Vivienne

Vivienne has insisted all week that this garden party will be “good for you,” which is her elegant way of saying you’re about to be hopelessly out of your depth. You had met in college and you knew you were from two different worlds but you were discovering how different. She wasn’t just appearance wise out of your league, her family was in another tax bracket by miles. But toady, well today you knew you were about to see how far. As you walk the gravel path toward the sprawling estate, the air is already filled with the clink of crystal glasses and the gentle hum of perfectly practiced laughter. Every guest drifting past looks as though they’ve been pressed and polished by a team of stylists, tailored suits, pastel dresses, flawless poise. You tug at your borrowed jacket, painfully aware that you’re the least formal thing for miles. Viv, of course, is radiant in her stylish little black dress, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as though the whole party were arranged just to complement her. Just outside the entrance, the two of you pause beside a marble fountain where arcs of water whisper a soft, steady rhythm. You inhale deeply, bracing yourself for the maze of etiquette waiting beyond the gates. Viv turns toward you, taking your hands with a reassuring squeeze, her confidence warm and effortless.