Chapter 27 Chapter 26: The Best Laid Plans
The meal continued in a surreal, never-ending parade of decadence. Course after course of exquisite food was placed before us, each more intricate than the last, accompanied by a different, even more perfect vin. My glass never stayed empty for long. I ate and drank, my responses to the conversation becoming more automatic, my laughter a little too quick. All the while, my mind kept wandering, pulling away from the gilded cage of the table. It drifted to Silver, to the easy comfort of her sofa, to the date we should have had tonight, a night of pizza and laughter, not political intrigue and vintage wine. With every proprietary touch of Lord Vincent's hand on my arm or my back, my mind slid further away, seeking refuge in the memory of her honest touch.
Finally, I excused myself, mumbling something about the powder room. The waiter, who seemed to materialize from the shadows, was instantly there to help me rise from my seat, his hand under my elbow as if I were something fragile.
Safe in the stark, marble-lined quiet of the toilet, I locked the stall door and leaned against it, my mind a swirling barrel of mixed emotions. My adrenaline was pumping through me like a drug, a potent cocktail of exhilaration, terror, and revulsion. I was so high on everything that was happening, the dizzying opportunity, the blatant desire in Lord Vincent's eyes, the sheer improbability of it all. I pulled out my com, my fingers trembling. I couldn't bring myself to talk to Silver, not right now; my voice would betray the chaos inside me. So, I sent a text, my thumbs clumsily tapping out the words: I am so, sorry this dinner is going to go on all night, but I have good news, speak to you soon (heart) Nanda
While dabbing at my makeup, trying to reassemble the confident woman from the reflection, I got a reply almost instantly. The simple, understanding words were a kindness: Np sweetie, we can move it to tomorrow night, come by the bar. Looking forward to hearing your news (Heart)
I took one last look in the reflector. The Poli staring back was polished, her eyes bright with a feverish glint, her dress a masterpiece. But I wasn't sure I knew who she was anymore. The hopeful student, the dieball captain, the confused freak, they all felt like ghosts. This new person was a creature of ambition and compromise, and she had a future.
It was gone midnight when, on drunken, unsteady legs that felt disconnected from my body, I finally stumbled out into the cool night air and caught the hopper. The world swayed gently as it sped through the sleeping city. Although adrenaline was still rushing through my veins and my mind was doing frantic cartwheels around the events of the evening, I had drunk so much vin that the rhythmic motion of the hopper quickly pulled me under. I fell into a thick, stuporous sleep, my head lolling against the window, only to wake with a jerking gasp just a heartbeat before my stop, my heart hammering from the sudden jolt back to consciousness.
I stumbled out, the ground feeling uneven beneath my feet. The journey home was a blur, and then I was standing outside my dwelling. A single, accusing light was on, the light in my parents' living room window.
A cold dread washed over me, cutting through the alcohol haze. I could not handle this right now. Not drunk, my brain buzzing and crashing in equal measure, my body utterly worn out from the performance of the evening. I would have to face them. There was no avoiding it. The walk from the gate to the front door felt like a mile, each step heavier than the last, the bright square of that window a spotlight waiting to expose me.
It was futile trying to sneak in. The silence inside felt heavy with waiting. So, I straightened my clothes, pulling the magnificent dress taut, and took a deep, last cool breath of the night's crisp, sobering air before opening the door and entering the dwelling.
The scene was exactly as I’d dreaded. My parents were sitting side-by-side on the sofa, the vidbox casting a blueish glow over their anxious faces. My father switched the box off with a definitive click of the remote the second I entered, plunging the room into a sudden, stark silence. My mother looked up at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of worry and desperate hope. I stood in the doorway to the living room, subtly using the solid frame to help prop me up, trying to project an air of cool, collected sobriety while the room gently swayed.
“Well,” my father grunted, the single word loaded with a dozen unasked questions.
“They want me,” I said, the words coming out a little too loud, too rushed. I forced myself to slow down, to enunciate. “Lord Vincent wants me.” The statement hung in the air, and a bitter, internal echo chimed in: Yes, that lecher wants me, in more ways than one.
“So… what does that mean, dear?” my mother chirped, leaning forward, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
“He wants me to be part of his diplomatic consulate to Sylva. We are to travel there next weekend.” Saying it out loud, making the insane offer bone-real by giving it voice, sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through my system.
My father leapt from his seat as if electrified. “You what? What does that mean? Nanda, that’s amazing!” The transformation was instantaneous. All the gruffness was gone, replaced by a stunned, beaming pride that shone from his eyes. It was the look I’d once craved and got after a dieball victory.
“Sylva?!” my mother screamed, her voice hitting a pitch that must have woken our neighbours, if not the whole street. “Is that not dangerous? They’re savages! We’ve been at war with them since before my time!” Her face was a mask of pure panic.
