Magnolia Parks: Chapter 5

My mother’s fragrance launch tonight—Velvet Seduction. Gross, I know. A little too much information offered there regarding the sex life of my parents which I was quite certain they’d retired from immediately after the conception of Bridget but anywho. I’m glad she’s doing a fragrance though. For one, they’re a cash cow, and two, I think fragrances are important.

They leave a mark on your mind in a way other things can’t.

Old books. My sister.

Milky sweet tea. Marsaili.

Hoyo de Monterrey. My father.

Menthol cigarettes. Bushka.

Chanel No. 5 and Rosehip oil. My mother.

Cardamom and leather. A one Baxter-James Balentine.

Musk and orange blossom? The worst day of my life.

The launch is at Lecture Room & Library and I arrive by myself which I hate and love to do. Hate it because socially it leaves you wide open to conversational misfires but love it because I know for certain that everyone is staring at just me. Which they are. I’m wearing the moss green, layered tulle, beaded, plunge-neck gown from Marchessa and I dare you not to stare at me.

The neckline is too plunging to wear the necklace I always wear in secret, so I had to take it off and my heart feels like it’s sitting on uneven ground without it.

I grab a glass of champagne from a server and throw it back quickly—it’s the only way to survive these things. I start scouring the room for people I like, of whom there are perhaps six on the planet at any given time, depending on how BJ is behaving.

I was supposed to arrive with Paili and Perry, the two P’s, but London traffic worked against us.

I duck away from a boy I dated a while ago, Breaker was his name. New money from dairy farming over in the U.S. We dated for a loose three months, tops. He was an absolute infidel, and he was undoubtedly using me to get into high society, but I didn’t care because BJ got to sleep in my bed as much as I wanted, and that’s really the only qualifier I look for in a relationship these days.

I’m wandering around, looking for a familiar face when I walk right into Hamish Ballentine. “Magnolia,” he says, leaning down to give me a kiss. “You look beautiful, darling.” I squeeze his hand because I love him more than my own father. “Your travel piece was lovely, sweetheart,” he tells me. “On the little spa in the Dolomites? We’re definitely going to go.”

“Oh!” I clap my hands gleefully. “Lil will love it. Let me know when—I’ll call ahead and make sure they treat you extra special.”

He gives me a grateful little wink.

“And where’s my son?” He glances around. Much to his parents’ disbelief, BJ and I in fact do not spend all our time together. We each have our own. Well, I have a job. He has a… thing. He’s attractive, he’s signed to a big agency, has sponsorships, posts shit all day.

He doesn’t like to call himself a model and I’m reluctant to call him an influencer, because that’s incredibly embarrassing and dare I say, lacks any kind of professional longevity—but he’s not…not an influencer?

He had a shoot today—a proper one—not some thirst trap photos on a train track, shirtless with a generic dog. I think he was shooting with Fear of God.

Me, you ask? Oh, I put in a hard two at the office and then headed to George Northwood to get my hair done.

“He’s meeting me here,” I tell his dad.

“Still not together?”

“Still not together, Hamish.” I nod playfully.

“Yes, sure, sure.” He rolls his eyes, not buying it. “Still in love though?”

I pick up the skirt of my dress and glare over at him playfully.

“Nice try,” I call back as I march away and over to the safety of August Waterhouse.

One of London’s rising music stars. He produced five of the UK’s #1s last year.

He’s a tad older than me, Gus. Thirty, maybe? A long-term, worthy, faraway crush of Perry’s and a very sweet, somewhat sage man. He works with my father.

“Gus,” I smile. “How wonderful to see you. I didn’t know you were coming?”

“Your dad dragged me along.” He gestures to my father, who’s in the corner of the room with Marsaili, looking as grumpy to be here as each other.

I snort a laugh. “He could at least pretend to be supportive. Mum pretended to like that garbage song he did for Dua Lipa last year.”

“Oy.” Gus gives me a look. “I wrote on that—”

I make an uncomfortable sound.

Gus makes a tsk-tsk sound under his breath. “I should have known you’d be here, Parks—Tommy might have actually left the house for a brief twenty seconds.”

Flattered as I am that I might have propelled Tom England out of his home momentarily, I still find myself frowning a little. I don’t mean it. It’s just all so sad…

Tom is Gus’s best friend. His brother died rather suddenly a few months ago from a brain aneurysm.

“Anyway,” Gus shrugs to himself. “Heard your break up was splashed about in the papers?”

I wave my hand through the air. “Always,”

He chuckles. “Taking it like a champ, I see.”

“It’s very easy to take break ups like a champ if you strictly date twats.”

He laughs. “I’ll remember that.”

“Gussy,” my father jeers, clapping him on the back. “Glad to see you could make it. Magnolia—” He leans in to kiss my cheek. I allow it.

“Harley.” I nod at him, with a terse smile.

