‘Tell me how you really feel,’ I joke.
I survey her outfit. She’s wearing a figure-hugging designer two-piece pantsuit that even my decidedly unfashion-conscious eyes can see is expensively made. In comparison, I look exactly like someone who got a cheap polyester jumper off the rack at the kind of department store that Princess would never step foot into.
‘Sorry, darling, it’s just you’re so pretty and then you wear… that.’
I do appreciate that Princess doesn’t mince words. ‘This might be on the cheap and gaudy side, but it’s the designated “ugly Christmas jumper” evening. Didn’t you get the invite? There’s even a prize for the ugliest. I hope I win.’
She blinks and blinks as if clearing a blockage that’s not in her eyes but possibly in her mind. ‘Yes, of course I did but that doesn’t mean we have to surrender our standards. Darling, I don’t know how to say this any other way, but it looks like you’ve taken that reindeer… hostage.’
‘What? Hostage!’ I check my reflection in the small mirror on the wardrobe. ‘Ah, because of the bridle?’
‘Because of the… the everything. I could lend you one of my dresses?’
‘And risk spilling wine on actual couture? No thanks. Besides, this is fun! Who doesn’t love dressing up in ugly Christmas jumpers? The uglier the better. Aside from you, who has impossibly high sartorial standards.’
Usually I’m only found in athleisure. Because I work online, I can get away without a corporate uniform and after so many years living out of a backpack, I’m used to a capsule wardrobe. But I did splurge on some outfits for my honeymoon, mostly because I didn’t have anything remotely suitable in terms of formal or festive wear, and that included this ugly Christmas jumper.
‘I suppose you’ll win the contest, that’s for sure, and I will happily celebrate with you, but I’m also worried about you wearing all that polyester and sitting so close to candles. You’re a walking fire hazard and liable to go up in flames at any moment.’
‘I’ve always wanted to light up a room,’ I say mock dreamily.
‘Very funny.’
‘Don’t sit too close to me, just in case I become a tinderbox.’
‘Good idea. Let’s go. If you keep adding more plastic jewellery like those earrings, you’ll only make things worse.’
We find our name cards on a table in the dining carriage. ‘Here we are! Hello, hello to one and all.’ Princess sweeps in, as always announcing her arrival as if the table of strangers have been waiting for us. It’s our first formal dinner and we’ve been assigned seats this evening.
Princess takes her place, exaggeratedly motions to the man who has the seat beside my place setting – Jasper, of course. I bet Princess had a hand in this. Wouldn’t have taken much for her to find his name card and do the old switcheroo.
It’s fine. While he might be fun to look at, that doesn’t matter one jot. I steal a glance at the man in question and, oh my God, even dressed in an ugly Christmas jumper, he takes my pulse from regular programming into adrenaline rush. Why does he have such a visceral effect on me? With his mussed hair and intense unfathomable eyes, he’s all masculine energy, even in a silly jumper that somehow makes me dream of snuggling sessions on the couch in front of a fire, slow kisses…
I flop into my seat as my legs struggle to hold me. Probably from the long day. What else could it be? I practically inhale a glass of water; I have a thirst I can’t seem to quench.
‘Thirsty?’ Jasper asks with a lift of his brow.
Can he read my mind? He is a thirst trap, that’s for sure. He wiggles the water jug.
‘Yes. Please.’
I’m confused when he laughs. Confused and woozy.
Oh no.
Lovesick, is that what this is?
I’ve read about this phenomenon in the books. But this cannot happen. Because a) I’m in mourning and b) I have a steadfast rule about no rebounds and 3) It’s so hot in here, is the heating stuck on high?
Ah. It’s a glitch in the matrix. That’s all it is. My subconscious wreaking havoc again.
Besides, I hardly know the guy, so all of this is just some surface-level lust.
But maybe Princess is onto something with the polyester-being-flammable thing because I feel like I’m on FIRE.
I focus intently on Princess so I don’t self-combust. ‘Who here is single?’ Princess moves her gaze from person to person and is met with eyes downcast or slow nods. ‘Ah. All of us, then. That’s why they’ve grouped us together. A better outcome, if you ask me. I don’t know about you, but I for one am a little tired of the obnoxious displays of affection from the couples aboard, aren’t you?’ Her voice carries, and we’re met with a lot of smug side-eye from all the lovebirds on other tables in the vicinity.
I’m sure Princess is just trying to bond and not make our table of singles feel so alone, because she’s been very friendly with the loved-up couples, but I agree their canoodling has been next level. Or maybe that’s the bitterness talking; who can tell?
