Eric unfolded the piece of paper that Demi had passed him and, biting his lower lip, began to study the neatly hand-written details of his new, made-up life.

Name: Eric Valentine

"Valentine?" he raised an eyebrow. "You can't be serious."

"It's cute," shrugged Celia, "Celia Valentine, I like that."

"This isn't for real," said Eric, flatly.

"A girl can dream..."

Age: 18

School: Home-schooled

"You're home-schooled by a private tutor," nodded Demi.

Family: Mother (Olive Valentine), Father (Ivan Valentine), no grandparents, no uncles/aunts/siblings

"Hopefully all the V sounds will help you remember their names."

"I'm not completely stupid," he muttered, screwing the paper up into a ball.

"Nooo!" whined Celia, "you haven't finished reading it!"

"I think I'll be fine."

Eric folded his arms across his chest and frowned, staring out of the window as the scenery rolled by; country lanes, fields and cows had been pretty much the only things he'd seen for the past half an hour, so they definitely weren't headed towards the city.

Duh, he thought to himself, why would a Country Club be in the city?

He thought they'd at least have taken him to London or something. Wasn't that where the aristocracy and all the rich people lived? He'd have been able to show off to Jay and Henry – none of them had been to London before; train prices were a nightmare, and none of them could drive. Jay had attempted the practical test, but totally lost his nerve when reversing around a corner and backed up into a junction cabinet. He'd cried for about three days.

"The club is in Hertfordshire," said Nina, reading his mind, "we're actually nearly there."

Eric didn't say anything, but simply nodded. He couldn't have said anything if he'd wanted to – there was a sickly feeling materializing in his stomach, and he was sure that if he opened his mouth, all that would come out was that afternoon's lunch. He grabbed a glass of champagne and downed it in one, praying that the alcohol would calm his nerves.

"Careful," said Celia, "I don't want you to meet my parents drunk. Oh – here!" She pulled a garment bag down from one of the ceiling handles and placed it on Eric's lap, "get changed!"

He blinked, "in here? In front of you all?"

"There's nowhere else," she grinned.

"You really are perverted."

"We'll close our eyes. Pinky promise!"

*****************************************************************************************************

When the limo finally pulled up to the Country Club, Eric was dressed smartly in dark grey trousers and waistcoat and a duck-egg shirt. Somehow, the clothes Celia picked out actually suited him, and he actually felt like he could pull off being a snobby rich kid. That was, until he departed the limo and took a look around.

There were people in cocktail dresses and fancy suits everywhere, with meticulously styled hairdos and fake tans and weird hats that tilted in odd ways. The sort of clothes you saw on TV if you watched the Royal Ascot or something. He half expected the Queen herself to show up. He secretly wanted it to rain.

The Club itself was a huge, Victorian manor house, with sand-coloured walls, arched windows and greenery growing up the sides of the building. Surrounding it were green lawns and fountains and flower beds – though the season had left them quite bare.

Celia looped her arm around Eric's and grinned. "Feeling nervous?"

"No fuckin' shit."

"Hey!" she swatted him with her pastel-pink clutch, "you can't speak like that here. I mean, I guess they might overlook it because you're new money but...I can't say it'll help with first impressions."

"Got it. No being common."

"There's being common, and then there's being crude."

Eric smirked, "I'm both those things, though."

"Yes," said Celia, "but Eric Valentine is not."

*****************************************************************************************************

The inside was even grander than the outside. The festivities – whatever they were – were taking place inside a grand ballroom, where tables had been set up around a large dance-floor, and classical music was being played by a live band.

"I hope you don't expect me to dance," he mumbled.

"It's just a meet and greet. I need to show people you exist."

"Celia! Darling – over here," called out a woman's voice, and the two of them turned to see a tall, blonde woman with a pastel-blue dress approaching.

"Mother!" Celia squealed, and the two of them did that mwah-mwah-kiss-on-the-cheek thing that made Eric cringe. "Mother," she began, shuffling back to Eric, "Mother, this is Eric. My boyfriend."

Eric forced a smile onto his face and held out a hand, "Um – how do you do?" That sounded posh enough, right? Judging by look on Celia's face – probably not.

The blonde woman just laughed, and placed a hand in Eric's. He shook it, and Celia's eyes widened.

