“Your choice, Lady Jay. Stick or twist.”
I left, my head held higher than I knew it could be, my feet heading towards the door before I’d even told them to.
I needed light and air and to be away from the high Tommy was promising me, the eclipse of reality that I knew was foretold when I felt his skin on mine.
I needed space. Space before I made that choice. Space before I smothered myself with the complicated waters I knew I’d be drowning in, if I made that dive.
It was warm outside. I saw my sister deep in conversation, highlighted by the sunshine, like she always was, like she’d always be.
And I headed for the nearest taxi back to Safir. Back to where it was impossibly safe.
“What are you planning to wear?”
Livi’s voice was light, excited, and it was nothing more than that. There was no demand on us to wear a certain designer or item, and if we said we didn’t want to be there, she’d understand.
She’d be disappointed, but it would be a genuine disappointment that we wouldn’t be there, rather than we’d let her down in some way.
“I was thinking the blue dress.” I hadn’t really considered it. To some, Livi’s parties were things of legend, but I’d attended enough of them for this one to feel more of a chore.
There would be a list of the who’s who of the London social scene, the ex-party girls of two or three decades ago competing with their daughters as to who looked the youngest, and a parade of men who were either looking to do deals or fuck. And by fuck, that didn’t necessarily mean who’d they’d come with.
Livi’s parties were gilded with glamour and sprinkled with seduction. In London, she’d hire a venue, or use her Belgravia home for its privacy. The first time I’d seen two people having sex had been at home, when I’d wandered onto the top floor and opened the door to the guest bedroom. I was fourteen, hardly innocent in what I knew, and I’d seen a fair bit of people messing about at school, in our secret parties stuffed with contraband and fumbles under – and over – covers.
The couple weren’t a couple before that party. Nor would they be after. My mother’s closest friend was being fucked from behind by her sister’s husband, a politician. His hand cracked her arse while he pumped his cock in and out of her.
He’d seen me and smiled, giving me a grin that was pure sin, and made between my legs feel wet.
I’d scarpered, never saying anything, only thinking about it when I was on my own under my covers, and I remembered her moans even though he looked so rough, the sound of the crack of his palm against the flesh of her bottom. The submissive position of her, the dominance he exerted – it had turned me on to imagine myself in her place.
In Ibiza, the parties moved up a level. The island, with its sense of being out of time and having its own reality, removed any English inhibitions. What happened in Ibiza could be ignored or forgiven. If it occurred under the spell of Es Vedra, magic could be blamed and everyone could get back to their real lives.
“The blue dress is perfect. But I can have something flown in, if you want a new outfit.”
There was no hidden meaning behind her words, it was genuine; her way of looking after me.
“There’s a peacock masque that arrived yesterday that’ll work amazingly with it.” I’d already made sure Lara hadn’t seen it, else we’d have fought over it like we were teenagers again. “And some feathers that I figured I could style into my hair.”
“That’ll be beautiful.” She smiled, that million-watt smile that had appeared in too many magazines to count, and charmed too many people to care for. “Mika and his team are coming to do hair and make-up. He’ll make sure you’re well disguised.”
This was the whole idea. A masquerade where we could pretend to be someone we weren’t disguised as already, and an excuse to do the things we wished for.
“Even better.” I stood up from the white wicker chair that had appeared the day before, along with a container full of furniture for the party.
The party here wouldn’t stop. People would sleep when they needed or when they fell, turning up throughout the following day for breakfast brunch and drinks. Mimosas, Bloody Marys, champagne – the champagne would flow like water.
Saturday would see us move to the yacht, the lights and the music never stopping through to sunrise and beyond. Sunday was back to the beach; a barbecue, deejay, sand and bikinis. We’d laugh and gossip about those who couldn’t hold their drink and missed a day, or those who forgot their class when they’d had too many white lines.
Someone I didn’t recognise started to hover, holding a reel of festoon lighting and looking curiously at where she was going to hang them.
“I’d best go supervise.” Livi stood up, putting down a half drank cup of green tea. “There’s a cocktail menu on the table. Why don’t you have a look.”
“You got a mixologist?”
“I did. For all three nights. He’s not doing the whole time, just a couple of hours at each venue. Should be fun.”
I headed over to the table that she meant, finding a handwritten list of names, with ingredients underneath each one. Long Island Iced Tea, Cosmopolitan, Pornstar martini, negroni, lots of the classics, and some originals I recognised.
At the bottom of the list was the name of a cocktail written in a different coloured pen, as if it had been added as an afterthought.
