I marched towards my father’s office, a large black ring-binder tucked under one quickly tiring arm. It was heavy, fit to bursting with the ideas that had poured from my mind without much prompting. I’d filled pages and pockets with mood boards, themes, and potential venues for this charity ball – all colour coded and categorised for ease.
It was a burden that had quickly become a labour of love. I’d spent the better part of the last two weeks – in the moments I could scrape together between torture sessions with Dupont and our awkward, compulsory family dinners – squirrelled away in my room, working on it until my fingers and eyes ached. Every night I fell asleep thinking about music and canapes and dreamed of floral arrangement and flowing wine in blushing pink tones.
The weight tuck
