The Vanishing Girls by Callie Browning (great novels of all time .txt) 📗

orthopaedic shoes. The older woman’s manicure was atrocious and her wig was in desperate need of a good washing. Eileen’s heart went out to the grieving woman.

“My dear, I’m sorry I was so cold the last time we met. It was a very trying day.” Dorothy smiled and pulled Eileen into a hug.

Eileen patted her back. “You don’t have to apologize. I know it can’t be easy.”

“Yes…yes…” Dorothy’s eyes skimmed the crowd. “Is…Clifford here?”

Eileen wrinkled her nose as she looked about for Clifford “I last saw him just off the terrace. I can go and get him if you’d like.”

“Oh no,” Dorothy grabbed Eileen’s wrist and then fixed a tight smile on her face. She flexed her rose-coloured nails and said apologetically, “I just asked.” Eileen heard what Dorothy said but her grip had been too insistent for her query to be casual. Whether Dorothy liked it or not, Eileen would mention it to Clifford.

The rest of the group was chattering away about all manner of things: investments, politics, history and art, traipsing seamlessly from one topic to the next. Eileen sucked it all in, glad that she had stayed.

She glanced at Holden covertly as the night went on. His flushed cheeks, ready smile and hearty laugh looked strange on him, like a new outfit, but they suited him marvellously. She blushed and looked away when their eyes met. Out on the gazebo Clifford was holding court, a flock of chattering middle-aged women surrounding him and laughing out loud at everything he said. His gaudy outfit and outrageous antics were like catnip to those high society women in their baubles and silk gowns. One of them stroked his arm lightly, sipping champagne as she looked at him with star-crossed eyes. Eileen laughed and waved at him. He waved back at Eileen and motioned to her that he was coming over in a minute. In her periphery, she noticed Dorothy Greaves watching Clifford, her eyes inscrutable as she followed his every movement. Eileen looked away, deciding to finally try the fishcake that Clifford had given her earlier.

“Oh my…” Eileen sputtered as she inspected the pillowy insides of her fishcake. Flecks of bright red scotch bonnet pepper stared back at her. Her eyes watered, and the burning sensation at the back of her throat made her cough. How on earth could Clifford enjoy anything so spicy?

Holden looked at her in concern, a wordless question clear in his raised eyebrows.

“Need water,” she mouthed to him as she stepped away.

The bar was on the far end of the terrace, probably so the rich people won’t have to mingle with the help, thought Eileen wryly. Mouth still smarting, she retreated to a dimly lit section of the terrace, sipping the water and dabbing the tears that formed in her eyes. "These fishcakes really are as hot as Hades’ ass," she gasped.

A long silhouette stretched across the black and white tiles and Eileen looked up to see Paul come through the french doors. For months that moment would replay itself in Eileen’s mind; the bass-like tremor of his shoes crossing the floor, the yellow light from the sconces casting half of him in shadow as he came toward her.

Paul’s approach was viper-like; Eileen could tell that he had sought her out, waiting until she had slipped away to follow her.

He stood at arm’s length, his face vaguely pensive as he tapped his fingers against his lips and said slowly, “You know, Charlene… I  just remembered how I know you.”

The look on his face made Eileen’s heart skitter to a stop. He smiled too sweetly and blinked too slowly, awaiting a reaction he was sure would come.

She laughed giddily, “It’s Eileen. And I have one of those faces. We never met before.”

Paul’s lips smiled, but his eyes hardened. He rested his hand on the wall, leaned in closer, his back hunched like a predator about to pounce as he put his mouth in line with her ear. His cologne and the brandy on his breath intermingled, nauseating her. Her face paled as Paul whispered, “You’re funny, even with your clothes on.”

Eileen felt a shift then, the way every hair on her body rose like quills on a porcupine. She remembered his lips on her neck and breasts as he pressed into her over and over again. Her hand fluttered up and covered her cleavage that had suddenly grown cold in the evening air. Breathing became painful, unfamiliar. “Mr Davis, I always have my clothes on.” She stepped back and brushed against the brick wall behind her.

“The last time I picked you up from Buckworth Street, you didn’t.” She stared back at him, her eyes glassy with wet rage as he went on, “My brother and I don’t usually have the same taste. He’s such a fucking bore with his morals and all of that shit.” He looked her up and down with a poisonous smile. “But, I guess the apple never falls far from the pussy tree.”

Eileen didn’t mean to cry, but she couldn’t help it. Tears ran down her flushed face until they dripped onto her hand that was still pressed against her chest. “Leave me alone.”

“Oh… you want me to pay you,” Paul said as he fished around in his pocket. In a flash, he pulled out two twenties and fanned them in her face. Eileen squeezed her eyes closed. It wasn’t what Paul said that upset her. She'd started the night feeling insecure about her dress. She'd progressed to enjoying sophisticated conversation with cultured people. Now he’d found a way to cheapen her and drag her back to the lowest night of her life.

In the blink of an eye, spittle flew from Paul’s mouth as a fist crashed into his jaw and a sickening crunch like a thunder clap echoed across the terrace. Paul fell to the ground as Holden stood over him. Both brothers were breathing heavily, their eyes riveted on each other as anger crackled between them. Paul touched his face, shifting