The following two days passed me by in a blur. 

I was fitted for my rental tuxedo and paid to have it dry-cleaned and pressed.  I attended the rest of my classes but barely paid attention to the lecturers.  My mind was replaying our encounter in minute, exquisite detail.  Rebecca and I didn’t see each other until the Saturday of the party, as we only had Professor Wynn on Mondays and Tuesdays.  I thought about her constantly.  I savoured every second of our encounter and replayed it repeatedly. 

We chatted via text frequently.  Rebecca sent me a stream of messages with her in seductive poses.  All as tasteful as that first picture, fresh out of the shower, hinting at just enough of whatever was the focus of the image to make the mind run rampant with possibilities.  I noticed in all the pictures that she seemed to have a penchant for hold-up stockings of varying types.  My favourites were the black fishnet-style ones. 

The time had come.  I showered and dressed in the tuxedo.  Suddenly, I felt very restricted, longing for the freedom of movement offered by jeans, a tee shirt, and sneakers.  Once again, I called an Uber to take me to Rebecca’s house.  I should call it a palace, for it is appointed as such.  The same Uber guy picked me up and was just as talkative as before.  That suited me fine.  I preferred being alone with Rebecca in my thoughts anyway.

Carter welcomed me to the house once more, standing watch over the open double door to prevent any inconvenience caused by people having to knock and wait for admission. A table in the entry foyer was stacked with a pyramid of champagne glasses. I took one for politeness and started to mingle with the crowd. As I walked around the room, hoping to find Rebecca quickly, I was pleasantly surprised at how polite everyone was. 

I fielded many hellos and nods from couples and groups I passed by.  Occasionally, a group would invite me to join their discussions, and I would participate briefly before excusing myself and continuing my search for Rebecca.  I found her sitting on the same sofa we had talked about for hours earlier in the week.

Her flaming red hair was again tied up in an elegant bun, once again locked into place by chopstick hairpins.  She wore a vivid green evening gown that perfectly matched her jade eyes.  The dress was similar to the one she’d worn previously, but the split up the thigh was much less provocative on this dress.  I caught her eye, having stood open-mouthed and staring like a fool for some time.  So elegantly, she raised a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle a small chuckle and then rose to greet me.

I regained my senses and took the offered hand gently, raising it towards my face and kissing the knuckle delicately.  Rebecca seemed surprised at my level of sophistication.  I’d seen the same suave move done in countless movies that portrayed similar settings, so I just copied it and hoped I got it right. 

“I’m so glad you came,” Rebecca said; the words hid the double meaning that I could see lurking just behind her glinting jade eyes.

“Come!  Let me introduce you to some people.”  Rebecca clasped my hand tightly and led me about the place.  We stopped here and there to talk to various lecturers and Professors from the university and their respective partners.  There were many and varied family friends in the mix, too.

We made pleasant small talk for an hour or so with many fascinating people when a gong blared over the drone of many conversations happening simultaneously.  Everyone was drawn to the sound, and I could see Carter placing the fabric-covered mallet onto the gong cradle. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began, almost ceremoniously.  “Presenting Mr. and Mrs. Smythe-Johnson.”  Muted applause rang out as a couple appeared at the top of the stairs. 

They elegantly descended the winding curves of the staircase.  From my angle, I could only see the woman; she seemed considerably taller than Rebecca’s father. 

“That’s my stepmother,” Rebecca hissed from between clenched teeth.  Her voice was dripping with disdain.  The target of Rebecca’s ire looked to be barely two or three years older than us, I thought to myself. 

“Venomous bitch!”  Rebecca spat under her breath.  The viciousness of the statement shocked me.  I’d not heard her speak ill of anyone before now.  I made a mental note to ask more about this later.  Now wasn’t the right time to engage in family drama.  One thing was plain to me.  Rebecca had no love for her stepmother.

My eyes were drawn back to Mrs. Smythe-Johnson.  She was pretty, I guess, in a strange kind of way.  The closest I could describe her would be to say she bore more than a passing resemblance to Cate Blanchett.  Thin, cruel-looking lips were coupled with sharp, angular, almost elfin-looking features.  I couldn’t tell if that was a trick of lighting, overly applied make-up, or just exceptionally sharp cheekbones.  She was skinny, too.  Almost to the point of looking anorexic, which may also explain the pointedness of her features.  Casting my gaze down, barely-there breasts were trying and failing to jiggle in the ill-fitting, bustier part of her ballgown. 

Indeed, she was nowhere near as attractive as Rebecca, in my opinion.  The sequinned white ball gown had lacy shoulder pads that would have been quite at home in an Eighties TV soap opera and slicked back, jet black hair that was cut just to the neckline.  For some reason, an unbidden memory of the music video for ‘Addicted to Love’ popped into my head.  I forget the name of the artiste. 

‘No, certainly not as attractive as Rebecca,’ I resolved to myself.

It was as if Rebecca were sensing my brief appraisal of her stepmother.  I heard her huff slightly, and as she grabbed my hand, she muttered, “Come on!” 

