when Emily Windermere herself was in the vicinity tipped her globe drunkenly off its axis. She endured a rush of dizzy nausea.
Oblivious to the world around them, the couple linked arms. Emily watched them go, incensed, confused, staring for a long time at the spot where they’d been.
Julia mounted the slope behind the house and surveyed the scene. Evening dresses sparkled in the last of the afternoon sun, the fragrant aroma of summer flowers mixing with the heady scent of perfume as guests settled and the ceremony began. The compere was a weekend talk show host renowned for his close-to-the-bone humour: she wondered if he’d be making a quip at Emily and Christopher’s expense tonight.
She realised she didn’t care any more. Maybe she didn’t have to be like Emily to be happy. Maybe there were more important things than recognition and celebrity and being in a constant state of resplendent, detached beauty. Maybe Christopher Fenwick wasn’t as great as she’d thought, after all.
Since the previous night’s launch Julia had been floating on air. She and Isaac hadn’t been able to tear their eyes from each other during filming, and when they’d wrapped he’d caught her hand on the way out of the dining room and pulled her into the shadows, kissing her as she’d never been kissed before.
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