‘Make-up!’
‘Ah yes, sorry. You girls and your make-up. Can you do me a favour?’
He passes her his bow tie.
‘Will you do this for me?’
She turns his collar up, winds the bow tie round his neck, slides one end up higher than the other. Her hands are shaking.
‘This is nice,’ he says, staring at her.
‘Mm.’
She finishes the bow tie with perfect, fluid execution.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘Right. Just need a slash and then let’s go.’
‘I’ll wait for you downstairs.’
‘Are you—’
She doesn’t hear the rest of the question. She’s already in the hotel corridor, and then instead of waiting for the lift, she takes the stairs. In the lobby, she sits on the maroon velvet sofa and tries to regulate her breathing. What just happened? An unbearable tidal wave of heat rises within her, the sweat instantly on every part of her skin.
‘Are you alright, madam?’ says the man at reception. ‘Can I get you some water?’
‘No.’ She fans herself with her hands. ‘I mean, no … sorry, yes. Yes please.’
He returns a couple of minutes later, proffering a chilled glass. She presses it to her forehead then drinks the water in one go, forgetting to thank him. By the time Jarvis appears, the heat has passed. She allows Jarvis to place his hand proprietorially on the small of her back as he ushers her out of the door and into the street and the waiting black cab hailed by a liveried footman.
Don’t think about it, she tells herself. Just don’t think about it. If you don’t think about it, it’s almost like it never happened.
They don’t speak much on the way to the V&A. She can sense Jarvis looking at her, trying to work her out, but she has retreated and is distant again.
‘All OK?’ he asks, as the cab draws up outside the museum steps.
‘Yes.’
She’s told Ben she’s arriving with Jarvis, and it’s common knowledge that they’re all close family friends, but still Serena is worried at the thought of being seen together like this. Won’t it be obvious what they’ve done? She feels a stickiness in her knickers; the residue of her shame.
‘You don’t need to worry. I’d never breathe a word to Ben.’
Funny, it hasn’t even crossed her mind. She knows Jarvis won’t say anything. He’s always been the junior partner in that friendship, despite his money.
They climb the steps. Serena, relieved that he can no longer be seen to touch her, walks ahead of him, her head upright, her back straight. In the cloakroom queue she runs into Iso Malik-Edwards, who is wearing a Tom Ford stretch jersey dress straight off the Paris runway.
‘Serena, hiiiii,’ Iso says, in her South Carolina drawl. ‘I haven’t seen you in a minute.’
‘No, I’ve been …’ Serena isn’t sure how to complete the sentence. Where has she been? Nowhere. ‘Busy,’ she concludes, lamely.
‘I’m sure,’ Iso says. Her hair is slicked back in a tight chignon and her only jewellery is a pair of oversized molten silver earrings, hangingfrom her lobes like birds’ eggs. Serena feels frumpy and overdone. She wishes she’d chosen a more understated dress.
‘I was so sorry to hear about Felicity,’ Iso says now and she reaches out to rest her hand on Serena’s arm. Her fingers are cool against Serena’s skin.
‘Oh,’ Serena says. ‘That’s kind. Especially as I know she can’t have been your favourite person, what with—’
‘Water under the bridge,’ Iso says, with a coolness too marked for the words to be convincing.
‘Yes. Well. Thank you.’