We navigated our way around the crowd, so we were front and centre with the couple descending the stairs, taking in their surroundings, and luxuriating in the applause they received.  I looked up, and my heart stopped.  I felt my breath catch in my throat, and my hand clasped Rebecca’s so tightly that she winced. 

“What’s the matter?” she queried. 

I couldn’t answer her. My eyes were locked forward. I knew I had to get out of this place—right now! I suddenly felt very claustrophobic and sick to my stomach. My breath had not been released from my throat. 

“Would you please tell me what’s wrong!” Rebecca demanded. 

Regaining my senses for a long enough time, I managed to spit out through clenched teeth.

“Outside… NOW!” I whispered

Rebecca looked shocked by my outburst, and it gained curious glances from a few of the couples around us, but she agreed to my request.  We escaped the crowd of people and appeared out the front door straight to the perfectly manicured rose beds. 

“Will you please tell me what’s going on!”  Rebecca demanded.  Hands on her hips. 

I was bent over, hands on my knees and breathing heavily.  I was feeling so nauseous.  My mind was racing.  I hadn’t thought about her surname when Carter used it the other day.  I just dismissed it as the usually pretentious double-barrelled surname that most kids who were not on a full scholarship to Yale had.

“Smythe-Johnson,” I said weakly – still desperately trying not to vomit.

“Yes, what about it?  That’s my name,” Rebecca exclaimed testily.

“I know,” I responded… “And you know my surname is Johnson, too, right?”  I paused. 

“Smythe-JOHNSON!” I overly emphasised the second barrel of the name. 

“I hadn’t thought of it until I saw your father!” I exclaimed.

“What are you talking about?” Rebecca asked, sounding increasingly incredulous.

“Here… LOOK!” I exclaimed. 

I reached into my back pocket and retrieved my wallet, from which I took a battered old picture.  The photo of my father and I was heavily faded and creased but still clear enough to see that the countenance on the adult face was mirrored here in person.  Twenty years or so of age added, of course, but undeniably, it was Rebecca’s father's face. 

‘No, our father!’ I thought. 

I saw the look of disbelief cross her face, a look that then turned to horror. I knew that she’d figured out what I was thinking, too. Her pallor took on a decidedly greenish hue. I thought that Rebecca was my half-sister, the daughter that my, sorry, our father had left my mother and me to raise with his lover.

~~~~~~{}~~~~~~

“That’s impossible!” Rebecca stated defiantly. “And, what’s more, I will prove it to you!”

She stormed off.  Stalking her, sorry… our father for answers.  I hurried after her through the rose beds.  A morbid curiosity had suddenly overwhelmed me.  I wanted answers, too.  I wanted to know why my father hadn’t been in touch for the last nineteen years of my life.  Why did he not fight to save his marriage to my mother all those years ago?  I had caught up to Rebecca by the doors to the house.  Sounds of conversation and music were floating on the evening air.  I laid my hand on her shoulder, partly to get her to slow down but mostly to ask that she consider what she was about to do.

Indeed, this matter would be best managed privately, not at … this party.  Rebecca considered me for a moment.  Her beautiful green eyes searching mine for understanding and validation.  I could see the frustration on her face.  Her cheeks were burning fiercely, so much so that I thought I could feel the heat emanating from her delicate countenance.  ‘So, that part is true about redheads, too!’ I noted to myself: short fuses and volcanic tempers.  I made a mental note not to offend her if it could be avoided.

“OK.  BUT!” she breathed in temporary surrender to the situation, with a caveat, “As soon as this night is done, we both get some answers!”

“I couldn’t agree more!” I stated. 

My head was spinning.  I made a mental note to call my mom and ask if she knew about my father’s whereabouts when I won the Yale scholarship.  That was a conversation I was most certainly not looking forward to having.  I didn’t talk about my father with her, and she rarely offered me any information or insights into him.  All I knew for sure about him was what he looked like, his face on a faded picture of him holding me as a newborn, and that soon after that photo was taken, he’d confessed everything to my mom, illegitimate daughter, and all. 

That’s when she packed up the family station wagon with everything we needed and drove us to some no-tell motel in the middle of nowhere in Idaho.  Shortly afterwards, my mother filed for divorce from my father.  She cited adultery and irreconcilable differences as the main reason for the petition—a petition which, according to my mother, had never been contested.

We mingled and danced the evening away, trying to distract ourselves from the dreadful truth uncovered by accident. The champagne flowed freely, and although I stuck to soft drinks, Rebecca showed no self-control and drained flute after flute.  She was pretty intoxicated, although she never lost her sense of decorum.  I was silently impressed by her fortitude.  Also, by a minor miracle, I had somehow managed to corral us both away from making a scene with our father and stepmother.

I realised that Rebecca was quite a good dancer, not a one-foot shuffler like me.  I tried and failed to match her steps.  It was getting late in the evening, and she had dropped her head onto my shoulder, and we were now just swaying to the soft music playing.  Immediate considerations aside, she seemed to be having a good time.  I was pleased about that.  I wanted her to be happy, always.  An unbidden thought raced through my mind: this may be the last time I’ll ever be this close to her. 

How could we possibly continue as siblings who were once lovers?  My heart sank.  I was filled with despair once again.  ‘Yep… butt of some massive cosmic joke!’  The thought came unbidden and was unwelcome but couldn’t be dismissed either.  Perhaps the cruellest aspect of all this was that this joke was wholly unscripted, and there were no naughty schoolboys to criticise after the fact.  I had no doubt that the Gods were sitting on high somewhere and having a grand old time laughing at my misery at this moment.

I became aware that the crowd was thinning considerably.  ‘What time was it?’ I wondered to myself absently.  I retrieved my phone from my pocket and glanced at the lock screen.  00:04 The screen cheerfully displayed the time superimposed over the first picture that Rebecca had sent me. 

“Looks like the party is breaking up,” I commented.  Rebecca raised her head off my shoulder and looked around. 

“Hmmm.  I think you might be right,” she agreed.

“What was all this in aid of, anyway?” I asked.  I was painfully aware that I was way out of my depth socially and in unfamiliar territory, and I was dressed like a penguin to boot.

“It’s both to celebrate Daddy being awarded the Chris Argyris Professor of Psychology position at the University and their return from a month in Europe,” she explained, sounding incredibly bored by the whole affair.

“I see,” was all I could manage. 

I knew that this was a big deal.  It was akin to celebrated physicists gaining the Lucasian Chair at Cambridge University in Britain; Professor Stephen Hawking was the most notable holder of that position in recent memory.  I suddenly felt so bitterly disappointed with my life.  My father, who had made a success of his life, having left my mother and me, was still climbing the social and professional ladders even at this stage and leaving my mother and I forgotten. 

A wave of anger washed over me, and I became aware that my hands were tightly balled into fists.  Rebecca sensed how angry I was feeling.  It was now her turn to place a steadying hand on my shoulder and whisper to me.

“Wait! The time will come soon.” Rebecca flashed a smile at me, but I wasn’t reassured.

