The Same Deep Water (6 page)

Chapter Nine

#6 Attend A Masquerade Ball

As a girl, I loved Cinderella. Absolutely adored the story, spent weeks with my head filled with the tale of the downtrodden girl and the handsome prince. My mum got sick of watching the Disney movie on repeat while I flounced around the house in a blue dress and tiara. Secretly, I wanted to be the fairy godmother because she could perform magic – I had plans for my cat that may or may not have involved dress-ups.

Then, one day I read the Brothers Grimm version of the fairy tale in which the ugly sisters cut off parts of their feet to fit into the glass slipper. The victim of an overactive imagination my whole life, this gave me nightmares for a week. That was the end of my love affair with Cinderella and all Disney princesses. Who knows what horrors lie in the other books?

This doesn’t stop me spending the next two weekends shopping for a dress any princess would be jealous of. Masquerade balls hold mystery and allure, a step out of reality and back in time. Eventually, I find a dress I can’t really afford. The dress hugs my hips, reaching the floor. The gathered gold bodice pushes my not very ample breasts upward so I look several sizes bigger, pulling in my waist to give me a classic hourglass figure. Silver thread runs from the seam, across the dress, and curling across one side of the bodice, sparkling like stars when the dress moves and catches the light. The shoes match perfectly, black and gold, adding several inches to my height. I spent an hour in the shop justifying buying everything. I told myself this is my bucket list and I should let go of the constraints I attach to myself, financial or otherwise

Choosing a mask was fun, I spent hours on Etsy looking for something different, and eventually, chose a Venetian gold butterfly mask where one eye spreads upwards in a butterfly shape, the wings touching the side of my pinned-up hair.

The evening of the ball, when I prepare to leave the house, Cam and Jen are in the lounge watching TV. Jen had helped me into the dress and enthused about the fit and quality, bemoaning the fact she couldn’t borrow it due to our height and build difference. Her track pants and oversized blue shirt are about as far removed from my outfit as you can find.

Cam stares as I walk in to say my goodbyes, rendered speechless for a moment. I place my phone into my gold bag then pick up the mask, avoiding his eyes.

I like Cam; he’s friendly and tempers Jen’s exuberance with his calm nature. Into the same scene as her, Cam has tattoos beneath his vintage black shirt and brown hair slicked upwards in a pompadour style. He’s a few years older than her, one of those people you can’t quite tell how much older. Cam’s maturity outweighs Jen’s by at least ten years. Perhaps that’s unfair, Jen likes to live life and screw the consequences. She runs out of money within days of being paid, her wardrobe brimming with clothes, and has no thought for the long-term, whereas I’m all for career paths and superannuation.

“Looking good,” says Cam. “Lucky guy.”

“Guy?”

“The guy you’re going with, he won’t be able to keep his hands off you, I’ll bet.” Jen purses her lips at Cam, increasing my discomfort. “What? She’s stunning, but what chick wouldn’t be dressed up like that.”

“I wish we were going,” says Jen, placing her legs across his lap.

“Yeah, waste of money, babe.”

“The ball is for charity,” I reply.

“We don’t have money to throw at charities.” He nods. “But have fun.”

Guy bought the tickets, with his usual protest that he had the money, and if he was going to take a girl to a ball, he should pay. I relented to his old-fashioned view. Cam’s comment about Guy not wanting to keep his hands off me sticks. Does that concern or excite me? I push the thought away.

The masquerade ball is held at the most expensive hotel in the city, one recently refurbished to rival the most exclusive establishments in Sydney or Melbourne. Their sponsorship of the event ensures this new image will receive a lot of attention. The taxi drops me at the marble-pillared entrance where I make my way through the other arrivals and into the building.

The vast modern lobby is filled with chattering groups, voices amplified by the high ceilings. The hotel is an eclectic mix of traditional and modern, the dark grey painted feature walls at odds with the unusually shaped chandelier above. I agreed to meet Guy close to the entrance; but now I’m here, I wish we’d arrived together.

Finding Guy could prove difficult. Every man here is hidden by a mask and many wear identical dress suits and are only distinguishable by their build. I’ve never seen Guy in a suit and can’t imagine him in one, add in the mask and he’ll be impossible to spot. I should’ve asked him to pick me up from home.

Initially, I take quick glances nearby men in case he’s one of them, but become uncomfortable they’ll think I’m checking them out and using my mask as an excuse. What else can I do but appraise their height and build to figure out if any of them is Guy? I’m not interested in faceless men.

A stressful ten minutes later, and the only solution is to text Guy. A sick worry he might not arrive at all grips me as I begin a message. Half way through typing, my screen flashes with a picture of myself taken recently. The mask fortunately obscures the panic but I’m secretly pleased by how I look. The view in the mirror before left me feeling over-dressed and awkward; the poised girl in the picture stands out amongst the guests around her.

I glance in the direction I imagine the picture was taken from and a group stand in the open doorway to the function room, chatting. No Guy.

A man sidesteps the group and heads toward me. I recognise Guy’s gait but until he reaches me, he’s indiscernible from the crowd. Guy’s white mask obscures half his face, but his strong jaw and full mouth are visible still. The well-cut black suit jacket is unbuttoned, a grey shirt with bow tie beneath.

Guy looks a hell of a lot hotter out of his boardies and the control over my attraction to him loosens further.

A low whistle accompanies Guy’s appraisal of me. “You scrub up well.”

“Nicely put. You’re not quite Prince Charming then?”

“Not if you’re Belle.” He crooks his elbow indicating I should place my arm through his.

“Belle?”

“You’re wearing gold which is closer to yellow. Beauty and the Beast.”

“I’d hardly call you a beast.” I hesitate over whether to take his arm or not.

