Tina Court was hovering at her side. Tina, who’d been hired as the new fashion-director-in-chief! Roxanne had seen her at enough events to recognise her, even in dim light. She was a tiny woman, bird-like with pointy features and brows plucked to the point of near-invisibility. Her long, straight black hair hung in a glossy sheet, and her wincingly tight outfit comprised a shimmery cobalt blue dress with a silver belt and towering nude heels. Marsha was still wearing the same cream shirt and dark skirt she had had on all day. Now the two women were laughing together as if enjoying a particularly hilarious joke.
Roxanne glanced around wildly for Sean, seized by an urge to demand to know why they were here. Okay, so Britt had probably pulled together the guest list, but Sean must have been involved at some point. He’d have been happy to delegate responsibility for the bar staff, the DJ and drinks – but not who was coming. Maybe Britt had insisted Sean invited Marsha, with her being an editor of a glossy magazine now? Roxanne supposed that made sense. But why Tina – the one Roxanne was apparently being so brave and stoical about? Her blood seemed to pulse at her temples as she watched them accept drinks from a waiter and gaze around as if they were utterly entitled to be there.
‘Okay, Rox?’ That was Serena, gently touching her arm.
Roxanne flinched. ‘Yes, I’m fine …’ She tried to carry on dancing, realising how terribly drunk she was now, and aware of several glances in her direction. She needed water or more of that puffed rice. It was too hot in here, that was the trouble; lately, her internal thermostat seemed to have gone haywire. She tottered away and stepped outside, onto the red metal fire escape where she inhaled the evening air. From here, she took in the view of London; it was unusually warm, even for late May, verging on stuffy. Perhaps a storm was brewing.
Further down on the steps, a couple of models were smoking. Usually, Roxanne didn’t mind the smell of cigarettes. She had been a smoker herself until she had finally managed to quit last year, after visiting Della and feeling like an idiot, puffing away on the pavement outside her bookshop with virtually every passer-by stopping to say hi. But now, as the girls’ cigarette smoke plumed upwards, she felt queasy. She looked out again over the city she had loved with a passion since she had arrived here at eighteen years old, and felt nausea rise in her.
Back in the studio, she scanned the vicinity for Marsha and Tina, keen to avoid bumping into them. They were nowhere to be seen. A waiter glided towards her with a tray laden with more glasses of champagne. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, knowing it was the last thing she needed, but since when was champagne about need?
As she took a sip, a familiar voice floated above the hubbub: ‘Yep, Roxanne’s definitely here. I spotted her dancing like a nutter a few minutes ago.’ That was Marsha – and what did she mean by that? Roxanne whipped around to see her, still with Tina at her side, turned partly away and facing the seafood bar. A fresh wave of nausea rose in her stomach, and for a moment she feared she might be sick.
‘I thought she might not turn up tonight after your big announcement,’ Tina replied.
‘Of course she has,’ Marsha retorted. ‘You do know she’s seeing Sean, don’t you?’
‘You’re kidding!’ Tina gasped, still clearly not registering her presence.
‘No – honestly, they’re a couple. Everyone thought it’d just be a fling, ’cause you know what he’s like …’
‘Oh God, yeah,’ Tina murmured.
‘But apparently those days are over,’ Marsha crowed. ‘They’ve been together a while now …’
Roxanne’s throat felt dry and sour. Fuzzy with booze, she felt incapable of confronting them or even wobbling over to talk to them and making any sort of sense. What was Sean like exactly? What the hell was she implying? Sure, he’d dated plenty of women during the lengthy periods between his serious relationships – but there was nothing wrong with that, and she’d never heard that he’d treated anyone badly. She frowned, trying to fathom out what Marsha and Tina had meant. Of course, the fashion business was rife with gossip, most of it widely overblown or patently untrue.
Roxanne sipped from her glass, feeling quite desolate now after having her dancing and her boyfriend criticised, virtually in a single breath. Kate was waving from the dance floor, trying to coax her to join them. However, Roxanne wasn’t really registering her.
‘I thought everyone knew about them,’ Marsha added.
‘Everyone apart from me, obviously,’ Tina exclaimed with a high-pitched laugh. ‘Always last with the gossip. God, though – Sean and Roxanne Cartwright? That’s hysterical …’
Roxanne stood for a moment, clutching her glass which she might once have termed half-full but was now most definitely half-empty. She turned away and placed it on a windowsill. However, being made from uneven bricks, the windowsill was too wonky a surface for the glass to rest on without toppling. Topple it did, landing with a smash on the concrete floor, causing a momentary hush as Roxanne turned and ran out of the room.
Normally, Roxanne wouldn’t have dreamed of making a ‘French’ exit, as a hasty departure from a social event was known in her circles. She would do the rounds, saying all her goodbyes; although it could easily add an extra half-hour to the night, to duck out of an event would seem rude. Tonight, though, she had just run out and was now clattering rather unsteadily down the concrete stairs and across the cobbled courtyard, pulling her phone from her bag only when she was safely out in the street.
She scrolled for Sean’s number, reassuring herself that he’d be fine, all his friends were there, and he’d understand why she had left abruptly. Anyone would. Even aside from overhearing Marsha and Tina, how could she be expected to endure one more second of a party at which pretty much everyone felt sorry for her?
At the sound of his voicemail, she cleared her throat. ‘Hi, darling, s’me. Look, I’m sorry but I’m going home early. You’ve probably realised. It was a lovely party but I’m just not in the right frame of mind and I don’t want to be a wet, um … a wet blanket or a wet leek or whatever it is, so I think it’s best …’
She glanced left and right, hoping to spy the yellow light of a taxi, but there was nothing.
‘The other thing is, did you invite Marsha and Tina Court tonight? Oh, I know it’s none of my business and it sounds horribly petty and maybe you didn’t ask them and they just thought they’d come along anyway. But if you did, couldn’t you have warned me, honey? I heard the two of them … blabbing on about us, about our thing, our relationship – can you believe their bloody cheek?’
Roxanne broke off and rubbed at an eye, past caring that she might be smudging her make-up. ‘Anyway,’ she charged on, ‘you know I’ve been feeling a bit wobbly about work and, well, I just couldn’t face them tonight – is that ridiculous of me? A bit silly? It probably is and maybe I just need a break. I really want to see Della, hang out in the bookshop … d’you fancy that – coming to Yorkshire with me? Oh, I know I’ve gone on about that! Anyway, enjoy the rest of your party, darling. The seafood was amazing – actually I didn’t have any but it looked amazing, all those gnarly little creatures all piled up. I had that puffed rice, that was good! And the little cones it was served in. So cute. Anyway, I’m going now. Happy birthday darling, I love y—’ With that, his voicemail cut off.
Roxanne
