‘Miss Eliza sent me down to ensure you’re ready for dinner,’ a staff member says politely, eyes everywhere but on us.
‘Shit,’ I croak. ‘Yes. Sorry.’
The staff member retreats as Roman places me on the floor, but not before spying the wet patch I’ve left on his trousers.
Roman catches my hand before I can flee.
‘I’m sure they’ve seen worse,’ he assures me.
‘Oh, I don’t doubt it. But not usually with me.’
‘For the next few days, while we’re here,’ he says, squeezing my fingers, ‘it’s us versus everyone else.’
‘Our odds are horrendous.’ I say, pulling my dress down.
‘I’ve always liked an underdog.’
Woofwoof.
TWENTY-FOUR
ROMAN
I feellike an impostor amongst the softly spoken, richly dressed horde of guests at the rehearsal dinner. A whole new wave of family and friends has descended on the mansion ahead of the big day for another show of wealth.
It’s the fanciest dinner I’ve ever seen.
There are candles everywhere. Hundreds of them litter just about every surface. I hope they have some fire extinguishers tucked away somewhere, as there aren’t any visible. And with the amount of champagne that’s being put away left, right and centre, I don’t fancy the candles’ odds at staying upright.
Or many of the guests, to be fair.
For a bunch of rich folk, they fairly know how to party. And this is only a sit-down dinner. How the other half live. There’s a string quartet playing a delicate instrumental piece in the far corner of the elaboratelydecorated ballroom. The tables are dressed in linen starched to within an inch of their lives, and the atmosphere bubbles. I can’t decide if it’s excitement for the nuptials or an underlying tension. Knowing what the family do for business, it wouldn’t surprise me if there are rivals and grievances hiding behind veneered smiles.
Maggie is at my side, looking top-notch in a halternecked red dress. It’s a far cry from the boyfriend jeans and oversized jumpers I usually see her in, and while I appreciate the dressy look, I can tell it doesn’t make her feel comfortable. It’s like someone’s thrust her into the limelight, and she’s vulnerable under the scrutiny. Little does she know that long before she dragged me down the stairs and fastened me to her car, I’d noticed her. Obviously, I had rules about not dipping your wick so close to home, but it didn’t mean I hadn’t seen her. Hadn’t noticed the way she stops in the alley to pet the stray cat, consistently trying to convince him that he should move in. Or the way she always chats to the shop owner next door, even when he has the most run-on stories in the universe, without looking bored. Or the way she hides behind that mane of curls when she blushes.
No, Maggie’s never been invisible. Only out of bounds.
She presses close to my side, only half on her chair, while she toys with the hem of my blazer. All evening, she’s been leaning in and filling me in on who’s who. It’sbeen incredibly hard to focus after our interrupted make-out session earlier.
Narrating the evening to cope with the insidious looks Eddie keeps throwing at us.
‘That man there,’ she whispers, subtly nodding, ‘the one who looks like Winston Churchill, fell into a vat of tanner? That’s Sir Benjamin Hargreaves. He owns three newspapers and thus the arseholes of half of the MPs.’
‘The MPs?’ I echo quietly. ‘Like blackmail?’
‘His press is far from non-biased. If one of them annoys him, they’ll be lured into a dodgy situation and splashes across the headlines before they can pull their pants back up.’
Hargreaves laughs at one of his seatmates, slipping an arm around a woman who looks decidedly uncomfortable. My skin prickles instinctively.
‘That’s his new wife.’
‘Has anyone told her?’ I ask.
‘I think she’s hoping that she can fuck him hard enough to stop his heart.’
Maggie keeps going, like she can’t stop.
‘The woman in the insane emeralds is from the Kowalczyk family. They’re in logistics. They make things disappear or reappear elsewhere, depending on what a client needs.’
