Page 34 of Nobody in Particular

A few times in my life, someone’s turned the flash on and taken a photo of me a little too close. Or I’ve been lying in bed in the dark and trying to take a selfie, only to get pummeled by white light. This is that, times a hundred. A thousand. It’s like I don’t exist, and the photographers don’t exist, and we’re not standing in a room at all.The only real thing is strobing lights. A universe of flashes. And the calling, all of them calling over each other, mostly trying to get Eleanor’s attention, and others shouting to ask my name.Eleanor, who is this? Hello? You? Hey. Blondie. Who are you? How do you know the royal family?

Why are you here?

WhyamI here?

My heart’s racing, and there’s a dull roaring in my ears. I think Eleanor might be saying something to me, but I can’t hear a thing—not even my own thoughts—aside from that roaring. I just stand, staring, as my breaths become harsher and faster.

The crowd of photographers suddenly turn their attention to the side. I barely register it. Someone is beside me.

Not Eleanor. Rose.

She places a gentle hand on my back and gives the paparazzi a practiced smile. “It’s okay,” she says to me, and I barely hear her over the suddenly muted roar. My eyes zero in on her lips as she speaks, to help me figure out what she’s saying. “This is a lot, even for me.”

Then, her face changes. It takes me a beat to realize she’s noticed me staring at her lips. She raises an eyebrow, like she’s asking me what I’m looking at. I tear my eyes away, my cheeks red-hot. Please tell me no one got that on camera.

Speaking of cameras, I finally get a grip on myself then and smile for them. I’d better smile, I figure. I might be nobody, but right now I’ve got Rose’s hand on my back, which might make me somebody special enough to end up in another article. And if that happens with me looking stunned and dazed—after the bulldozer photo that did the rounds online a few weeks back—I might never get over the shame.

Rose would make for a great photo, though. If she’s usually pretty, tonight she looks unbelievably gorgeous in a tea-length dress with off-the-shoulder sleeves. It’s in the exact same shade of soft green as her eyes.

“Shall we head in?” she asks, steering us along the carpet. Her hand is still warm against my back, I realize suddenly. This seems likea super long time to hold physical contact—especially when Rose isn’t exactly a touchy-feely sort of person to begin with.

“You look lovely,” Rose says to me, which I’m sure she’s said to everyone she’s seen tonight. “Though I’m disappointed the jacket didn’t make an appearance.”

I want to reply, but I’m still fuzzy from adrenaline. The only sentence my brain offers up is,You’re so fucking pretty.And even though she just complimented me, there’s no way in hell I’m saying that out loud. When I don’t say anything, though, she looks worried. “Do you need some air before we go in?”

Focus, Danni. “No, nope, I’m good.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

I turn to her and plaster on a smile. “I’m all good. Let’s go.”

The noise of the crowd gets louder as we pass through the hallway and reach the entrance doors. Then, the footmen open them, one on each side, and we’re hit by a wall of deafening noise: a roaring mixture of laughter, talking, and music. Debussy, I realize as we enter, only to spot a whole-ass orchestra on a stage to my far left. There’s got to be hundreds of people here. All fancy, all wearing suits and evening gowns and tiaras, and mingling like they’ve all known each other forever. Ice sculptures of the queen’s likeness and the royal emblem are scattered around the room, and there’s a champagne fountain nearby, and every inch of the room seems to be covered in giant floral arrangements of pinks, blues, and whites.

“Holy shit,” I say, and Rose lights up at my reaction.

“Wait till you see the aerial ballet performance,” she says. “That’s in an hour or so.”

“Is Santi here?” Eleanor asks before I can reply. I have the feeling she’s been sitting on that since Rose got here. So that’s why she’s wearing a dress that Marilyn Monroe herself would call “awfully skintight.”

“He’s around,” Rose says. “Do you plan on actually speaking to him tonight?”

“I do,” Eleanor says, more than a little defensive.

Rose raises her eyebrows, but before she can roast Eleanor, someguy in a tuxedo grabs her arm and vanishes with her into the crowd. Cool, bye, then.

“What’s Santi doing here?” I ask Eleanor. “Did Rose invite him for you?”

“Nope. His mother is the Spanish ambassador.” Eleanor scans the crowd—looking for Santi, I assume—but then she nods somewhere through the sea of people. “Hey, it’s Rose’s parents. Do you want to meet them?”

I blanch, and look at the ground. “Oh, no, that’s okay.”

“Really? Not even to say happy birthday?”

I literally cannot think of anything less appealing than bothering the queen of Henland right now to wish her a happy birthday when she’s probably got no clue who the hell I am. She will definitely, one thousand percent survive without meeting me. Besides, everything Molly drilled into me earlier today—a blur of rules about what everyone needs to be called, and who I’m allowed to talk to, and how deep I have to curtsy—has vanished.

“Maybe we can just get something to eat?” I say weakly.

“Best idea you’ve had all night. Let’s go.”

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