Miss Perfection Personified

7. | The Old and the Noveau

7. | THE OLD AND THE NOVEAU

ANASTASIA MONTGOMERY'S arrival to my house's front driveway on Saturday evening was met with raised eyebrows from both my parents.

Mum peeked out of the window curiously and turned to look at me in surprise.

"Since when does Kitty drive a pink Cadillac?" she asked me, wiping the lenses of her reading glasses on her shirt. Before I could answer, Mum put them back on again and peered back out the window. "Ah. It's Henry Montgomery's girl."

At the name, Dad looked up sharply from his newspaper. He and Mum shared a knowing glance before he turned towards me, an unreadable expression on his face. Dad put the newspaper down and folded his hands together.

"Elliott," he said, rather seriously, "you and...ah, Anastasia, is it? Are you two...erm..." His eyes swivelled out the window awkwardly.

"No." I shook my head firmly, annoyed at the implication.

"Good, good," Mum interjected a little too quickly. "It's, well, it's nice to have friends, isn't it, Elliott. It's good to branch out."

"Mum," I sighed. "I'm not six."

"Oh, darling, yes, but you see, we're just a tiny bit worried." Mum pursed her lips anxiously. "Now we're just your parents, but we do, ah, hear things, you know. Her reputation precedes her."

"As does her father's," Dad muttered quietly, sinking his head back under his newspaper.

I opened my mouth to ask what that was supposed to mean but was, in a suspiciously timely fashion, cut off by the loud ding of the doorbell downstairs. Asmita, our maid, was just opening the door as I hurried my way down the stairs to the foyer. Anastasia stepped in with barely a glance to Asmita, who had welcomed her in with a polite 'Hello, ma'am' and looked directly at me.

"Nice place," she said as a way of greeting, surveying everything with narrowed, but impressed, eyes.

As she stepped forward, I suddenly became aware of how extravagantly dressed she was. Her hair was twisted back, rather severely, I thought, into one of those complicated French crown braids, giving her the appearance of a broody, pouty-lipped model. She had on a long, expensive-looking summer dress that fell down to her knees and strappy wedge heels that complimented the pastel-pink colour of her outfit.

"You look like you're ready to have tea with the Queen," I remarked wryly.

Anastasia scoffed.

"Not everybody likes looking homeless," she said, scrutinising me up and down in my simple khaki shorts and white t-shirt. "You take old-money fashion a little too seriously, I think."

"Old money?" I laughed. "My dad's a writer, and my mum lectures at the local university."

"Cute middle-class careers," Anastasia agreed, "but like I said...I've done my research on you. Your great-great-great-grandad got rich exporting guns during the American civil war."

My jaw dropped. "How could you possibly know that?"

Anastasia gave me an 'are-you-kidding-me' look.

"Your dad wrote an entire book about it," she said slowly as if I was somebody very stupid. "And," she continued, smirking slightly, "you probably don't know which side your family was on."

"Stop." I shook my head at her. "We are so not having this conversation anymore."

"You started it," Anastasia said with a small shrug. Just as she began to say something, mum appeared before us, her hands clasped nervously together.