Diary of a Reluctant Ruler

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“Another ball?” I asked, as mum ushered me into the parlour of her and dad’s suite, to be confronted with a designer and two seamstresses.

“Yes,” Mum replied, a little distracted by a pile of fabrics, “For Easter…”

“Any special guests?” I enquired.

In my attempt to get over James, and to smother the outburst I’d had the other day, I had thrown myself into perfection mode, which meant memorising every single stupid fact Grandmother threw my way; swatting up on every politician, military officer, or noble person; establishing a thorough discipline of work, work and more work. And above all, I had to be nice. Acknowledge every eligible bachelor; let them think they had a chance, laugh at their jokes, smile at their intelligence, brush over their stupidity. Help every maid or cleaner. Smile at James. Blind him to the pain which was quickly burning into anger inside me.

Be perfect.

Nothing difficult, then.

Urgh, my head feels sick of all this goody-two-shoes nonsense.

“Not particularly,” mum smiled.

“Anyone vaguely significant?” I asked, as the seamstresses began to line measuring tapes up this-way-and-that.

“The head of state will be there,” she mused, fingering a dusky rose-pink silk, “Oh, and Madame Cherrily, from Keats Academy…”

“Er, why?” I asked, dreading the sight of my old headmistress.

“We want to get Felix a place there next September.”

At Keats Academy for Young Ladies of Promise?!

“Not your Keats, of course dear,” she continued, “The male quarter has recently established itself on the top of the league tables after they gained the significant backing of Sir William Farfel.”

She showed me a smooth dark green, then beckoned me to one side.

“However,” she said quietly, making sure the seamstress couldn’t hear, “James will be there, and I think what you need, currently, is a revenge show.”

I looked up at her, a little confused.

“We need to show him exactly what it is he has let go,” Mum grinned.

My mouth opened a little, mouthing an ‘oh’.

“Shall we?” she asked.

“Definitely,” I accepted.

“Now, do we see sleek or poofy?” asked the designer, accenting the ‘oo’ of the ‘oofy’ like a balloon deflating.

“What dances will there be?” I asked, aware that a particular dance could make or break a dress, physically.

“Oo, waltzes, possibly a jive… a tango?” Mum replied.

“Sleek,” I replied to the designer, “Traditional tango cut, but…”

I mused for a moment on the possibilities.

“Low cut at the back.”

My mother arched an amused eyebrow at me from across the room.

“Straps,” I decided.

“Diagonal, vertical?” the designer question, proffering a rough sketch.

I beckoned for the pencil and sketched four criss-crossing black straps in before passing the paper back. The woman nodded.

“Fabric?” she asked.

“Satin,” my mum suggested.

I smiled. Obviously.

“Colour?”

“Red,” we agreed in unison.

“Bright or dark?”

“Dark.”

Our eyes met across the room, and I smiled. I had a mission.