He rolls his eyes at Gus as they exchange a look that implies I’m a somewhat taxing person occasionally before Gus spots an up-and-coming rapper he’d liked to work with and excuses himself.

“Darling, listen—” My father folds his arms over his chest because we don’t know how to talk to each other. “I have a writing retreat I’m supposed to go to. Rural America—”

“Sounds murdery.” I nod along.

“I’m not all too keen on it, if I’m honest with you, darling. I’m trying to rally them over here instead, but they want a quiet, off the radar place to be. Any ideas?”

Firstly, though it pains me to admit it, I’m chuffed that he’s asking for my professional opinion on something. Seeking your father’s approval is such a terrible cliché, I know—but it’s so seldom given that when it is, it’s a real thrill.

“Hmm,” I ponder out loud. “Heckerfield Place, in Hampshire?”

He shakes his head. “If I’ve heard of it, it’s too known.”

I purse my lips. “Do you know what, actually? Just a few weeks ago a little estate opened its doors up in Toms Holidays—” He looks confused. “By The Towans?” I offer.

“Oh.” He nods, intrigued.

“It’s called Farnham House. I haven’t been yet, but I need to. Beautiful, they pulled one of the sous chefs from Le Gavroche up there. Amazing spa. On the water, super gorgeous. But no one really knows about it yet, it’s so new—”

He leans in again, kissing me on the cheek again but I am less annoying about it this time. “Sounds perfect, darling. Thank you.”

He walks away.

“Who’s the artist?” I call after him.

“Hm?” He looks back.

“The artist. That you’re working with.”

“Oh.” He nods. “Um. What’s his name? Your man—”

I eye him, confused.

“You know.” He gestures to his face nondescriptly. “With the—and the—”

“Post Malone?” I offer.

“That’s him,” he says before he jiffs off.

Perry and Paili finally arrive. Slim-fit, satin-trimmed, cotton-velvet tuxedo jacket in burnt orange and the Eggsy’s black wool and mohair-blend tuxedo trousers, both from the Kingsman’s label; royal blue mini, velvet-trimmed, shirred, tiered, taffeta gown from Molly Goddard respectively.

“Was that Gus Waterhouse?” Perry asks, looking after him. “I love him. Does he love me? Do I look good? Should I talk to him?”

I count the answers off my fingers. “Yes, it was. Yes, I know. I don’t think he does—yet! Uh—yes, you do look good. And definitely talk to him.” I pluck the champagne from his hand and toss it back.

Paili looks up at me, brightly. “You look perfect. What is that dress, holy shit!”

I’m sure it’s some sort of best friend’s bias but my head floats up to the clouds nevertheless.

“And where’s the woman of the hour?” Paili asks. “Should we make our presence known?”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Last I saw of her, she and the Viscountess of Hinchingbrooke were trying to take a selfie with a peacock. Lot of feathers—not expert bird wranglers, either of them.”

“What does a peacock have to do with velvet seduction anyway?” Perry asks very validly.

I purse my lips. “I’ve never wanted to know an answer to a question less.”

“So.” Paili glances around. “Where’s your boy?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Said we’d meet here”—I pause—“and also, actually, what boy?”

They both roll their eyes.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time together.” Paili smiles, eyebrows up.

“No more than usual,” I say, nose in the air.

That much is true. With the exception of the initial few months following our break-up, the Christian debacle and the aftermath of the beating Christian senseless debacle—we’ve never really… not…spent all our time together.

“Yes,” she concedes. “But now you don’t have a fake boyfriend to throw in his face whenever you remember that you love him.”

I scowl at her on both accounts of what she said. Fake boyfriend? Love him? Absurd. Sort of.

“Speaking of Boy Wonder.” Perry nods at the door. And in he walks.

Claret slim-fit, velvet tuxedo jacket in wine, the black, virgin wool, tuxedo trouser and the white bib-front, double-cuff, cotton-poplin, tuxedo shirt, all from Giorgio Armani except for his little Tom Ford bowtie.

Henry, Christian and Jonah follow after him and then a calculated millisecond later follows the velvet gown by Alaïa, also in wine. I can’t tell which bothers me more—that BJ brought her to my mother’s launch or that I’m worried that they coordinated. Taura Sax. She is regrettably, very beautiful. In a different way to me though, and that’s maybe the worst part.

For all my brown skin, dark hair and light eyes, Taura Sax is sort of olive, bronde hair, freckles and hazel eyes. I think her mother is from Singapore. And we literally look nothing alike.

And sure, perhaps at this point it’s safe to say that BJ’s type is simply just definable as a sexually willing female, but Taura Sax is the only repeat on his roster that he says doesn’t exist.

Taura Sax is also who he cheated on me with, by the way. That’s what I’ve concluded. The second worst night of my life floats to the surface of my consciousness—orange blossoms. There was something else… what was it? Think, Magnolia, think. I stomp out those thoughts like a fire in my mind.

