sun is setting somewhere, right?

And I really had thought this was going to be a dire day.

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You're not going to guess what this one is based on unless you know your Greek myths.