Читать книгу Puzzled - Seraphima Bogomolova - Страница 7

Monte Carlo, France, 24 December

The argument with maman leaves me no time for shower. I quickly brush my teeth and gel my hair, trying to style my waves into something that can resemble a gentleman’s look. But instead, make it worse: the hair becomes sticky and greasy. I curse and pull on my tux, the starched collar of my shirt biting beastly into my neck. Grabbing the white bow, I fix it as I run down the stairs.

In the hall, lit by the crystal chandelier, maman, the most charming smile attached to her rouged lips, greets arriving guests. I try to slip by her unnoticed, but fail.

‘Luke, darling,’ she catches me halfway, ‘would you please say hello to Baron Von Witte. He hasn’t had the pleasure of seeing you recently.’

Reluctantly, I approach a group of newly arrived guests. Having shaken hands with the Baron, I plan on a quick escape, but maman grabs me by the arm and pulls me aside.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ she whispers, glancing at my hair.

‘Nothing, unlike with some of your honourable guests.’ I reply, nodding in a direction of one of the Baron’s daughter.

‘Please, behave!’

‘Yes, sure.’

She gives me a disapproving stare.

‘Mum, honestly. Cross my heart!’ I say.

‘Stop this nonsense at once, will you!’

‘Mum, relax, it’s just a …’ I begin, but at this moment another group of guests arrive and she rushes towards them, leaving me alone.

I breathe a sigh of relief, straighten my bow and head to the reception room, open and decorated for the tonight’s festivity. Flames glaring on guests’ faces, the fire crackles merrily in a huge fireplace. Beside it, a tall Christmas tree is erected. The colourful baubles shine on its fluffy paws. A scent of expensive perfumes mixed with the smell of cigars and pine tree wafts in the air.

I grab two glasses of champagne from a waiter’s tray and gulp them down. Immediately feeling better, I throw a curious look around the room, but find little of interest: all the same faces, nothing of stimulating or inspiring nature.

‘Excuse me.’ I hear somebody’s mutter behind me.

I turn around meeting the eyes of a skinny girl, wearing some ridiculous haute couture dress.

‘Yes?’ I say.

‘Would you mind if I take a picture of you?’ she utters.

‘No, I wouldn’t.’ I lie.