“As soon as you said you’d been to Tasmania, really.”
The boy let out a delighted laugh. “Just when you think there’s nothing new in the world to surprise you—” He swung her around to a stone bench and sat them both down. “I think we should get introduced.”
“I’m Emma. Emma Curran.”
“Emma Curran, who lived in Tasmania. And loved the seals. And who still hasn’t said why she’s hiding at a party.”
“I’m not hiding.”
The photographer just grinned at her. Venetia had been mad to call him boring. The famous Jasper’s roommate—Richard, Emma remembered, that was what Julia had said—was certainly not as loud as the boors in tailcoats inside. But fascination rolled from him, stronger than anyone she’d met.
“Fine. I am hiding. This party isn’t for me. No offence to your roommate.”
“My roommate?”
“The great Jasper Balfour. King of the so-called Society, or whatever that secret nonsense is,” said Emma, made reckless by the warmth of several glasses of wine inside her. The photographer shifted on the bench beside her. “I’m sorry, I know he’s your friend. But the way people talk about him. To make a big deal of inviting everyone here, and then not turn up to his own party? How pretentious is that?”
“Oh, very,” said the photographer, picking a stray leaf from his jeans with a small and curious smile. “Seriously pretentious.”
“Yes,” said Emma, warming to her theme. “And the way people talk about him. Like his money makes him important. Like that’swhat matters, how extravagant his parties are. How many private jet rides he takes them on. It’s just stupid. And sad. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” the photographer said quietly. He was shredding the leaf to pieces. “I actually do.”
He shot a sideways glance at her. “And you don’t care? About that stuff?”
A sudden vision rose in Emma’s mind. She was in a ball gown, layers of tulle frothing around her seat belt. She watched the earth drop away from the window, felt Julia’s hand in hers.Next stop, Paris,someone crowed.
Emma crushed the thought. “No,” she said quickly. “I don’t care. At all.”
“Then you’re cleverer than most people.”
A bang made them both jump. The door at the top of the stairs had flown open. The noise of the party spilled out around a boy in a tailcoat.
“Come on, we’re about to crack open the port old Cranner’s brought. Spence said you were skulking outside.”
The photographer’s face crinkled in a grimace. He ducked his head.
The figure leaned out farther.
“Oy, Jasper. You still down there?”
The courtyard was silent for a moment.
“Er, yeah—be up in a minute, mate.”
The photographer looked at Emma, who was sure her face couldn’t have been more aghast if a tree root had burst up through the concrete and dragged the whole building down into the depths of the earth, like a kraken.
“Jasper,” she said, in a voice of calm despair. “You’re not Richard. You’re Jasper.”
A mischievous dimple hovered in his cheek. “I’m afraid so. The ‘great Jasper Balfour,’ as you put it.”
She sprang from the bench.
“No—wait, don’t go.” He clasped her wrist, laughing, and pulled her back. “I’m sorry. You were right, anyway. About how stupid it is, all the people in there who only care about my parents’ money.”
“I’m sorry I said that.”
“It’s true, though.” His voice was laced with bitterness. “None of those people see me. Not really. They want Jasper Balfour.”
