"Ready?"

"Come on then!"

"Ange, babe, we're greying over here."

"Ta-da!" I slide into the 3-way FaceTime frame in my Ascot dress to the sound of Caz and Babe's applause. For all the effort that went into it, you'd think Ascot was more than a big horse race for the royals. That's all it is, really – although Caz says that's treason to say.

Thanks to Caz's maman, the endearing white dress is no more – the dress is fitted like a fishtail from the waist down, overlaid with a light blue lace and a slim black satin strip in the middle, and punctuated with a black and white lace frill along the bottom. It feels like it belongs on a size 4 body with the surname Windsor, rather than a size 8 Channing, but smoothing down the light-as-air lace against my body, I realise how exciting the feeling of being someone else is. This must be what it's like to be Hannah Montana.

"Shit, it's so pretty!" Babe goggles. She's eternally dressed like she's going to the airport, in tight crop tees and designer sweats, and she makes it work better than anyone – her validation always makes me that little bit smugger.

"Um, excuse me," I feign offence, "why do you sound so surprised?"

"Because she didn't know it was possible to look fit without showing tits," Caz answers in her smart-arse way, "I believe they call it class, Barbara."

Eric's on the other side of the room, trying to do up his tie in the mirror, and I see his shoulders jolt in silent laughter, but the smile goes as suddenly as it came. I know he feels a little awkward, and I get why.

In another universe, the three of them would get on like a house on fire. We'd all have lunch in a swanky hotel restaurant, and they'd grill him and make him nervous, but he'd win them over with his charm and wit, and they'd tell me how funny and cute and perfect for me he was when he left. In this universe, it's a little more complex. I clear my throat and turn my attention back to the call before I make myself upset.

"Okay, so I'm thinking cut-out heels?"

"The black ones?"

"Mhm."

"Oh, yes, for sure."

"Yeah, those are cute."

"And," I tip-toe the dresser before scurrying back into frame, "butterfly clips?" I hold the silver pins hovering at either side of my head. Caz nods in approval,

"So gorge."

I stayed up later than I should have last night, stressing (to Eric's cheeky amusement) trying to figure out whether a navy clutch clashed with or complemented baby blue, and whether to go with a bold red lip or a subtle champagne, but I beam, casual and elegant, like I just threw finishing pieces on just this morning.

"Alright, final question then; the Shakespearean question, if you will: to straighten or not to straighten?"

"That is the question," Babe grins.

"Votes to straighten?" To nobody's surprise, Caz's hand shoots up, grazing her own dark, sheen locks on the way.

"And votes for the curls?" Babe raises a casual finger, but Eric, still struggling in front of the mirror, drops his tie and sticks up a long arm. I forget to stifle my laugh when I look over and grin.

Babe's raised brow is innocent, but her tone isn't,

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. I think I'll just leave it," I squint at the tiny numbers at the top of the screen, "don't know if I have long enough to straighten anyway. Ah, I love you too, Caz," I add when I'm flipped off in utter Caz fashion.

Eric huffs, and I can see the man-child in him getting agitated with the poor pinkish tie.

"Alright, kiddos," I sigh, "I've got to go, but I shall keep you posted."

" 'Kay, bye, Angie."

"Have fun, bébé! Send pictures with Meghan and Harry!" I hunch over to end the call, before narrowing my eyes at the petulant man.

"Need some help there?"

His eyes, hard with frustration, soften and the corners his lips curl into a shy smile,

"Please."

Laughing, I tip-toe over to him,

"Only 'cause you asked nicely." I bend down to pick up the tie from the floor and shake my head at him in playful disapproval as I drape it around his neck and pat both hands against his chest.

"Okay, what are we doing?"

"We're trying to get this naked mole-rat coloured thing to look like a Windsor knot." He looks right into my eyes as he explains, and I stand before him, barefoot with my hands on his chest, and moments like this make me see forever. I know forever is more than intimate glances and doing ties on tiptoes, but that's part of it, right? If this is even the tiniest part of our forever, I'll take it and all the rest, whatever it entails.

"Easy," I crow, narrating the actions as I begin, and I'm so glad it's one of the few I know, "loop, loop through, down, right around, left loop, through the hoop, tighten."

I feel his eyes on me, smirking in awe, and the delight's bubbling in my stomach.

"How'd you learn that one, then?"

"Dad," I shrug, "he got me to do them all the time when he was going for his job interviews in the city."

There's a little silence, and I know it's because he's waiting to see if I'll say more about Dad – I rarely do. "And now he runs a pub." I laugh, but it's hollow, and I don't want to think about Dad now. I want to think about today, now, us.

"I thought you were supposed to know how to do these things, Honourable Eric Macklin?" I tease him and he rolls his eyes with a touché lift of the brow.

