‘What about you?’ Mark asks Lissa. ‘Heading too?’
And she has an excuse ready-made, doesn’t she? Everyone else is leaving, they have work tomorrow. But what Mia said at the bar cut a bit too close to home, even if she wants to deny it. She should try, shouldn’t she? Mark is nice, and smells pleasant, and doesn’t, as far as she can gather, have any deep dark secrets. Maybe Mia is right. Maybe she ought to be trying a bit harder in the present, rather than obsessing over daydreams. After all, if all they’re about is meeting a guy, maybe that’s just her subconscious’s way of telling her that she wants to meet a guy now.
She taps her nails against her empty glass, meets Mark’s gaze. ‘I’ll stay for one more, if you will?’
Chapter Seven
She gets home late that night, exhausted from all the trying she had to do with Mark, even though they only stayed for an hour after the others had left. She’s thinking of the pub as she falls asleep. Thinking of Mia telling her she shoots down chances to be happy. Of Darcy laughing at something Ash said. Of Ash, and the way his smile didn’t reach his eyes. And of smoke coming through the open window, curling its way around a chandelier that wasn’t there.
She is moving from a corridor into a drawing room, laughter and music swelling around her. The scent of perfume mixes with coal from a low-burning fire in one corner. A haze of cigarette smoke lingers near the ceiling, snaking around the crystal chandelier. There is a group of men in suits nearby, exchanging cigars, while a cluster of women in flapper dresses congregate by the champagne tower.
She takes off her coat, revealing a gold dress to match her shoes and a long pearl necklace, and gives it to the doorman. Someone passes her a glass of champagne and she takes it with hands that are not her hands – a different colour, different texture.
A woman wearing a ruby dress and black heels moves to her, loops an arm through hers and grins, a fun, wicked smile. She clinks her glass with Lissa’s and Lissa feels a laugh bubble out of her – at the fact that they’re actually here, inside this house they’ve only ever seen from the outside. Only New York’s brightest and best get invited to these parties, and yet here they are, a stroke of luck that one of her sewing clients happens to like her. It’s everything she’d dreamt it would be – the smell of it, the sound of the music, the taste of the atmosphere. It’s enough that she doesn’t care about the looks some of them are giving her, like they know she doesn’t belong.
She takes a sip of champagne. She’s only tasted it once before, so it’s not just the fact that it’s illegal that makes it feel like an indulgence. Though technicallyshe’snot the one doing something illegal here – she’s not the one who bought it, after all.
The woman at her side – her friend – takes her hand and drags her towards the centre of the room. Lissa laughs again as she follows, feeling the weight of many eyes and not giving a damn. She turns to face her friend, her dress swishing with the music. A dress that took all of her savings to buy.
Her friend kicks out a leg, starting to dance, and Lissa spins, joining in, the champagne already going to her head. She looks over to the band as she dances. It’s set up at the side of the room, the saxophone taking its solo as the man with the clarinet waits, poised to join in. She’s always admired these bands, the way they don’t need sheets of music, the way they listen and work together in harmony. It’s joyful, though secretly she wishes it were her up on that stage.
It’s then that she sees him. He had his face angled away from the crowd to take a sip of water, but now he turns, nodding to his bandmates. He’s wearing a charcoal suit, jacket fitted around his broad shoulders. She can see the glint of his cufflinks under the light of the chandelier as he lifts a hand, sweeping it across his dark brown hair.
The music shifts, changing rhythm, and her friend immediately matches her dance steps. But Lissa slows to a stop, watching as the man draws the mic towards him. As he starts to sing.
His voice is beautiful, husky and lyrical all at once – the type of voice to set your nerve endings alight. The type of voice that leaves you craving more.
It’s in the middle of the next note that he shifts position, angling towards her. It’s too late to look away, to pretend she’s not watching. So she is standing there, still, as his gaze catches hers, those brown eyes warm and deep. For that moment, it’s like the breath is stolen from her. Then he smiles, almost like he is smiling in greeting. And her heart stutters.
In her dream, the scene shifts. She’s outside the house, at the bottom of grand stone steps, as the last of the partygoers spill out the front door.
She can hear footsteps behind her, the crunch of shoes on gravel. And her subconscious seems to know who it will be before she turns to see him. His bandmates are behind him, carrying their instruments from the house, loading them into a car. His dark eyes are on hers as he crosses to her, hands in his pockets, posture casual.
‘I saw you on the dance floor,’ he says by way of introduction. His accent holds a touch of the south.
She nods, her hand moving to play with her pearls – fake, of course. ‘I saw you on the stage.’
He smiles in acknowledgement. ‘You all right out here?’
‘I’m waiting for my friend.’
‘The one you were dancing with?’ She nods. ‘She left about twenty minutes ago,’ he says. ‘Got a ride with a man – not sure who he was.’
Lissa grimaces, even if it’s not too surprising. But they were supposed to walk home together, keep each other safe.
‘I can take you home,’ he says, his voice gentle. ‘If you need?’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t seem all that wise to get into a car with a stranger.’
He runs a hand along his chin. ‘True. But it doesn’t seem all that wise to stand out here alone, either.’
She glances to the side. His bandmates are watching them curiously, but his eyes remain on her face, waiting.
‘You don’t have to,’ she says quietly.
He shrugs. ‘I know I don’t.’ A corner of his mouth raises in a half-smile. He has a beautiful mouth, she thinks. Crooked and full at the same time. She wonders if it’s only because she’s heard him sing that she thinks that.
She lets go of her necklace. ‘Okay. Thank you.’ There are witnesses, after all, people who will see her leaving with him. She tells herself that’s what makes her agree, rather than thisfeelingshe has – like she knows, despite the fact it doesn’t make sense, that she can trust him.
