The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Thirteen

I plaster on my fake smile a second before the door is thrown wide open to reveal Nicole beaming back at us. She casts her appreciative gaze over Oliver first, and then me, before ushering us both inside using lots of sweeping hand movements. She's wearing a floor-length cocktail dress of blood-red which wraps up over one shoulder, and an immaculate face of make‑up.

She's always wearing an immaculate face of make-up. She makes me a little uneasy with her grooming abilities. Never a hair or fake eyelash out of place. I'm more of a dab of blush, lick of mascara, smidgen of lip‑gloss sort of gal. Minimal effort. I actually look like a farmer's daughter compared to Nicole.

Well, normally I do.

Not tonight. Tonight I'd almost caused Oliver to have a heart attack. (I'd certainly caused him to have an erection because I'd seen it bulging appreciatively through his Hugo Boss trousers.) The way he'd looked at me as I came out of the dressing room told me I most certainly didn't look like a farmer's daughter tonight. He'd stared at me open-mouthed for almost a minute before telling me that apart from the day I walked down the aisle toward him, he'd never seen me look more beautiful. Even the haircut was growing on him he'd said, without irony. He hadn't been pleased with it at all on Monday. When he got home he'd frowned at me, then looked confused, then asked me if I'd gone nuts — again without irony.

In Oliver's world, women only cut their hair when they went insane.

But tonight, thanks to Oliver's credit card, a trip to Ralph Lauren Couture, and my new hair, I looked every bit as New York pizazz and style as Nicole did. Tonight I actually look like I belong in this alien city. The dress is demure yet revealing, understated yet outrageous — floor-length, metallic grey and tight in all the right places it has a slightly over the top gathered silk mini‑train and sheer chiffon long sleeves. The diamond pearl drop earrings — a wedding gift from Oliver — all added to what I was hoping was a look of old Hollywood glamour.

I'd never wear anything like this in London, and I doubt I'll ever get the chance to wear it again, but I'd fallen in love with it the instant I'd set eyes on it. The colour, weight, and volume of it reminded me of a kind of armour. And sitting through four courses and cocktails with Nicole, Jordan, and the New York elite, something tells me I'll need it.

Oliver moves in towards Nicole for a warm embrace, and she kisses him on both cheeks, before doing the same with me.

"Ellie, darling, dear god you look breath-taking," She fawns. "That dress — stunning — and have you done something with your hair? It's so chic. You look so, um... I don't know, English rose." She waves her hand in front of my face as though it's somehow sign language for 'English rose'.

I guess I don't look old Hollywood glamour to Nicole.

"Thanks, Nicole. You look wonderful — I love this dress on you," I smile as I draw my eye down the length of it. She thanks me profusely telling me it's Chanel of course, before taking the lead and guiding us through to the back of her massive chicly decorated brownstone.

I'd been here only once before. A week or so after we arrived, at another dinner party — they threw monthly black-tie dinner parties because what else was there to do in New York? The following one after that I hadn't made it to because it was the night after Oliver found me on the bathroom floor. He didn't insist we go to that one. He probably didn't think I was in a dinner party sort of mood that night.

I'd spent most of this week in some sort of weird suspended animation. Like I was waiting for something to happen. Except I wasn't — because it had already happened.

My 'sort of adultery' on Monday had kept me warm all week, my days and nights filled with a strange sort of longing and regret. But not the right kinds of either. I longed for another man from the one that was sleeping next to me and I only had one regret — telling that same man I no longer wanted to see him.