“There are so many inappropriate responses I can give to that comment and won’t.” He pauses. “I’ve told you before, you’re beautiful.”

I blush like a teenager beneath my mask and heavy make-up. “Thanks.”

“Not just tonight,” he says softly.

I hastily change the subject. “You look very different in a suit.” 

“Devastatingly sexy?”

“I was going to go with ‘good’.”
Yes, and you know you are.

“‘Good’? Not even hot? Seriously?”

“I’m never sure whether you’re serious and in love with yourself, or if you’re joking.”

“Ah, a bit of both.” He gestures again for me to take his arm.

We touch.

Every day I touch new people. Shake hands with clients, am jostled by people on the way to and from work, but until now I didn’t realise I’ve avoided touching Guy. When we first met, his touch would’ve pulled me away from the edge and taken away control of my body and decisions.

As I link my arm through Guy’s, a finality strikes, too. The distance I’ve tried to maintain, the illusion our only connection is a night of my life I refuse to see as part of myself, retreats as we connect. His arm is warm against my bare skin and the curve of his bicep beneath the expensive suit doesn’t escape my attention either. Caught in the romance of the setting, the nervous fluttering in my stomach switches to desire for Guy’s touch. I resolve to limit the amount of alcohol and physical contact for the evening.

Six glasses of champagne later, this plan fails. We sit at a large, round table covered by a floor length white cloth. In front are nameplates, metal centrepieces of gold painted flowers surrounded by wrapped chocolates. The hundred or so tables are spaced around the huge room and face the stage where a burlesque show plays out.

Everybody at our table keeps their masks on, and this doesn’t encourage conversation. Many tables are groups who’ve come together; the other five people at our table are a party from a legal firm, so our conversation with them barely moves beyond pleasantries.

The food served is curious looking hors d’oeuvre only. I forgot to eat with my focus on getting ready tonight. A decent loading of carbs before I left home would’ve been sensible, because the ability of sparkling wine to enter my bloodstream quickly is apparent by my loosening tongue.

“How do you know so much about Disney princesses?” I ask Guy. “I doubt many men would know the different princess’s colours.”

“My step-sister loved Disney princesses and Belle was her favourite.” He sips his wine.

“I liked Cinderella.”

“Interesting.” I glance at him for a teasing smile, but he’s serious. “Does that mean I get to be Prince Charming after all?”

“I thought you said I was Belle.”

He taps the table and I wait for another Beast comment, but none comes.

The burlesque girls swing across the stage on decorated trapezes, descending from the ceiling in the blue glow of the stage lights. I never understood how burlesque could be any more than arty stripping, but the show refutes that. These women are in control, both of their performance and the crowd. These women don’t subscribe to the crazy fad diets my employers tout; costumed in corsets and lace, they own their sexuality rather than playing to a false ideal.

“Can you dance?” asks Guy.

Our masks remain in situ, the illusion more exciting than I’d imagined. I’m somebody else tonight, disguised and free. There are people here I recognise but the mask allows me to pretend I don’t notice them, further on the edge of the small world of the Perth media and marketing.

“Dancing? Depends what kind,” I reply.

“I suspect something more formal and less Gangnam style.”

An image of Guy dancing that way amuses me and I giggle. “That’s so 2012, Guy.”

He runs a finger around the rim of his wine glass. “Ah, so she does laugh, and such a sound it is too.”

“Of course I laugh!”

“Then I’m happy because this means you’re a step further away from the edge,” he whispers.

With Guy, I am a step away. In an odd way, he represents a future I never considered, even though he won’t be in mine for long.

I hesitate when the couples take to the dance floor, folding and unfolding the napkin on my lap and avoiding Guy’s eyes. I can wear my confidence as a mask; but when I’m in new situations, I can’t pretend. One thing I hate is making an idiot of myself. Failing. The last time I formally danced was at my Year 12 ball, where I experienced awkward moments with boys from school who decided ass groping was the height of seduction.

Guy will ask me to dance and we’ll stand close. The thought fires anticipation over what will happen once my whole body touches his.

“I can’t tell beneath the mask, but I suspect you’re worrying. Please laugh again,” Guy says.

“You’ll be the one laughing if you try dancing with me in these shoes.”

“Belle, you cannot come to a masquerade ball and not dance. I refuse to let you cross this off your list unless you dance at least once.” Guy stands and extends an open hand. “Come on. Relax. Nobody can see you. Let that fun girl out for the evening. I know she’s in there.”

One dance, my hormones can cope with that, surely.

The couples on the dancefloor move harmoniously to the gentle sound of the waltz, the women in elegant dresses and their gentlemanly, restrained dance partners create a step back in time. I join Guy at the edge of the floor; and when we face each other, I wish his face wasn’t obscured by the white mask, so I could read him. “You look like the Phantom of the Opera.”

“Love that musical. Not sure whether I like the comparison though.”

Surfer Guy likes musicals and art? “Right.”

A woman in a scarlet red dress sweeps by, her partner leading her across the floor in a graceful movement I doubt I’ll be able to emulate. Before I can comment, Guy circles my waist and pulls me close, taking my hand in his. This is closer than I intended. I didn’t think this through. He’s careful not to draw me too near, but his warmth and strength is apparent even with the gap between us. Guy’s firm grip contrasts his soft hands as he guides me into the dancers.

In my heels, I’m close to his face and even in the dim, and half-hidden, the sculpted curves of his face and generous mouth paint his beauty. I hesitate, and then place a hand on his back. He’s jacket-less and the strong sinew of the muscles beneath his shirt strikes me. As my head moves closer to his, I catch his scent of spice and the ocean, the one behind his eyes.

“See. You can dance,” says Guy as he guides me around the dance floor.

In response, I trip over his feet. “If you don’t remind me and let me go with the flow, your feet will survive.”