Julia entered, recognising her from a Dickens adaptation she’d been in at Christmas. Emily had been in it, too. It was a matter of seconds before they made the connection.
‘What can you tell us about Emily Windermere and Christopher Fenwick? Are the rumours true? Will we see them tonight?’
Isaac took her hand and steered her through. Julia swallowed a lump of embarrassment: yet again, the moment she attracted one ounce of interest, there Emily was, waiting in the wings to stride on and ruin it all.
‘Come on,’ he said, lifting two drinks from a passing tray. ‘Let’s count how many egos it’s possible to fit in one room.’
Inside, the bar was lofty with sloped, beamed ceilings and a high mezzanine. The place was packed with familiar faces, pop starlets and presenters, comedians and reality TV sensations. Journalists were working the space, bulbs flashing at a procession of VIPS being positioned on a lip-shaped couch. Two topless male models with chests of golden steel posed with models and socialites.
‘D’you think it’ll be like this tomorrow?’ Julia asked as they settled on a couple of stools. A girl in a fifties prom dress came up with a tray of retro sweets. Julia sifted out a candy necklace and wound it round her wrist.
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘The charity ball. It starts at six.’
Isaac rolled his eyes. ‘Do we even have to be there? It’s not like we’ve got to do anything. I thought it was all about Emily and Christopher.’ He held his hands up. ‘And that is the last time her name gets mentioned tonight.’
Julia bit off one of the sweets. ‘I might go anyway,’ she said. ‘Check it out.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Why not?’
Isaac squinted at her. ‘You’re not planning anything stupid, are you?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what worries me.’
Julia stirred her drink. ‘Emily’s going to be in front of the nation, doing what she does best and doing it to perfection. What could possibly go wrong?’
‘Well, if you’re going, I’m going.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ He nicked his chin with a thumb. ‘You know, Julia…’
‘Hmm?’
‘I want to be there. For you. If you’re going to find it hard.’
‘You don’t need to be—’
‘Like I said, I want to.’ He was looking at her funnily, as if he expected her to get something obvious. ‘I always want to be with you,’ he continued carefully, ‘because when I’m with you I feel better than I do with anyone else. Do you get what I’m saying?’
She thought she did. Only, it couldn’t be true. Isaac was good-looking and funny and popular—no one had ever said anything like that to her before.
Julia watched him, waiting for the punchline, searching for the joke, but his gaze was steady. A tentative smile began to spread across her face, but before she had time to articulate her response Isaac’s mouth was on hers and he was kissing her.
Chapter Seven
Emily would never tire of the buzz of a live TV appearance. She’d done it countless times and never got nervous, but the anticipation of knowing you were about to be broadcast into countless living rooms across the country invoked a peculiar, addictive sort of adrenalin. Power, Christopher had diagnosed not twenty-four hours earlier when they had wrapped their scenes for the day. In those moments, darling, you can say or do anything and they can’t do a thing to stop it. You could plant an idea, you could sow a revolution; you could change the world!
Emily wasn’t interested in changing the world. The world changed for her.
One thing of which she was starting to tire, however, was Christopher. She found she got easily weary of men once the initial chase was done, once they had told her how stunning and perfect she was over and over again and they’d experimented with every conceivable sexual position so there was no more mystery to uncover. That was the point at which she became aware of Christopher’s breath in her face and the fact he had hairs growing out of his nose, if you looked closely.
Her stylist had brought a selection of outfits and laid them out now for Emily to choose from. It was refreshing to be able to model her own clothes—recently it had felt as if the Heriscombe House production were taking over her life—and perused the options.
Burberry pearl dress: ‘Too frumpy.’ Ghost knee-length tunic: ‘Too officey.’ Lacy Elie Saab number not a million miles from what her character might wear: ‘Too Lucinda Liddell!’
She raised a beautiful beaded Julien Macdonald.
‘I suppose this will have to do.’ She sighed. It was slightly shorter than she’d wanted—tonight Emily was determined to give the right impression, of a girl who would never contemplate getting involved with a married man, let alone one who was having his end away with everything in a skirt (more to the point, out of a skirt)—but she had to admit the heatwave was unrelenting, and to dress like a nun would only make her sweat and her concealer run.
Part of the heath had been closed off for the ball and people were arriving in droves, milling in conversation as smiling waitresses circulated with trays of fizzing champagne and extravagant canapés. A hundred or more lavishly decorated tables—white linens running to the ground and gold-leaf centrepieces—were arranged in view of the stage, which was decked out in swathes of hanging silk and a glinting podium where she and Christopher would shortly appear to present the award. A raft of cameras was positioned beneath it, lenses pointed like rifles.
Quite what the award was for, she wasn’t entirely sure…something to do with fundraising pioneers? It didn’t matter—what mattered was that she would waft out looking angelic, flash her megawatt smile and appear as graceful and alluring as she always did. A few pretty pictures in tomorrow’s papers would soon quash any murmurs of dissent. It was amazing what the right gown could do.
Emily stepped out into the balmy evening. The sun was cooling, falling behind the trees and bathing the grounds in burnished light.
She was about to go find Christopher so they could practise their banter when something in the trees caught her eye.
Maud Screwe.
Rather, Julia Chambers: but there had always been a Maud inside Julia just waiting to get out. One of life’s born losers; she’d known it the instant they’d met.
Only, for once, Julia wasn’t alone.
The footman was with her; the one who had dared speak to her the night Nina Tarot arrived. And they were holding hands! Were they? Yes, it wasn’t her eyes deceiving her, and now he was stroking Julia’s face—her pasty, plump face! And, yes, it was really happening: he was leaning in to kiss her…! That couldn’t be right. Emily was the pretty one, the one all the boys fancied and all the girls wanted to be—it had been