"I do," he says, his tone as just as teasing, "just feeling ...a little bit befuddled today."

He punctuates his snappy explanation with a peck on my lips, and I eye him. It's an odd tell, but when he's stressing, he alliterates, and his kisses are like sharp nips. It's like some kind of witty, performative, I'm trying to convince myself everything's great mask.

"Hmm..." I hum, and I'm on the 'right around' step now, taking my time, "this befuddlement wouldn't happen to have anything to do with someone turning 25 tomorrow, would it?"

Since we've been here, even the slightest mention of his birthday has made him fidgety, like he'd rather forget it's coming up at all – not that he can, with his mother going on and on about renting out restaurants and flying in guests of honour. The Eric I know, the lovable literature geek of simple pleasures, would be content with a date to the V&A and a pizza picnic in Kensington Gardens; the Eric I'm coming to know is a Macklin first, and only anything else at his family's convenience.

"Brood not, Beautiful," he says with a sigh, pecking the crease between my brows, "we're in for a wonderful time today."

It doesn't go unnoticed that he avoided my implication, but I'm with him on one thing – I want my focus to be right here.

I glance above his head as I finally tighten the pale tie,

"What time's the train?"

Somehow, Pip managed to convince us to take the train with him and his mates. He says Ascot's better if you go tipsy and in a group, and the only other option was to fly in by helicopter with Kitty and Jono, but you're not allowed booze up there; on those grounds, the train's the most fun. He talks about the taking the train like it's some whacky amusement park ride, and ah, to be rich enough to pick the train over a helicopter 'just for fun'.

"9, I think, but I don't know – doubt Pip's even up yet." Eric's adjusting a tall top hat on his head as he muses, and a repressed quiff of his light hair sticks out from underneath. I smile to myself as he gently pulls on either side to make it sit perfectly; when I turn to start my makeup, he grabs my hand, pulling me towards him and holds me close with my back to his chest. He presses a kiss, more sincere than the others, to my cheek, as he looks at our reflection in the hanging mirror.

"You look magnificent, Evie." He whispers, his arms wrapped around my waist.

With him in his top hat and waistcoat, and me in a dress I thought I'd only ever see on the cover of Luxury Lifestyle Magazine, I don't quite recognise us. I worried I'd look like a girl playing dress up, but I don't – at least not by Eric's side. In the narrow mirror with the flat brass frame, we look regal, proper. And the best part is that underneath it all, the fascinators and naked mole-rat coloured ties, we're still us.

"Thursday," I whisper back, my eyes fixed on his reflection.

"Thursday," he grins, setting the butterflies loose.

───･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

As arrogant as it sounds, I'd always thought that there were some people in life who you could reasonably, and rightfully, expect to learn little from. You know, bigots, Bible-bashers, that sort. I'd assumed that the first girl I met on the Ascot Express fell into that same category – she introduced herself as a friend of Pip's from boarding school, and when I told her it was my first time at Ascot, her sage advice was that the key to a good time at Ascot was 'good ket and a spare set of knickers', and I side-eyed Eric cautiously. But the train journey from the Cotswolds to Ascot is the better part of 3 hours, and each hour with the jumpy blonde taught me something new.

In hour one, I learned how to make a bloody good makeshift margarita with a Splenda, some white wine and a coffee mug, and that is so much harder thank you think.

In hour two, I learned that white wine makes me sneeze. Who knew?

Hour three felt more like a half an hour, with everyone clamouring to the windows to see the stables as the train rolled into the East Berkshire town. The girl was a lot less coherent by then, yet managed to unscrew the coffee mug and tell me that the races go by much faster if you chug beforehand. To my surprise, it was Eric who reached over me and guzzled the remains of the makeshift margarita, before giving me an adorable, grinning shrug.

Even without the sneeze-inducing concoction, the races went by pretty quickly – the whole day did, in fact. I reckon it was the novelty of it all.

From the moment we stepped off the train, Eric took my hand as hordes headed to the entrance, and in the crowd of racegoers, I felt like I was back in London – a side character amongst thousands. That was until a thin line formed, filtering away from the general crowd and towards a cream stone entrance, marked The Royal Enclosure. Of course. The inside of the enclosure was mostly top hats, tailcoats, and fruit-adorned glasses of Pimm's; everybody walks somewhere, all in the same direction too, but with a leisurely air about them, gracious with their waves and greetings. When I asked where Kitty and Jono were, Pip nodded to an alabaster uber-tent, guarded by more tailcoated man stood by a sign reading 'Her Majesty's Official Guests'. I widened my eyes and asked,

"They're in...?"

"Mhm."

"With the...?"

"Indeed."

