‘Ah well, the Drummond name still carries a little weight around this city,’ Cynthia answered, smiling.
Hayley checked her watch again. ‘Have you heard from Oliver?’
Cynthia shook her head. ‘He said the same to me as he told me he said to you.’
‘This is so frustrating. I just want to know.’
‘I know.’ Cynthia put an arm around her shoulders. ‘But let’s look at it this way. The worst outcome is nothing changes.’
That was true but she was praying for something else. A miracle at Christmas. Or perhaps she’d had her fair share of those already with Angel and Michel. Earlier, she’d had a phone conversation with Rita she thought she’d never have. She had cried, her mother had cried and both of them had said things to each other they’d left unsaid for far too long. There had been a full on thawing over tissues on both sides of the Atlantic and whether it was just Rita reading her diary or perhaps Neville from the bowls club softening her, Hayley was glad.
‘The shrimp is lovely,’ Angel said, arriving next to them.
‘I can see that. You’ve got half of it over your face. Come here,’ Hayley said, licking her fingers.
‘Oh no, no, no. Not mum spit!’ Angel screamed, skidding away.
‘I’ll get a wipe,’ Hayley said, about to head across the room to where she’d left her bag.
‘Hayley, wait. I can clean Angel up,’ Cynthia said. ‘You need to change into this.’ She took a couple of steps towards a package on the plinth at the side of the stage. Hayley watched as she brought the box over to her.
‘It’s a clown costume, isn’t it?’ Angel folded her arms across her chest. ‘I told you clowns were a bad idea.’
‘It’s from Oliver,’ Cynthia said, passing it over.
Hayley swallowed. She knew what this was before she even removed the paper. ‘It’s an Emo Taragucci, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’ Angel asked, eyes ballooning.
‘I think you ought to take it to the restroom and try it on,’ Cynthia encouraged.
‘I can’t wait to see it!’ Angel exclaimed.
‘Hold up there a second, Miss Shrimp Face; we have wiping to do,’ Cynthia said, taking hold of Angel’s hand.
Hayley smoothed her hand over the light silk as delicate as a feather. The black fabric, bright-pink Japanese blossom falling effortlessly over every inch, was like it had been created just for her. She’d never dreamed she would ever own an Emo Taragucci design. The dress cost thousands of pounds but, what made it all the more special was Oliver knowing which one had been her favourite. He had chosen so perfectly.
She was at the doors to the ballroom waiting for the glitterati of New York to arrive. Through the glass, Hayley could see the snow was still falling, the sky an inky blue, breath from the mouths of the doormen visible in the night air. A woman entered.
‘This is it,’ Cynthia said through gritted teeth. ‘This is Madeline Fisher from the foundation. She’ll be the one inspecting our party favours.’ Cynthia beamed a smile. ‘Madeline! Welcome, welcome! You look wonderful.’
Hayley swallowed, her mouth dry. She checked her watch again. She’d promised not to think about Oliver but it had been on her mind from the minute she woke up. By now, he had to know the outcome of the test results. Would he still come tonight? What if he was home right now, on his own, with the truth no one wanted?
‘Madeline, this is Hayley Walker. She’s the event planner I’vebeen working with to coordinate the fundraiser,’ Cynthia introduced.
Hayley stretched out her hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
‘You’re English,’ Madeline noted, shaking her hand.
‘Yes, but don’t hold it against me.’ Hayley laughed, then shut her mouth up as Madeline failed to react.
‘I heard about poor Aimee. Fancy breaking her foot taking the trash out. I mean, doesn’t she pay someone to take the trash out?’ Madeline asked, her attention back with Cynthia.
‘I’m afraid the gossips are a little off, Madeline. She’s actually got glandular fever. The poor dear can barely whisper,’ Cynthia responded.
Hayley spotted Angel handing out goody bags to guests.
‘Excuse me one moment,’ Hayley said, heading towards her daughter.
