I am not the sort of woman who walks into a room to measure herself against others.
I walk into a room to reclaim my breath.
Getting ready took time, but not for the dress. For the decision: how did I want them to see me? Not the wounded one. Not the proud one. I wanted to be precisea woman who could never be cast as backdrop to anothers confidence.
I chose a champagne-hued dress, simple, unfussy, the kind English roses might wear to afternoon tea. My hair: swept back, not coquettishly, but with certainty. My makeup: soft, almost storybook natural.
Looking in the mirror, I said to myself, Tonight, you neednt defend. Tonight, you watch.
The hall shimmered with buttery lightchandeliers, laughter, glass following glass, shadows spinning behind velvet drapes. There was music, the sort that teases a smile from lips even when hearts ache.
Lydia saw me at once. Of course she did. No English hostess misses a rivals arrival.
Her eyes narrowed for a secondthen widened, that rehearsed delight so beloved of posh Londoners, flecked with frost beneath the politeness.
She glided over, clutching a flute of sparkling wine.
She grazed my cheek in the manner of women who wish to brush away the past and never touch the skin.
Oh, what a surprise to see you! she chirped, unnecessarily loud, as if the walls might not otherwise hear her magnanimity.
I knew the routine. Say it loud enough, and you can sell your largesse to the crowd.
I smiled, faint as a wisp.
You invited me. And I accepted.
She gestured to the tables edge, Come, I must introduce you to some friends.
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