Thursday night was the dinner party that Miss Picksby had bullied me into organising. I started preparing hours earlier, having a domestic cleaning London company come to take care of the house, the dust, and all those little stains that no woman in her right mind would have noticed, and no man even suspects exist, which both delighted and relieved me. Being not such a great cook myself, I had my friend Monica over to help prepare the dishes, which included three different assortments of salad, a French cream soup, that smelled like Heaven, but was Hell to make, French chesses with Greek olives and cherry tomatoes, chicken and fish dishes with garnish, French bread and toast, and dessert. Afterwards, of course, we had tea and chocolate sprinkled cookies, which Michael had bought on his way back from work. All along, while Monica was sweating in the kitchen - she's a professional chef, who runs a small French restaurant - I was indulged in carpet cleaning, after Bast managed to spill a bottle of soda on the carpet, and then - into getting ready for the dinner.
I filled the tub with hot water and aromatic salts, stripped off my dressing-gown, and then lay there for almost an hour, my eyes closed, soft music filling the air and water soaking my skin. Strands of wet auburn hair clang to my face, my breasts rose slowly, steadily. It felt almost like I was meditating, was drifting half-asleep in the space between dreams and awareness. Slowly, the bathroom faded to a blur and darkness crept behind my eyelids, gently wrapping me into a black, black shawl...
Then I blinked and looked around, surprised to find out that I was standing amidst a social gathering in a dimply lit dining room, where candles and a fireplace burnt, and a heavy chandelier hanged from the ceiling. The furniture was old-fashioned, the paintings in polished wooden frames and the mirrors on the walls - stylish and expensive. The scent of incense and melted wax drifted through the air, while an odd looking gentleman, who could be nothing else, but a butler, served the ladies and gentlemen sitting around the table. None of them lifted their eyes to look at me, did notothing to indicate that they even knew I was there.
A lady laughed, covering her red lips with the palm of her gloved hand delicately, while a particularly articulate gentleman told a joke, or a war story, or whatever else entertained people such as these. A handsome lad, who looked as if he'd just stepped out of a Catherine Coulter novel, made his way towards me, only to walk right past me and to a lady in a red gown, with beautiful golden hair and emerald earnings that perfectly matched the color of her eyes. The young man took her palm in his and, with a gallantry smile, lifted it to his lips to lay the most delicate of kisses on its back. The woman blushed and chuckled coyly, but let the lad escort her to the table. I looked around in fascination and gasped when I caught my own reflection in one of the mirrors on the wall. Was that me?
My hair was lifted, with only two carefully styled locks framing my pale, pale face, and silver earrings with small onyx stones dаnggled from my ears. I wore a green gown, embroidered with gold and silver, and a creamy shawl around my arms. My gloves were the same color as the shawl and my lips seemed as red as Snowhite's were described in the story. It was funny to see myself dressed like this, standing in that Victorian house with all those high-class, blue-blooded people. It was like a fairytale... a vision...
Like a dream.
My breath caught, when I came to my senses and realised I was dreaming... Then the double door to the dining room opened and a dashing blond man walked in the room. His eyes, the color of emeralds, swept the room, taking in everything and everyone, and then came to rest on me. His gaze locked with mine and I forgot how to breath, to think, to keep my mouth closed and not gasp. He was so handsome, dressed like that... Like one of those Regency novels lords and heroes. Like a woman's sweet, sweet dream. I couldn't stop looking at him. Couldn't stop staring.
Michael.
The moment I thought his name, the dream was broken and I woke up in the tub, with Michael looking at me, a mischievous smile on his lips. I blinked water off my eyes, while he started laughing and shaking his head. Then he showed me his watch. O, my.
7:30 pm.
Mr. Picksby and his fiancée were going to be here in half an hour and neither me, nor Michael were dressed and ready to welcome them properly. Quite the contrary, really. We needed to hurry, if we wanted to be even remotely on time! We had to... Michael bent down and locked his lips with mine. For a moment there I couldn't react, then I returned the kiss.
The Picksbies could wait.
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