I began to realise that dinnertime at the manor might be more than I had anticipated before we even got to the table.

I was in Eric's room when I found out that 'washing up for dinner' meant a little more than washing my hands and running a comb through my hair. When he gently encouraged me to wear my pair of nude heels instead of the trainers I was reaching for, I thought he was pulling my leg.

When I was trotting down the stairs in nude heels, I thought it was a little funny that a 'casual dinner' required a set menu, with low-carb, vegan and gluten-free options, outlined on a canvas made of gold metal foil paper.

As I sat behind my place card, centre-left of the grand oak dining table, by the flickering light of a candelabra, I put the pieces together, and caught on that tonight was less of a simple supper, and more of a full-blown dinner party. Fantastic.

————-　♡　————-

It's a mad hatter's tea party if I've ever seen one. Glasses chink and clink as Jono slur-yells 'Imbibe, gentleman!' every time he takes a swig, Nelly pleads with Alistair again – this time to stop him trying to snatch the flame from the candle – and a grey-haired man, who I think might be Sir Ian McKellen, strikes up a tipsy and interminable rendition of 'And did those feet in ancient time', at chandelier-shattering volume.

Eric's place card sits him on the other side of the table, but he's right opposite me, meaning that I can do fun things like shoot him incredulous looks every time yet another course comes out of the kitchen, or brush my foot against his calf whenever he speaks, and blush at his just-for-me glances, avoiding Lolly's leer when she catches me bite my lip.

"And for the main course! Voila!" Kitty calls, gleaming as though she made it herself. On command, the house-help, led by Ana, file into the dining room, each carrying a small silver food cloche that makes a ding sound when it's placed before a guest. At this table, Kitty's neither the intimidating ice queen, nor the sharp-witted matriarch, but someone else entirely – eluding grace and glamour. On the rare occasions that we have a dinner party at ours, Mum's always running about with a cloth over her shoulder, cooking from hours before people even arrive, and recruiting Auggie and I to steam some extra asparagus, or put the finishing sprinkles on the cupcakes – not Kitty. Kitty's poised, relaxed, with all the elegance of a woman paying a lot of money for excellent service and whatever expensive bird this is.

"Kitty, you did not!" Someone gasps, in evident awe of the platter.

"Oh, but I did, and you are so very welcome."

The menu says it's ortolan – the French songbird, illegal to capture or cook – and I thought it was a joke, but sure enough there's a tiny orange-coloured bird body on my plate. Maybe it's the little legs in the air, or the fact that I feel like it's looking right at me, but the sight of it makes my stomach turn. I grimace before glancing up at Eric uncertainly, who rolls his eyes and switches his silver plate with the starter soup. I giggle and do the same.

The glowing hostess is inspecting her bird carefully with the tip of her fork, and oh God, I hope she doesn't explode again. I think Ana, with nervy, unblinking eyes on Kitty's prodding fork, is hoping the same.

"Seems to be an awful lot of thyme on mine..." She remarks, still examining.

When Jono speaks, he's slightly muffled by the champagne flute at his lips, but the exhaustion in his tone is loud and clear,

"Oh, don't work yourself up, Kit, you'll get frown lines." The low laugh of self-proclaimed gentlemen sounds when he adds, in a murmur, "And I paid such a pretty penny to get rid of them last time."

I think I'm starting to understand the three categories of humour at these things: one, superficial banter; two, witty repartee; and three, borderline elitist, politically incorrect or misogynistic wisecracks. From what I've observed, the drunker the guest, the further down the ladder their jokes is. Lucky for Jono – and everyone else – maybe-Ian-McKellen strikes up the next conversation before Kitty can eat him alive in less bites than it would take to finish off the ortolan.

"Have you heard this Zadeh business? I mean, the man is an utter shark."

My ears perk up at the familiar name, and I can't help but grin as though it's mine. Since we've been here, Cara's dad's been all over the news because his hedge funds hit £20 billion assets under management, whatever that means. I don't know much about the finance world, but I do know that in the past two days, Cara's bought an original Monet for her bedroom wall, and booked a girls' trip to Monaco in the summer, which I think says all I need to know.

"I'm not surprised," blusters Freddie from the end of the table, "those Spaniards have always been good with their money."

As it turns out, dinner parties change Freddie's persona too, making him quite the presumptuous elitist. Although, perhaps his slurring arrogance is better attributed to the Bourbon sour he's clutching tightly in his pasty fist.

