“Dinner is at seven, Sophie,” my father continued, ignoring Pembrook and ,me.
“Yes, sir,” I said, parroting my earlier acknowledgement.
I turned and barely contained myself from fleeing.
“Oh! And one more thing,” my father said, making me turn to face him. “If you’re caught again, I’ll disinherit you. Close the door.”
I closed the door, my chest pumping in air at an alarming rate and nearly sprinted for my wing of the house. I knew enough about my father to know he was in earnest. I also wasn’t a stupid girl. I knew there were things I needed more than coke, and his money was one of them.
When I reached my room a few minutes later, I opened the fifteen-foot double doors and closed them behind me. I started to strip, pulling off my garments and tossing them at the foot of my bed. I needed a shower. I was on the verge of one of my breakdowns and needed a place to hide away.
But first things first.
I went to the wall nearest my bedroom door and pressed the intercom, still undressing.
“Yes, Miss Sophie?” A staticky voice came on. It was Matilda, the house coordinator.
“Yes, ’Tilda.” I glanced at my nightstand clock. Eight a.m. “Can you ring Katy at home and let her know I’ll need her services at four this afternoon?”
Katy was lovely. Tall and slender, blonde hair and only a few years older than I. She was the beautician I used when I had one of my father’s soirees to attend. Katy never came alone though. She always brought Peter, her masseuse, and Gillian, her makeup artist.
“Of course, ma’am. Anything else?”
“No, thank you.” And with that, I headed toward my bathroom, securing the door behind me.
The bathroom was almost as large as my bedroom. On the far back wall was an estate-sized fireplace. It’s French-inspired marble mantel reached halfway up the wall. Situated in the center was the focal piece, the oversized, burnished cast-iron tub and swathed in polished stainless steel for a mirrored effect. The entire floor was bathed in three-inch octagonal tiles of Carrara marble. The Carrara marble continued on the walls in subway tile. Oval undermount sinks were fitted into the Carrara marble tops with custom washstands. The room was almost a duplicate of one I’d seen when I was thirteen on a trip to Paris.
I stepped into the tiled shower and started the water. Piping hot. I closed the glass door and decided it was safe. I let go of all the unhappiness that took unending residence in my heart and soul and stomach. I sobbed into my hands and let the water wash away the salt. My heart was in a perpetual state of sadness and the only relief I could find were in those cathartic cries. I lived a fragile existence. I knew it even then but feigning I didn’t was easier than embracing something so altogether daunting. If I faced what I’d truly created for myself, a life of debauchery and seedy fulfillment, I knew I couldn’t have lived another day and self-preservation was very much still alive in me. I loved myself too much to say goodbye. So, I would go on living just as I had been because it was the only life I knew.
I bawled for at least half an hour before washing and conditioning my hair and shaving my legs and even then the tears continued, but I had a job to do that night and damn if I was going to have bags underneath my eyes. My dad would faint, or the male equivalent, anyway. I needed sleep.
Life will continue on. Everyone will continue their worship of you. Just keep up appearances. Just keep up.
When I was done and sufficiently under control of my emotions, I shut off the water and stepped onto the heated marble beneath my feet. Reaching for my robe, I wrapped it around my body and grabbed a towel for my hair. I sat at the edge of my vanity in my room and moisturized my entire body with the five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce moisturizer my mother insisted I used.
By then, sleepiness was attempting to claim me. I was too tired to dress in pajamas so I just slipped under the covers donning my robe and the towel still wrapped around my head. Sleep came easily. It always did. It was a true safe haven from the hell I’d created for myself.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
I woke startled to the sound of rapping at my door.
“Miss Price!”
“Come in!” I shouted.
The doors bellowed open and in poured Katy and her entourage.
“Oh, I’d forgotten you were coming,” I told her.
“Thank you. Nice to see you, too,” she teased.
“Just a moment,” I told them.
I relieved myself and brushed my teeth then met them in my room. Peter had already set up his portable massage chair, modified so Katy could do my nails while he did his thing. I almost sat before realizing I’d yet to put undergarments on. I ran to my dressing room and slipped them on before joining them again.
I sat down and Peter started in with the massage. “Any place in particular I need to focus on today, Miss Price?”
“No, Peter. Just the standard.”
“Very well, miss.”
I’d already closed my eyes when I felt Katy at my feet, removing my polish. “And what are you wearing this evening, Miss Price?”
“I’m unsure. Let’s just do a French. That’s all encompassing.”
“Of course.”
Very well, Miss Price. Of course, Miss Price. I very nearly yelled at them to quiet the ridiculous platitudes but checked myself. It’d be good practice for this evening.
When my nails were dry, they sat me in the leather chair stool in my bathroom in front of the mirror. I studied myself, ensuring my skin was still flawless, my hair still long and beautiful, my eyes still shining. I would never have admitted this to anyone, but I panicked if I hadn’t seen a mirror in a few hours, affirming I still had the only thing that made me so adored.