Page 77 of False God

I glance up, the collar of my shirt getting hot when I register who’s standing at the end of the pew. Beatrice Campbell. Her best friend, Alexandra Green, is a step behind.

“Hello, Beatrice.” I nod at her friend. “Alexandra.”

Alexandra blushes furiously.

“Are these seats taken?” Bea asks, nodding to the empty wood beside me.

“No,” I reply.

“Do you mind …”

“Of course not.” I curl the program in my palm, wishing I’d shoved my way into a full pew instead.

I haven’t seen Bea since … my father’s funeral probably. I don’t remember her being there, but I’m certain the Campbells were invited. The time before that was likely at one of Fig’s parties. I’d attended them all back when I was in medical school.

She looks the same as she did then—proper and poised. I’ve never seen her upset or irritated, just a perpetual beam of placidity.

She looks beautiful, too, and I should tell her so. It’s the expected compliment.

Before I can open my mouth, she speaks. “How … how have you been?”

The question is tentative, like I’m a wild animal she’ll scare away if she talks too loudly.

“All right,” I reply. It doesn’t feel like as much of a lie as it used to. Despite a shitty night’s sleep, I feel more energized than I have in a while. Not just from the marathon of sex, but the change of scenery. I needed it more than I’d realized. “How about you?”

“Good. I’m working as a clothing buyer for Harrods now. Is Blythe still interested in fashion?”

I tense a little when Bea brings up my sister. It’s an innocent query—I think—but I don’t appreciate the mention, like she’s trying to fit herself into my family. “Yes.”

She crosses her legs. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

That, I don’t believe. If Fig heard I was coming, she did too. But I play along.

“Me neither. I’ve been … busy.”

Her nod is understanding. “I’m sure it’s been a big adjustment.”

There’s nothing except sympathy in her voice.

I clear my throat. “Yes, it has been.”

I glance around, taking note of all the attention aimed this way, hoping the ceremony will start soon. But guests are still filing in, packing the pews to capacity.

My grandmother will hear about this before her morning tea, I’m sure. Bea knows exactly what she’s doing, sitting with me. Knows me attending a wedding will fuel speculation about when—who—I’ll marry and is purposefully including herself in the conversation.

The Campbells are one of the most affluent families in Britain. I’ve never even kissed her.

She’s after a title, not money or love.

The transaction I’ve spent my entire life expecting feels emptier than I thought it would. I assumed marrying one of the well-mannered women my grandmother had spent years pushing me toward would be simple and straightforward. Like checking a box on my list of duties.

I’d choose someone I liked. Respected. But I wouldn’t love her. I wouldn’t repeat any of my father’s mistakes. He married my mother because he wanted to, not because she was the best option. If he’d placed less of a premium on beauty and intrigue, Blythe and I would have grown up with a mother.

Marriage is a problem for my future self to figure out. I’m twenty-six. My father was thirty-three when he got married. That’s still seven years of freedom.

Organ music begins to play, signaling the start of the wedding. My head turns with the rest of the assembly, and Ismile when Fig saunters by, escorting Lili’s friend who hit on me. Fran, I think.

Lili’s the last bridesmaid to enter, her elbow hooked with Theo’s younger brother’s. Her hair has been curled and partially pulled back; her makeup flawless.

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