"You're supposed to kiss it," she whispered through gritted teeth.

Fucks sake, he thought, planting an awkward kiss above the woman's knuckles.

"Celia's told me so much about you," said her mother, retrieving her hand, "it's a pleasure to meet you, Eric."

"Oh, yeah. Likewise."

Celia nudged him, but Eric pulled a face.

What the hell else do you want me to say?

"We'll be dining on the same table, with the Fontaines and the Knights. I hope that won't be too much of a problem for you two – we just get on so well with Agatha and Marcus."

Eric cast Celia a puzzled glance, but she simply responded, "Oh, not at all, Demi and I have everything sorted now."

"Yes, well...try not to flaunt your relationship in front of the Knights too much. The poor boy might still be nursing a broken heart – oh! There's Agatha! I'll see you for dinner, darlings! Mwah!"

And with that, Celia's mother scuttled off, 6-inch heels tapping away at the wooden floor.

"My mother thinks I dumped Demi. We weren't ever dating – it was just a lie to keep them off our backs," said Celia, looping his arm again.

"You're an expert at this whole lying thing, aren't you?" he asked,  raising an eyebrow.

She smiled back at him. "It's my favourite game."

Celia spent forty-five minutes introducing Eric to all sorts of people he was sure he'd forget the names of. They were all weird and posh, like Theodore and Flora and Beatrice and Peregrine. Everyone was polite and smiled at him, but Celia did most of the talking. He was thankful for that, couldn't remember what was on the piece of paper except his name.

Eric Valentine.

That does sound like the name of a hooker.

Jay and Henry would find this hilarious.

"You can go and sit down, if you want," said Celia, "I'm just going to talk to a few of my friends."

"Thank God, finally," he replied.

He was about to leave when Celia yanked him back by the arm, stepped up onto her tiptoes and gave him a peck on the cheek. "It's all about appearances," she whispered, before returning to her crowd.

Eric scanned the tables, looking for their nameplaces, cheeks reddening slightly. That had been the first time any female had kissed him – except for his family members, but who the hell counted those?

It wasn't even a real kiss, was it? Just a peck.

And it wasn't even a real kiss. Just an act.

And yet...his cheeks were burning.

"Fuck."

"That's pleasant," said a voice. A boy with the same shockingly red hair as Nina was sitting at the table beside Eric, flashing him a dirty look.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Right." The boy shrugged and began messing with his nameplace. Emile Fontaine.

"I think I'm at this table, actually," said Eric.

The boy pointed to the seat next to his. "Eric Valentine. That's you. Stupid name."

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Like Fontaine is much better. Means fountain in French, or something like that."

"I'm aware," he scoffed, "I am French."

"I don't really care."

"You shouldn't be with Celia," said Emile, turning to face Eric once he sat down, "it should be Demitri. Your family has no reputation, no standing – no history. New money is trash, everybody knows it. You're just a commoner with a little bit of flash."

Who the hell was this kid? Nina's brother - he knew that, but Emile seemed to really believe that Eric was actually...well, rich. Maybe they hadn't let him in on it for a reason. The guy seemed like an absolute tool.

"Love knows no bounds," he smirked, but Emile only seemed to get even more riled up.

"You need to crawl back under whatever rock you came out of, commoner."

"You're an angry kid," said Eric.

"I'm not a kid. I'm sixteen."

"Then you really shouldn't be talking to your elders this way."

"Ha," scoffed Emile, "I have servants older than you – you think I treat them like the sun shines out of their asses."

"That's pleasant."

"I – hey, is that my suit?"

"Oh," grinned Eric, "yeah. I thought I'd taint it with my commonness."

"Give it back, right now."

"Right now? That's a little gay. Do you want me to strip off? Or would you like to strip me off?"

Maybe Jay and Henry were right about that ad, after all.

"Keep it," said Emile through gritted teeth, "I can afford a new one."

"Perhaps you could afford a new personality, too."

"I'm going to kill you – "

"Nobody's killing anyone," said Celia, who'd just appeared at the table along with Demi and Nina. "Dinner is about to be served. I hope this doesn't go as horrifically as I'm imagining."

Demi looked at her and sighed. "Knowing our parents...it's going to be a lot worse."

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