Mum and August would have freaked the fuck out with me, but the Macklin crowd is totally unphased by the idea of casually kicking back with Queen Liz. He laughs when I shrug and try to pretend that I'm not internally screaming.

The actual races were sort of exciting, although the garbling yells of top-hatted men who'd placed their bets on the galloping beauties seemed to be what generated the most excitement. Watching the horses themselves only made me think, what a long way to run for those poor horses, and I decided people-watching and fascinator-critiquing with an increasingly tipsy Pip was the best diversion.

Before long, the sun was setting, and the day had slipped away as we ambled, the keenest reminder of which was the grumbling of my stomach.

Eric's swinging our joined hands between us, and when he hears the ravenous sound, he laughs,

"I think we need to get you some food, my love."

Pip, as Macklins tend to, has found himself at the centre of a drunken and eager group, and at the mention of the word 'food', he lets out a holler, and the gaggle howl back like a wolf pack.

"Yes! Let's fucking eat!" He throws a lax arm in the direction of a strip of fancy restaurants with winding queues of hungry guests lined up outside each one, and my shoulders slump sullenly at the sight of the traffic jam.

"Any chance your family's got a personal chef and private restaurant at the end of the strip?" My hungry plea is in jest, but Eric looks over my head as we come to a stop, and chuckles,

"Not exactly..."

When I turn, I'm met by the prettiest picture-perfect tea party. Cordoned off with a thick sash is a large roundtable, topped with flowery tea pots and pink drinks and bright-coloured cupcakes, and that's just what I can make out from here.

I turn back to Eric, my eyes sparkling,

"You're kidding – that's for us?"

"All ours, my love," he grins, and I can see how much he likes showing off his world, even if he isn't endemic in it anymore.

Pip and his goons are already storming the field, and I return Eric's beam, pulling his hand as we start towards the feast.

"Mr. Macklin." A voice calls from behind him, and it's one of the tan-shoed men. I didn't know they'd come. He taps Eric's shoulder, speaking to him in a low voice, and I watch his beam morph into scowl. He exhales deeply before he speaks,

"Evie, my love..." I pout before he can continue, asking with dismay,

"We have to go?"

"No, no," his grip moves from my hands to my waist, and he pulls me closer, "I do."

"Mr. Macklin." The tan-shoed man huffs his name, and his stony expression is demanding Eric's attention. I shift uncomfortably between his arms.

"Just a moment, Benson." His eyes turn to me, "I'm being summoned by the big dogs. But I want you to enjoy yourself, alright? Fill that grumbling tummy and I'll be back before you know it." He pinches my stomach when he finishes, making me giggle. He's stooping his head so we're face-to-face and he can reassure me.

"Alright..."

He makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger, adeptly whistling when he puts them to his mouth.

"Pip!" It takes a few tries, but he gets Pip's attention just before he attempts to fit a fourth crudité in his mouth. "Going back to the pavilion!" He doesn't say anything further, but in my periphery, I catch him motioning to me, and Pip sticks up a thumb, winking at me with bulging cheeks.

Eric plants a kiss on the back of my hand before he lets go, but by the time I look back, 'Benson' is already marching him across the green. I sigh, high on the airy feeling he always leaves me with, that makes returning to reality feel odd at times.

At least we got to spend the morning together – I've been out here long enough to know how rare that is. I start making my way to the lace-overlaid tea table, picking up my feet so that the heels that took so bloody long to choose don't sink in the mossy patches.

Pip's top hat is sat on the grass beside him, and with his long golden curls free, and a flute of something bubbly in his hand, he looks like a right Olympian god. He pats the spot next to him with drunken delight, and I laugh as I hold my dress and trek over,

"I'm coming, I'm coming!"

At first, the sound is faint enough to dismiss like the ringing in your ear you can always hear if you try hard enough, but when it gets louder, clearer, it makes me stop, furrow my brows and scan my surroundings for its source.

"Angie! Evangeline!" The rich, indistinct voice calls, and when I spot her, my rotating scan halts at a woman towards the front of one of the endless lines with hands cupped around her mouth.

The face is familiar, although I can't put a name to it right away. When we lock eyes, hers widen in recognition, and she waves a strong arm, exposed in a stylish off-the-shoulder dress. I smile too, and as I walk towards her, I rack my brain trying to think of where I know her from.

School? No, too old. One of Mum's friends, maybe? Nah, way too young.

She's still eagerly waving me over, and I'm getting dangerously near to a 'hey! Of course, I remember you!' scenario, until she turns to talk to the person beside her in the queue, nudging him and looking back over at me.

When she shuffles and he's brought right into my line of vision, I remember exactly who she is, because I know exactly who he is. The tall, suited figure, cowering behind her, trying to avoid eye contact at all costs, is Scott fucking Kellerman. You've got to be kidding.