At a loss for anything else to say, Amy asked: ‘Whose idea was it?’
‘Ophelia’s– our new intern. Such a brilliant thought.’
Amy silently seethed at the oblivious, miles-away Ophelia.
‘Amy? Are you there?’ Carolyn yelled down the phone. Below her voice but above the general din of the city, Amy could hear a street vendor bellowing something about ice creams.
‘I’m here,’ Amy said heavily. ‘Are you sure about this, Carolyn? It seems a bit of a stretch at this stage– there’ll be a lot to sort out if it’s going to work. Not least the fact that I can’t dance.At all. We might be advised to … reconsider?’
Please, for the love of God, reconsider.
‘Nonsense,’ Carolyn insisted. ‘I’ve already spoken to Sam. He said the same as you– that he’s a terrible dancer. But you’ll have help! I’ve organised a private lesson for the two of you, and made it clear we need the steps you learn to be simple. He was quite game about the whole thing, such a dear. So buck up, Amy– you know how I feel about negativity.’
Utterly wretched, Amy leaned forward and rested her forehead against the back of the seat in front of her.Of courseSam had sold her down the river by being polite and obliging.Obviouslyit was going to be left to her– the person whose livelihood depended on Carolyn– to make a tremendous, possibly career-ending fuss if she didn’t want to dance with him.
At the same time, Amy found herself wondering: how long could a country dance really last, anyway? She cast her mind back to the Jane Austen film adaptations she’d seen. The pivotal, intense scenes where hero and heroine came together at whatever ball they attended were usually no more than about three minutes long. Was avoiding three minutes of awkward swaying– orwhateverthey were going to have to do– worth pissing off the person who (metaphorically at least) signed her pay cheques?
Resisting the urge to bang her head against the nearest available hard surface, Amy concluded it wasn’t.
‘OK, Carolyn,’ she sighed. ‘If Sam says he’ll do the dance, I will too.’
‘Marvellous,’ Carolyn said. ‘Excellent. I’ll be in touch next week about getting you prepared. You’ve no need to worry, I’m assured you’ll be in excellent hands– and this is just the sort of creative, unique touch that will get RomFest, and Philippa’s book, talked about in all the right places. Online and off.’
Grudgingly, Amy had to agree– but she was feeling far too cross to say so out loud.
‘I’m just on the way back from a lovely lunch with Philippa, actually,’ she said instead. ‘Something tells me she’s going to love this idea when we share it with her.’
‘Indeed.’ Amy could hear Carolyn beaming down the phone; little made her happier than browbeating someone reluctant into doing what she believed– usually correctly–neededto be done. ‘Yikes! I must dash,’ she said then, presumably having checked her watch. ‘I have a meeting in a few minutes.’
‘Of course,’ Amy said. ‘Have a good evening. I’ll speak to you next week.’
‘Lovely,’ Carolyn said. ‘Oh! And Amy– one last thing.’
‘Yes?’ Amy asked, sure for once that there was nothing further Carolyn could say or do to make her situation worse.
‘I forgot to mention the costumes. Of course, if you’re doing a Regency-style performance, you’ll need to be dressed appropriately: empire-line gown, satin dancing slippers, probably some sort of headdress.’
At the word ‘costume’, Amy felt her breath catch in her throat. ‘Empire-line gown’ had her heart racing, and by the time Carolyn reached ‘headdress’, Amy genuinely wondered whether she was having a stroke.
For some reason, however, all that came out of her mouth was, ‘Right. OK then … Bye.’
Chapter 23
‘Okay, explain this to me again,’ Nisha said to Amy as they sat in the beer garden at the Old Oak on Sunday afternoon. ‘You’ve got to dress up like someone from the olden days and do a dance in public? With her brother?’ She waved a hand to indicate Meg, who was sat next to her at the table with a pint of cider in her hand. For some reason, even after months of knowing her, it still surprised Amy that the daughter of a Viscount drank pints.
She took a sip of her own white wine spritzer and nodded. ‘That’s pretty much it, yeah,’ she said, trying to sound as though the prospect were merely a minor inconvenience and not a thing she couldn’t stop thinking about: the reason why the shadows beneath her eyes had deepened and her skin kept turning hot, then cool and clammy. ‘Embarrassing, right?’
‘It sounds wonderful to me,’ Nisha said dreamily. Amy scowled.
‘And think about it,’ Nisha went on, her natural practicality surfacing in spite of her doe-eyed expression. ‘It could be a lot worse– your co-host could be an ageing minger with bad breath, BO and nostril hair. At least you’re getting to dance with someone hot. If it were me getting ready to be swept up in the arms of a handsome man dressed up like Mr Darcy, I think I’d be coming over all unnecessary.’ She flapped her hands at her neck and laughed.
Meg made a face and mock-shuddered at the idea of anyone being in sexual thrall to Sam. Amy groaned in faux disapproval and willed herself not to turn pink– or indeed, ‘come over all unnecessary’, at least not where anyone she knew might witness it.
‘Come on, Meg, I know you share genes with him but you can stillsee,’ Nisha said, her eyes dancing with mischief. ‘He’s objectively gorgeous. It’s no surprise to me that the equally beautiful Ms Wexmore-Yates is sniffing around him again.’
Misery churned in Amy’s gut. She pulled her phone out of her bag and pretended to read a text message, resolutely refusing to look interested.
‘I don’t think it’s like that,’ Meg said, taking a sip of her drink. ‘She’s been up and down from London a couple of times lately, but they’ve mostly been wandering around the grounds at the house. Don’t quote me on this, obviously, but it seems like it’s all business between them nowadays. No idea what the visits are in aid of, though.’