~~~~~~{}~~~~~~

We loitered by the door to the room where we had our first meeting, watching as our father and his trophy wife bade farewell to their guests. Eventually, there were just the four of us in the mansion. During our wait, we strategised how best to approach this thorny matter. We agreed that initially, Rebecca should talk about what a lovely evening it had been and then introduce me as her plus-one.

I would then give a little information about myself, my hometown, and my age—the sort of information parents typically ignore when meeting a boyfriend for the first time. We were trying to trip our father up… to see if there was any recognition of me in his face or if my hometown made him betray his knowledge.

“Daddy!” Rebecca exclaimed brightly as she walked over from our position by the door to the lounge.  Her high stiletto heels clicked on the marble floor.  I stayed back, as instructed, enabling Rebecca to make a proper introduction for me. 

‘She sounds genuinely happy to see him,’ I thought absently.

“Simone…” Rebecca said with deference, looking her stepmother up and down instantly and managing to look wholly disapproving of the barely-out-of-her-teens woman she so obviously vehemently despised and, more importantly, didn’t much care if it showed.

Our father reached out with both arms palms up as she approached.  Rebecca took his hands delicately, leaned towards each other, and kissed the air by the cheeks like in European movies.

“Rebecca, my darling girl,” our father said joyfully.  “I hope you had a good evening and that your old Pa didn’t embarrass you too much?” he continued.

“Not at all, Daddy!” Rebecca exclaimed, saying this had been the year's best party. 

‘So far?’ I wondered.  How many parties do they hold here? I couldn’t help but wonder.  There was that pang of jealousy again.  Why had I been denied a life with all the trappings of money? 

“Daddy, there is someone that I would like you to meet,” Rebecca announced, breaking my sullen thoughts.

That was my cue to approach.  As confidently as I could manage, I walked up and thrust out my hand in greeting.

“Daddy, Simone, I’d like to introduce you to Oliver Johnson, my… friend,” she stuttered, uncertain of the best word to describe our relationship, given what we suspected was going on.

I chuckled silently. I had to admit, after the evening's revelations, I didn’t know how to describe us either. 

“Oliver, may I introduce you to my father, Professor Smythe-Johnson and his wife, Simone.”  Whether or not Rebecca’s… our father heard the word wife catch in Rebecca’s mouth, as if it had the foulest of tastes, he didn’t let on.  I watched our father's face intently as we shook hands firmly.  I was observing for any recognition of either my name or face.  I was surprised and more than a little dismayed that there was none.

“I hope you and my daughter are being careful and using protection. I know what university students get up to!”  I couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“DADDY!” Rebecca shrieked. "There is no need for that!” She took a calming breath before continuing. Oliver and I have only recently met, and it’s very early days,” Rebecca clarified for her, our father.

She sounded very indignant, and it was so utterly adorable.  Unbidden, my mind returned to the bedroom a few days earlier and just how ‘careful’ we’d been.

“Still, the advice is sound,” Our father retorted.  His observations of the courtship rituals of twenty-somethings at university campuses worldwide were almost clinical.

“So, do you prefer Oliver or Oli?” He asked.  I hadn’t thought about it much.  Only my mother had ever called me Oli, and I was in no mood...