Hello, Again

Chapter 4

She was spared of further adulation as the girl in question appeared, clutching her own glass and swaying merrily in her high heels. Envying her grace just a little, Amelia stood a little straighter, smiling at her friend, (begrudgingly) relieved at her arrival. Bethany walked over in her form-fitting beige dress, clutching two flutes of champagne, handing one over to Amelia and keeping another for herself, jabbing Jeremy lightly in the chest as she placed a hand seductively over her hip.

"You, are not a gentleman. So no more champagne for you."

Jeremy chuckled nervously, quite unsure of what to say, and brushed his hair back from his eyes instead. Bethany smirked at him, leaning towards Amelia conspiratorially and talking in a stage whisper, "Isn't he cute when he's nervous, Amy?"

Amelia merely grimaced in response.

"Say Jeremy, do you know why I don't think you're a gentleman?" Jeremy shuffled uncomfortably on his trainer clad feet and avoided a reply, clearly intimidated by this interrogation at the hands of the Teenage Goddess. Amelia avoided eye contact with everyone present, as per usual, while poor Jeremy stalled for a couple more seconds before giving in with a non-committal shrug of his lean shoulders.

"Because nobody ignores Beth's best friend", Bethany replied, rather haughtily, a saucy smile on her face, as Amelia felt her face grow red from embarrassment. Nudging Beth slightly, she whispered, "Stop it!"

"Stop what? I'm only telling him the truth. So Mr Warner," she prodded him in the chest again, "you should know that a bloke should always get Amy a champagne first, before he gets one for himself. Isn't that right, Amy?"

"It's quite alright, really – I didn't want any."

"Rubbish – It's dad's finest Dom Perignon! How could you possibly not want some?"

Amelia wished fervently for the courage to say that it wasn't unheard for someone to not miss what they've never had, but shuddered at the thought of what will Jeremy think of a girl who'd never had champagne before, and thus shrugged in response instead.

Beth, counting her victories, thrust the flute in her best friend's hand, and took a swig from her own. Amelia, welcoming this break in unsavoury conversation, took a sip as well.

...

It tasted like...sparkles.

Amelia conceded that it wasn't the finest definition a twenty six year old could offer.

She held the flute up for inspection – light amber liquid sloshed merrily inside the fine crystal, bubbles floating in swift spirals to the surface, as the word effervescent bounded through her mind. Not particularly apt, but it'd do for the moment.

She set her glass down with a snort. Beth's Dad certainly didn't order Dom Perignon all those years ago.

With what was perhaps the first real smile on her face for the evening, she leaned against the parapet and surveyed the scene laid before her – the Roof Garden had come alive with scores of flood lights, illuminating artwork and visitors alike, like giant embers on the concrete floor, and Amelia wondered if a solitary owl passing overhead had been temporarily blinded by the sheer luminosity. She was surprised at the number of people who had turned up – there were the art elite, the artists and the critics and the collectors who roamed about with a dignified air, clad in black and chiffon and class, their champagne flutes held aloft by dainty wrists that followed the lift of their (equally dainty) chins. Among these connoisseurs of art were some familiar faces, and she was absolutely certain she caught sight of Armin at least twice, his hair grown out and tied back in a ponytail, bigger and gruffer than she'd remembered, with a pretty red head on his arm. She didn't know if she should be overjoyed at this development or saddened by the history, and had decided to solve the dilemma by hiding behind a sculpture instead.