‘Helicopter,’ the first woman says. ‘I won’t be doing that again!’
‘The planet?’ the second woman asks.
‘Oh, no, darling,’ the first woman titters. ‘My bird. It almost flew off.’
‘Blades,’ the second woman states with what sounds like a nodding understanding. ‘So bad for the up-do.’
I take a deep breath. This seriously is a different world. Would it matter too much if, for my last night, I just have a little look and a quiet laugh? Tim and Minty would love the stories I could bring back. It’s just one evening. What harm could it do?
The grand ballroom of the Beaumont is truly dazzling, all crystal chandeliers and marble floors. Everyone should have this kind of fairy-tale experience once in their life. I stand in my amazing gown, twirling around in the vast foyer, looking up at the beautifully painted ceiling.
‘Found you.’
I find myself bumping back to earth to see Marco standing behind me. He looks seriously gorgeous in that black tie and jacket, and he smells so clean – fresh from the shower rather than the garage like my wonderful brother and his mates. Despite the fact this man appears ever ready to fling an insult, my heart flutters. Seriously, it does, like a butterfly in a net trying to pull itself away from the trap. I know Marco Delagado spells trouble, but he is just mesmerising. His dark eyes search mine and I find myself never wanting the moment to stop.
‘Look,’ he says abruptly, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I mean the carpet thing. My comment. You look… You look lovely. Nothing to do with Nelly. Everything to do with you,’ he says, running a hand through his stylishly messy hair.
It’s as if not one second has passed since we met on the red carpet of the Beaumont’s steps. Space and time have collapsed into a single moment that is all about now, and I like this, especially when he follows it up with a: ‘You’re beautiful, Clara. Really beautiful.’
I feel the heat in my cheeks. ‘Thank you.’ I’m truly glowing, my heart rising so far in my chest I half expect it to grow a pair of wings and fly me off.
But I have to make some kind of reply. I’m not a child, so I shake one hand dismissively. ‘It’s all right about earlier,’ I say. And then an odd thought strikes me, could he be nervous? Could that be why he keeps slipping up? The insults, the bossiness, is it all just bravado? I glance away as I feel that glow I had been feeling turning into a neon-bright flush, making me feel as self-conscious and floundering as a streaming flare shot into a dark sky. This entire relationship is hit and miss.
‘No, it’s not all right,’ he mumbles, clearly irritated with himself. ‘I apologise. Sadly, I can’t help it; arsehole is kind of in my genes. It’s in my veins.’
I laugh. I have no idea what’s flowing through mine. Most likely motor oil.
‘Forgiven,’ I say with the easiest smile I’ve ever had to find. Because he is absolutely forgiven. I just want to be close to him, close to him for as much time as humanly possible. ‘Besides, you were kind of right.’ I run my hands over the weightless tulle web of my dress. It feels as though I’m wearing nothing but air. ‘Nelly is amazing.’
‘May I?’ He smiles, offering me his arm.
‘I think that you may, kind sir.’ I even allow myself a little bow.
‘We have work to do,’ he says seriously.
My smile drops a little. Work. Looking for myself. Unfortunately, I can see all kinds of problems with that.
Luckily my mood doesn’t stay short of euphoria for long. The Beaumont is possibly the most beautiful hotel I have ever been to in my life or, indeed, in my dreams.
‘Connaught Room first,’ Marco says, lifting a glass of champagne from a waiter as we pass and pressing it into my hand. ‘They have the best voices in there, closest to the foyer. If our mystery songbird is here, my bet is that’s where we’ll find her.’
That kind of goes without saying. The woman is going to be following us around all night, but poor Marco doesn’t need to know that. His flat palm finds the small of my back, a casual intimacy that makes my pulse jump. One evening in heaven before it all comes crashing down. Is that too much to ask?
It’s no wonder the best voices tend to be found in the Connaught Room. It’s spectacular, a bejewelled treasure of a room. High stuccoed ceilings. Long golden mirrors. A gleaming wooden floor and packed to the brim with beautiful people. There’s a gorgeous-looking woman in her late thirties about to take the mic. She has a full Afro and the kind of figure I, and most likely the majority of the other women in the room, would die for. This girl doesn’t need couture. Strip her naked, and she’d look even better.
‘This could be her,’ Marco says eagerly. His eyes brightening in anticipation.
‘Umm hmm,’ I say, grabbing a bite-sized delight that just so happens to be sailing past on a silver tray – a sliver of raw beef with horseradish in a hat of fresh parsley. Delicious. I find myself wondering if there is any way I can sneak a couple home for Minty and Tim. No, maybe not. It’s not quite the serious woman-about-town image I’m trying to cultivate. More the fugitive vibe which, once they discover it was me who left the door to the studio open, will fit me like a glove.
I turn back to the stage just as the young woman starts to sing, and she truly has the voice of an angel. Light but resonant, with this wonderful touch of clear funk laced through.
‘She’s great,’ I whisper into Marco’s ear. As my lips touch his skin, I feel my heart rise in my chest. Rise so completely, like a solid block of beating muscle, that for just a moment, it threatens to short-circuit my breathing. He rests one arm around me, encircling my naked shoulders. With this small, possibly casual, touch, every inch of my body fires into life.
‘But she’s not our girl,’ he says simply.
In truth, I no longer care. I just want to stand there with him forever. Then I remember Fitz, and it’s almost as if he can hear the thoughts circulating around my brain because he pulls away.
‘I was just wondering…’ I say as the room begins to buzz again with light conversation. I pull my top lip over my teeth, steeling my nerves. ‘So, um… Fitz. Are you two–?’
