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‘Sally, darling! You haven’t seen Harry, have you? I have no idea where he’s gone. You’ve done an incredible job, by the way.’

‘Oh, you’re very sweet. I’m like a duck, paddling frantically beneath the surface at the moment, but as long as no one suspects anything that’s half the battle, isn’t it? No, I haven’t seen Harry, I’m afraid – it’s impossible trying to find anyone in this crowd. I love your outfit, by the way. Very Bianca Jagger!’

‘Thanks, I thought it would shake things up a bit. Honestly, I go to so many black-tie events with work that I couldn’t face another sequinned dress and—’

There was a loud crash as a waiter dropped a tray of empty champagne glasses that were on their way to the kitchen to be washed. Glass smashed all over the floor and the crowd let out an inappropriate cheer.

‘Oh hell!’ Sally swore, immediately swinging into action.

‘What can I do to help?’ Katie asked.

Sally thought quickly. ‘There’s a storage cupboard just off the main hall, beside the Winter Rose painting – do you know the one? It’s disguised as panelling, but if you push on the right-hand side, it opens. There’ll be a broom and a dustpan and brush in there. Can you grab that for me whilst I go and find someone to clean it up? And if you see a first aider send them my way. I think that waiter’s hand’s bleeding.’

Katie headed out of the main ballroom along the corridor, towards the cupboard Sally had indicated. It was quieter and cooler out here, with only a few stragglers roaming around, and away from the pounding of the DJ set she could finally hear herself think.

Katie found the Winter Rose painting and pressed on the panelling, as Sally had advised. Nothing happened at first, but the second time she tried it the door sprang open, the light inside turning on automatically.

It took Katie a moment to realise what she was seeing, and then she gasped. A man, with his suit trousers round his ankles, pale, hairy legs on display, with a woman whose silver dress was pushed up around her waist as she balanced precariously on a shelf amongst the cleaning products.

The woman gasped and the man turned, but Katie didn’t need to see his face to recognise him. She already knew who it was. Harry, caught in flagrante with Tara.

‘Close the door!’ Tara shouted, as she jumped down and tried to straighten her dress, holding one hand in front of her face to try and hide her identity. ‘Close the damned door!’

Harry had turned ashen as he scrambled to pull up his trousers, fingers fumbling as he tried to fasten them. ‘Katie!’ he blurted out. ‘I can explain.’

Katie laughed hollowly, shaking her head. ‘No, Harry,’ she said, with a calmness she didn’t feel. She had long suspected that Harry had been sleeping around for years, but this humiliation with one of her closest friends was the final straw. ‘You really can’t. Our marriage is over!’

Chapter 37

As Fliss left her bedroom, she was confident that she looked good. After more than twenty years in the industry, she had learned all the tips and tricks for hair and make-up, not to mention knowing which clothes were most flattering to her tall figure. But she was feeling unexpectedly anxious this evening, after all the stories and speculation that had appeared in the press, not to mention the snide remarks she had received from Tara and Bill. Fliss had spent far too long getting ready for the ball and knew she was only delaying the inevitable.

As she glided down the stairs, resplendent in a designer gown that made her look ethereal, with gossamer-thin layers of dusky rose silk tulle, people craned their necks to stare. Was it Fliss’s imagination, or did a hush fall over the crowd below, followed by whispers and mutters, no one wanting to meet her eye?

The interview she had done with Christina Mackenzie had appeared online that morning, and the response seemed to be positive overall. Many commentators were saying that everyone had made mistakes in their youth and shouldn’t be punished for it. Others were less understanding. But the truth was out there and Fliss felt lighter for it. Whatever happened, happened. If NYBS fired her regardless, and her future went in a different direction, she had made her peace with that.

Fliss accepted a glass of champagne and said hello to Rosamund Pike, who she had interviewed just a few months earlier on Friday Night with Fliss; it already felt like a lifetime ago. Clarendon Hall felt completely different on occasions like this, when it wasn’t only inhabited by the family but was brought to life by its guests. It was a grand house, doing what it was designed to do, hosting dozens of people for a show-stopping event.

As Fliss entered the ballroom, the first person she saw was Kit. Her tummy gave a flip and she observed him for a moment without him knowing that she was watching. He looked breathtakingly handsome in his tuxedo, a black silk scarf slung around his neck that made him look incredibly stylish. Not every man could have carried off a look like that, but Kit looked like an old-fashioned movie star. He was talking to a stunning Gillian Anderson, who seemed utterly charmed by him. As he threw back his head with throaty laughter, Fliss caught her breath at how gorgeous he looked.

Then, as though he felt her gaze on him, Kit looked up, and it was as if they were the only two people in the whole room. Fliss tried to look away, but couldn’t tear her eyes from Kit’s as he made his excuses to Gillian and walked through the crowd towards her.

‘You look incredible,’ Kit told her.

‘So do you,’ Fliss murmured.

‘God, I wish …’ He trailed off, as Fliss shook her head.

‘Don’t, Kit. Not here.’ She was terrified that her feelings were written all over her face, that the chemistry between them was palpable. She had just issued a very public denial that the two of them were having an affair, trying to get public sympathy back on her side; one wrong move could ignite the rumours all over again.

They both turned as they became aware of a commotion outside in the corridor, shouts and raised voices.

‘What’s going on?’ Kit asked a guest, as he and Fliss headed towards the incident.

‘Who knows?’ the man chuckled. ‘There’s never a dull moment at an Oliver party.’

Fliss and Kit exchanged glances.

‘It looks as if it’s Lord Oliver’s daughter,’ the man’s female companion said over his shoulder. ‘With that film director – what’s his name? Harry something.’