style="font-size:15px;"> ‘So, who do you know? Who are the big names here?’ asked Sand’s art director, Pete Miller, who looked awkward in a rented dinner suit and dirty trainers as he guzzled a buck’s fizz. Cate was grateful that, despite the huge cost of a table, Nick had insisted the whole team should come. She craned her neck to look at the sea of black tie and cocktail dresses. ‘A few people. And there are a few people I’d rather avoid, so if I give you a nudge, hide me.’
She wasn’t sure what was making her feel more nauseous: butterflies at the prospect of winning an award, or anxiety at the thought of bumping into William Walton. Although she had long recovered from her dismissal from Class magazine, which seemed another lifetime away, the recent fight with Serena had dredged up all her feelings of rejection, shame and inadequacy. She had spent the last three weeks throwing herself into work and long hours, trying to distract herself from the absolute pain of betrayal that Serena had inflicted. She had surprised herself by feeling nothing for David’s fecklessness. In fact he had been simple enough to jettison from her life, despite all the deliveries of expensive flowers. But Serena: that was a different matter. Cate still felt so fragile and bruised, she would rather have skipped the entire award ceremony in favour of another solitary night alone with a bottle of wine, where no one could touch her or hurt her.
Cate excused herself from Pete, who had begun a ham-fisted attempt to chat up Ruth the picture editor, and went to freshen up in the ladies’ room. She reapplied her lip-gloss and took a moment to check her reflection in the mirror. An emerald-green Matthew Williamson silk evening dress floated over her curves, her long hair was brushed over her shoulders, sweeps of blush made her cheekbones look high and round: at least she looked good. She went into a cubicle, locked the door and took a few deep breaths. Gradually she was aware of voices in the adjoining stall. ‘Apparently she is a shoo-in for the Launch Editor award,’ said the first voice, followed by the gentle snorting sound of white powder disappearing up a nostril.
Another voice responded tartly. ‘I mean, we would all win awards and prizes if Daddy bankrolled us with a magazine to play with, just because we’d been fired.’
Cate tipped down the toilet-seat lid and perched on the edge of the cold plastic, not daring to breathe and wishing that she could tap together the heels of her Jimmy Choo sandals and be whisked off home. The dinner had yet to start. Maybe she could slip out unnoticed and be home for eight. It wasn’t as if she was going to win anything anyway.
‘Someone looks miserable, considering she’s about to collect an award,’ smiled Nick Douglas, catching her coming out of the ladies’ room.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked, pasting on a smile. ‘You’re supposed to be here supporting me on the eve of victory.’
‘I’ve been checking out the table plan with Vicky and Marie.’
Cate felt a ridiculous stab of jealousy. Nick was perfectly entitled to socialize with members of the staff – even the prettiest members, she thought. She remembered the way all the Sand
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