I can’t think of it. Not now. My chest goes tight as my heart bucks at the feelings I’m feeling but I can’t feel in front of him because he can’t know he still does this to me. I can feel my mouth is agape, so I snap it shut quick smart.

I don’t want people to know that this has caught me off guard, that this—him, bringing her here, wasn’t pre-planned, pre-checked with me, isn’t exactly what I was expecting from him, never in a million years did I maybe think that he’d be different for once, just once in his stupid lifetime, maybe he’d try to not swerve us off a cliff.

But they can see it on my face too, I know they can. Perry’s grimacing, Paili’s got the sad eyes she always has when she looks at me and BJ. She swallows, looking apprehensive. She touches my arm. “Are you okay?”

“What?” I blink a lot. “Me? No. Yeah! I’m fine—it’s just—rude, is all. To bring her here. Don’t you think? The girl he fucked me over with?”

“We don’t know that,” Paili offers, gently.

Perry gives her a look. “Yes.” He pauses. “We do.”

It’s not really known, by the way. That that’s why we broke up. It’s known among our friends now, it’s trickled out over time to the P’s and the boys and my sister, but no one else knows.

I don’t know why.

I think I was afraid of what it would say about me, that he threw away what we had for one shitty night with Taura Sax. I stare over at BJ darkly and our eyes catch, because they always do if we’re in the same room.

His face sparks up, a half-smile appears, and he walks over. “Hi.” He leans in to kiss my cheek and I subtly pull away from him and our eyes catch again and he looks confused and hurt and annoyed, all at once.

Perry makes an uncomfortable noise in the back of his throat and points to something on the other side of the room. “Fancy a peacock selfie?” He pulls Pails away.

BJ watches them go before glancing back at me, jaw tight with apprehension. “Problem?”

“What’d you get up to this afternoon?” I ask brightly, but it’s a trap. He knows it’s a trap. “Did you do anything after your shoot?”

“Uh,” he breathes out a small laugh. “Not much, just hung out—”

“With?”

He licks his bottom lip, bracing himself. He says nothing.

“With Taura Sax,” I say for him.

He smells like freshly applied Tom Ford. That’s a bad sign. He smells like a shower, like he’s scrubbed his body clean but not with his Malin & Gotez Rum body wash that he usually uses, something else—and you’re there thinking, sure well, he’s just showered before an event but no. These events are a dime a dozen for us, and he doesn’t shower any other time of day except the morning unless he’s getting into my bed or he has to, but he’s showered now. At 5 p.m. on a Friday evening. I know what that means.

He gives me a look. “Yes, with Taura.”

I raise my eyebrows. “And you thought it was appropriate to bring Taura Sax here to my mother’s launch, given all our history?”

He sighs, tired. We’ve walked down this road before, a thousand times, we know it well. It’s dark and shadowy and one of us always emerges with an arm gnawed off or a broken bone or heart. “Parks.” He shoves his hand through his hair. “We’ve talked about this before. She’s not—that’s not who I—”

“So you haven’t slept with her?”

His jaw juts. “I have.”

“When?”

His eyes go heavy. “Parks.”

“Today?”

His eyes drop from mine. And I stare at him, feeling more betrayed than I want to, more betrayed than I should. He’s crushed. He’s crushed he’s crushed me. This is an old dance we do. A ritual, almost. Breaking our hearts open on the altar of each other.

“Parks,” he starts.

I shake my head dismissively. “No, I know, I get it, I had a boyfriend”—I pause, glare over at him—“wait, no, I didn’t.”

He looks sorry. “Parks—”

“But I will.” I cut him off.

His jaw sets. Worried and annoyed. “Magnolia—”

“—Magnolia?” I interrupt him. He barely ever calls me that. “I’m the one in trouble?”

He reaches for me, holding my arms, trying to keep me close. “Parks, you’re being ridiculous.”

I smack him away and glare at him. “Don’t touch me with those hands.”

I realise that the world has fallen to black but in the bad way. The room is watching us. Drinks stop clinking, waiters stop serving, breaths are being held—Perry’s about to pass out from the drama of it all over in the corner. This fade-to-black thing BJ and I have, I know it sounds romantic—written in the stars, two people who can just home in on each other so much that no one else around them seems to exist, but that skill when fighting in public is front page press for people like us.

I’m embarrassed for a second, all those eyes. I wonder: what did they hear?

I turn on my heel, away from him and as I do the room jerks back into motion.

I walk up to the bar, grab another champagne and throw it back, then pick up another to sip.

“Good chat?” asks Henry.

I down my sipping champagne in one go.

“Fantastic.”

00:39

Parks

How’s the weather, Parks?

Stormy very vrty stromy

Are you drinking

Ye

S

Where are you?

I’m find

Fine

I didn’t ask if you’re fine, I asked where you are

Pick up

Answer your phone

I’m home xxxxxxxxxx

The xxxxxxx was an accidenn still stormy fuck you