Darling Girl: A Novel of Peter Pan(9)

She eyes him. “You have met my mother.”

“Let’s say we’ve crossed paths,” he says, shuddering. “I may or may not have attended a holiday luncheon at the Tate hosted by your mother at which the wrong vintage of champagne was served. Tears were shed. And not by her.”

“That sounds like my mother.” Holly sighs. “Her talents are wasted on charity work—she should have been a commander in the Royal Tank Regiment. Please accept my apologies.”

“Not necessary. Unless you are in fact secretly Jane Darling, in which case I am terrified and will pull over immediately.”

Holly laughs. For the first time in days, she feels light, as if she could float away. “You’re safe with me.”

“That’s reassuring. But you never answered my question.”

Holly could talk all night about the swirling, secret worlds she spies on through the lens of her microscope, but that doesn’t mean most people want to listen.

Robert turns out to be the exception.

He is an excellent listener, one who plies her with intelligent questions at all the right moments. It seems as if he’s interested in everything—her lab experiments, her studies, the professors she’s had, her career goals. From there, the conversation winds its way to music, the bands they both like, and the friends they have in common. Robert, it turns out, knows a surprisingly large number of the same people she does, especially for someone studying for an MBA.

“Whatever were you doing in the science labs then?”

He shrugs. “Waiting on a friend.”

Before she can follow up, the top of her street comes into view. She glances at the clock on the dash, shocked. How could two hours have passed so quickly?

“Here we are,” Robert says, pulling over to the curb. The house is ablaze with lights. From the safety of the car, Holly watches her mother open the front door to greet a cluster of guests. Jane is dressed in her best finery—a beautiful silvery blue gown with a white fur stole around her shoulders. When she turns her head, Holly catches the cold sparkle of the diamonds adorning her neck and ears.

“Damn,” Holly says. “Just a little too late. Would you mind turning onto the next street? I think I’d be better going in the back way.”

Robert obliges, cruising down the street until Holly directs him to stop. “Thank you so much for doing this,” she says, reaching for her bag. “I’d invite you in, but my mother is very . . .” She hesitates. “Very particular about changes to her guest list. She doesn’t like last-minute additions,” is what she settles upon.

“But there’s nothing here,” he protests. “I can’t let you out.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assures him. “Watch.”

She slides out of the car, counts the wide boards in the fence that encloses the back garden. When she finds the right one, she pulls on the top with all of her might, causing it to swing up, revealing a space barely large enough for her to wriggle through. She pushes her bag through first, using it to fend off the thorns on the other side, then carefully squeezes behind it.

“Goodbye,” she calls to Robert, who is watching from the car. “See you next term.” At least she hopes so. Too late, she realizes she has no idea how to reach him. She doesn’t even know his last name. She’s tempted to go back, but he’s already turning the car around and she won’t make herself ridiculous by chasing after it. She lets the board swing shut.

The garden is a dark space, empty and cold, quite unlike its summer self, when she’s usually escaping out, not sneaking in. There’s a statue of Peter Pan in the center—her mother’s latest tribute to their ridiculous family story—and as she reaches it, the wind picks up, sharp and cruel, a faint sound like laughter beneath. She shivers and Robert drifts from her mind as she rushes to the kitchen’s back steps, and from there up the servants’ stairs to her room. A new dress of white and silver silk is laid out on her bed, silver shoes on the floor.

There’s no time to shower, so she strips off her clothes and shimmies into the dress, holding her breath as she yanks the zipper up. It pours over her skin like liquid. She steps into the shoes, grabs the first pair of earrings she finds in her jewelry box, and wraps her hair into a messy bun. A quick glance in the mirror, a swipe of lipstick, and she’s done.

When her father was alive, these parties were, if not fun, bearable. His eyes would meet hers from across the room with a spark of mischief, and ten minutes later they’d be taking a clandestine hot chocolate break in the library, doing impressions of the guests. Her mother would roll her eyes at their disappearance. “Really, Alfred,” she’d chide, when they’d been gone long enough for her to notice and come find them. “These are your guests as well.” And then she would take his arm and sail from the room and back into the party, but not before whispering, “I do believe Lady Iveness looks rather like a parrot in that green silk. Unfortunate woman certainly sounds like one,” just loud enough for Holly, trailing behind them, to hear.

But Jane’s sense of humor died when Holly’s father did, fourteen years ago. So Holly hurries down the hall to the main staircase. At the top, she takes a deep breath to steady herself. Three, maybe four hours to endure before she can escape. Not so bad. She rolls her head from side to side, trying to release the tension that’s returned to her shoulders and neck. Robert’s face pops into her brain. What would the party be like with him here? She’d have someone to make her smile, at least. Someone to remind her to breathe, to eat. Someone enjoyable to dance with.