My father then took up the convention, puffing out his chest. “Nanda will be fine! They are going as diplomats. It’s a protected status. This is… this is incredible!” He was talking over her, around her, his excitement a steamroller. They were having their normal conversation, the one where they volleyed fears and assurances over my head, not with me.
“This is the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for!” he boomed, turning to me with a grin I hadn’t seen in years. “This is it, kid! You’re going places!”
“But Sylva,” my mother broached again, her voice trembling, trying to re-insert the reality of danger into his fantasy of success.
“It will be fine,” he insisted, his tone leaving no room for argument. He finally seemed to notice my swaying posture, the glassy sheen in my eyes. “Now, let Nanda get some rest. She looks exhausted. We can talk all about it in the morning.”
For once, I was profoundly glad they did the talking for me. I merely nodded, mumbled my goodnights, and fled up the stairs before the conversation could restart. As I lay there in my bed, still in the incredible dress, the world was spinning and not just from the alcohol. It was spinning from the whiplash of the evening: from gilded restaurant to groping hand, from career salvation to parental pride bought with a price I hadn’t yet fully reckoned with. The walls of my room tilted and swam, a physical manifestation of the dizzying, terrifying, thrilling chaos my life had become.
I woke to the violent sensation of my two small siblings, Maka and Lilli, using my bed as a trampoline. Their high-pitched laughter and shrieks of joy were like ice picks driven directly into my temples. Every bounce sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. "Mum's made breakfast, she said you should come and eat with us!" they chirped in a jarring, off-key unison.
"Tell mum I'm coming," I croaked, my voice gravelly and foreign. I reached blindly for my com on the nightstand. Ten O'clock. The numbers swam before my eyes. I had slept through the morning, but it hadn't been nearly enough. As they scampered out, I tried to stand and my legs buckled, sending me tumbling unceremoniously out of bed and onto the floor.
I dragged myself to the bathroom. One look in the reflector was a horrifying shock. I was a ghoul. The makeup from last night, the smoky, sophisticated eyes, the perfect blush was now a smeared, grotesque mask, mascara streaked down my cheeks like black tears. The sight of it, the stale smell of perfume and vin clinging to my skin, was the final trigger. I rushed to the toilet and threw up, the convulsions wracking my already aching body.
I tried washing my face, the cold water a minor relief on my feverish skin. I picked up my toothbrush, squeezed on a stripe of paste, but before the bristles could even touch my teeth, the minty smell sent me heaving over the bowl again, dry retching now that there was nothing left in my stomach.
Weak, trembling, and hollowed out, I finally proceeded to ready myself for the inevitable onslaught of my family. I pulled on soft, forgiving clothes, avoiding anything that put pressure on my throbbing head or queasy stomach.
Walking down the stairs, I was ambushed by the smell of fresh-baked bro-she, its usually comforting, buttery scent now a cloying, greasy wave that did nothing to calm my rebellious belly.
My father looked up from his newspaper as I shuffled into the kitchen. A knowing, almost nostalgic smile played on his lips, the type of smile that says: we have all been there, kid. The price of a good night.
My mother, in stark contrast, was a vortex of energy and life, buzzing around the kitchen. "There she is! Our little diplomat!" My siblings raced around her like a hyperactive whirlwind, adding to the overwhelming sensory chaos. I tried hard to look normal, to not flinch at every clatter of a pan, and took my place at the table as if it were a dock for sentencing.
"We are going to invite my sister Loran and her family for dinner tonight to celebrate your new job," she announced, all her previous fears about Sylva seemingly transformed into unbridled pride. She beamed at me. "Maybe you could invite that nice Nate, Joel? He was so helpful with your shopping."
My mind flipped. The thought of Joel's sharp eyes seeing this circus, of having to explain Mika, of navigating any of it with a splitting headache, was unbearable. "Joel is just a friend, and he has a Polli friend, Mum," I snapped, my voice coming out harsher than I intended, the sound grating in my own skull.
She looked momentarily wounded, pulling back. "I was just saying that you could invite some friends. We need to celebrate you!" The sentence landed like a verdict. My quiet, recuperative date with Silver, the one thing I was clinging to, had just been publicly and cheerfully destroyed.
I did my best to act normal, to peck at the food on my plate without actually eating any of it, before claiming a dizzy spell and being excused. I didn't walk back upstairs; I crawled, every step a monumental effort.
Back in the sanctuary of my room, I pulled out my com again, the light of the screen stinging my eyes. I typed out a message to Silver, each word an apology: Sorry, so sorry. Family dinner sprung on me, to 'celebrate.' Have to eat with them tonight. Can we do tomorrow night instead? Let me take you out to a restaurant, to make it up to you. (Heart)
I then rolled over, plunged back into the blessed darkness, and slept, desperate to escape the pounding in my head and the sinking feeling in my heart.