He's wrong, anyhow – about Mr. Zadeh. They're not Spanish, they're Moroccan; but I can't decide if it's worth pointing out that detail to a legless English socialite, so I swirl my creamy soup around the china bowl in silence.

"I mean, look at the City," he goes on, throwing his meaty finger about with misplaced conviction, "they are slowly invading that place, building by building. Soon it'll be La Ciudad." He guffaws to himself before his next swill, and why am I not surprised that drunk Freddie makes third category jokes?

"He's Moroccan, you prick." I say, before I can stop it, really. The same irritation that makes me blurt it out, makes me place the gilded spoon down, firmly on the tray, and it rings with a shrill noise that makes even the drunk patriots shut up and look my way. Oh, shit. Was this supposed to be one of those 'only speak when spoken to' scenarios?

"Hm?" Freddie buzzes.

"Adam Zadeh," I clarify, "he's Moroccan, not Spanish."

Freddie's countenance isn't quite clear – his brows are furrowed and his small mouth frowns, but when his head bobbles like he's having trouble keeping it upright, I'm not sure if he's offended or considering vomiting.

But a polite and clear enough voice breaks the silence before it gets too awkward, coming from my left, about 3 heads down,

"I'm sorry, I'm Charles – I don't believe we've met."

Jono points his fork at me, and although it's a little loutish, I think he means well,

"That, old fruit, is Evangeline, um," when he shakes the fork, I take it as my cue,

"Channing."

"Evangeline Channing! She's Auby's new girlfriend." He finishes with a slow, smug nod, and if all eyes weren't on me before, they certainly are now, but now they're inspecting and intrigued.

"She's the one keeping Auby in London." Pip adds cheekily, trying to take a sip of Kitty's pomegranate martini, before she smacks his hand, moves the glass and glares at him. There's a low, questioning buzz, and not being able to make out any of it makes me shift uncomfortably in my seat.

"What? It's true."

I move my foot against Eric's again. What does he mean I'm keeping you in London? But he doesn't look my way this time, his eyes are firmly fixed on the spot of wall above and behind me.

"So," and it's maybe-Ian-McKellen piping up now, "Evangeline, where did you go to school?" Ah, the 'proper prick' question.

Eric's gaze snaps to me now, and I feel his tense stare, but I don't meet it.

He asks with this tilted head and imperious voice, like he's not asking where I went to school because he really cares, but because his real question is are you worth my time?

My mouth goes dry, and I sort of want Eric to drag his foot against mine, or tap his fork in Morse code and tell me what to say, but I clear my throat, and focus on the little orange bird,

"Um, King's College."

There. A slant truth. My palms might be moist and my conscience iffy, but technically, it isn't a lie. King's College is a university... I just so happen to go to King's College Secondary School. The bubbling in my stomach settles when maybe-Ian-McKellen's eyebrows raise, impressed, and there are rounds of 'ooh' and 'ah' around the table – if I'm not mistaken, Eric's lets out a big breath, and his chest drops in relied.

"Oh, Roger sent his son there – Barclay!" Jono says, and ugh, I could just hug that man for the credibility he's lending the story. "I heard he's doing rather well – top dog over there, apparently!"

"Oh yah, yah," Freddie shouts, and as heads turn to his far end of the table again, the thought is both palpable and universal – Christ, what's he saying now?

"Barcs and I had brunch a while back," then his eyes, bloodshot from all the drink, roll over to me, and even through the inebriation, I can see their intent,

"He says the place is overrun with the 99%. No offence, Evangeline." He makes a point of shoving a full fork into his mouth, as though he's being casual, or sincere. Okay, Freddie. I'll play.

There's a disapproving hum up and down the table; Eric leans back in his chair to shoot a glare. Even maybe-Ian-McKellen has a dent in his brow when he frowns,

"Oh, Freddie."

Freddie grunts, throwing his shoulders up in a jerky shrug. But still, they all wait with expectant eyes, to see if Auby's London girl can hold her own,

So, I take a leave out of Freddie's book. Tilting my head, I pretend to consider what he's said,

"No, no, it's alright. I mean, every university's different. I've heard Cambridge is overrun with cocaine. No offence, Freddie."

My innocent eyes are trained on his scowling face over the rim of my glass as I take a sip, and the mad tea party erupts with hoots and hollers.

"Oh, I like her, Auby!"

"Jolly well done, Aubs!"

"Auby's got himself a tigress from London!"

I feel the heat slowly rising to the apples of my cheeks, and when I look up, Lolly's sitting back with folded arms, amused and impressed, and Pip winks at me, with a thumbs up as he sips from his mum's drink.

Eric's grinning, beaming with pride. Proud of me. The thought makes my heart as warm as my cheeks.

Around the table, the reticent eyes come to life, and the questions start to fire in earnest,

"You're wonderful, what on Earth are you doing with Auby?"

"Are you coming to the races with us tomorrow?"

"Will you come back for Christmas?"

Eric laughs his magnetic laugh,

"Christ, the lot of you are going to overwhelm her!"

I smile shyly, and I think this is what victory feels like – a temporary one at least.

Cotswolds cunts – 0, Evangeline – 1.

————-　♡　————-

As much as I enjoyed meeting and mingling with every Macklin, Mitford and Dyson at the table, the sound of cars speeding off into the late night is music to my ears. I catch a glimpse of the black sky as the heavy curtains are drawn in the dining room, and a mewl of a yawn escapes. Most of the Macklins have retired to bed, or the sofas in the sunroom, for those too many Daquiris deep to make it up the endless stairs.

Eric's hand lingered on my lower back as he passed me, and even his tired touch draws me to him, but the sight of Ana and only 3 others tackling the disarray of the dining table and every china bowl and silver platter left on it made me frown.

'I'll be up soon, I promise', I'd whispered when he pulled me into a squeeze and told me to come and get some rest. His ocean eyes blinked under dubious brows, but still, he kissed my hand before he turned to plod up the stairs.

I'm almost done, anyhow. As soon as we're finished, I'll roll into the silk-sheeted bed with the last of my energy, into Eric's arms, and have a good night's rest. For now, I'm gathering up the last of charger plates, and as I bend over the table to retrieve one from a far-side, a familiar smug-laced voice speaks in an enunciated murmur,

"Lovely view you've given me, Jelly."

In my rush to stand back up and inch my rising skirt back down, I almost drop the stack I was balancing in one palm.

"Careful there." Lolly smirks, her hands darting out to steady me. She's still in her outfit from dinner – a straight-necked, spaghetti-strapped, form-fitting black dress – and it makes me wonder how long she's been stood there.

"I'm fine," I say, shrugging her off, "is there a reason you keep doing that?"

She shrugs, entertained,

"You're pretty when you're startled." With her signature darting eyes dipping down the length of my body and back up, she takes a few of the plates from my hand,

"Jelly, I've got a question I've been dying to ask you."

Something about us being the only two left in the dining room, and the fading lights of the evening makes her declaration all the more ominous, but I nod anyway.

"Alright..."

Lolly's voice lowers as she leans in,

"How old are you?"

My glance darts sideways before I answer, she's taken me off-guard, but I laugh lightly in an attempt at nonchalance,

"A lady never tells."

"Mm, you're right, you're right – a lady doesn't tell. But here's my thing, Jelly," she moves in closer, toying with the rings on her finger, and I can feel her cool breath right against my cheek, "I don't think you're a lady. I think you're a girl."

My breath hitches in my throat, and all my logical thoughts are screaming Deny! Laugh it off! For God's sake, say something!

She takes another one of her performative breaths, like she's coming up with this all on the spot, but I can see it in her probing honey eyes – she knows the answer to everything she's asking. She pouts,

"No? Okay, what about this one – when you said you went to King's College... did you mean the school or the university?"

There's no use in coming up with a witty workaround. I couldn't say a word if I tried, she's eyeing and accusing, but I can't seem to pull my gaze from hers. She simpers, and brushes my cheek with a soft, closed hand,

"Aw, Jelly, don't look so scared. I like you. Your secret's safe with me."

She takes the last of the charger plates out of my hands, and heads towards with kitchen with swaying hips. The sound of the clacking heels reminds me of Kitty, and, come to think of it, so does she. With a glance or a glare, they can make you feel all-important or utterly insignificant. Maybe that's why her comforting words don't feel quite so comforting. The missing ingredient is sincerity.

Once she's left the room, I breathe out, with an exhausted hand on my hip. Christ. What a night.