‘Yep. Now this is your first Late Summer Ball. What would you like to drink?’
‘Since it’s a special occasion, how about a glass of your finest champagne?’
‘We do have Canada’s finest champagne. However, if you want to really celebrate in style, we could share a magnum of Alaskan beer.’
‘Whatever you suggest.’
Clarence grabbed an enormous champagne-shaped bottle of beer and two tall champagne flutes from one of the drinks stations. He popped the stopper and poured us each a full glass with a frothy head that spilled over the top of the glass and all over our hands.
‘Here’s to the future,’ he said, knocking his glass against mine.
I sipped, but got only a mouthful of froth. That was fine; I had to remember – whatever Clarence said about having helped Ryan – I was here for a reason, and I needed a clear head.
‘Let me give you the low-down on some of these people,’ said Clarence. He topped up his glass. ‘That’s Claudette Legrand, the president’s daughter.’ He pointed to a beautiful young woman in a silver ballgown. ‘Terrible drug habit. Started on opium at fifteen. Lucky for her she’s exceedingly rich.’ He pointed at another young woman. ‘Juliette Bernard. Highest paid actress in Hollywood. And that’s Simon Pratt standing next to her. He’s dating her. He used to be her chauffeur.’
The orchestra began playing and men and women in ballgowns and suits of every shade of the spectrum moved towards the wooden dance floor that had been constructed in front of the lake. Clarence took my hand and led me to it. I remembered that he was a good dancer from the night I danced with him at the Watering Hole.
‘I don’t know any of the dances,’ I reminded him.
‘It’s a simple four-step,’ he said.
I watched his feet. It was a straightforward back and forth, left and right shuffle. I looked at the floor and copied his moves.
‘You’re doing great,’ he whispered after a while. ‘Now look at me and let your feet follow their instincts.’
I met his eyes, held on to him and tried to ignore the moves my feet were making. To my surprise, the combination of music, the atmosphere and Clarence’s lead all conspired to make the whole experience a thoughtless, effortless event.
We were being watched and photographed, not only by the official photographers, but by many of the other partygoers as well. I closed my eyes to block them out and held on tight to Clarence, letting him guide me through the moves.
‘You OK?’ Clarence asked me.
‘Just trying to pretend that people aren’t watching us.’
‘People are bound to be interested,’ Clarence said. ‘I’m the eldest son of one of the richest men on the planet. You’re the first person to travel through time before time travel was invented.’
‘When you put it like that,’ I said, ‘I almost understand their interest in us.’
The song ended and Clarence led me to a drinks table.
‘Another beer?’ he asked.
‘Great.’
He unplugged another bottle and filled two glasses.
‘Cheers,’ I said.
Clarence leant across the table and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His hand lingered on the side of my face. Cameras clicked and lights flashed.
I shut my eyes and tried to hide my revulsion. ‘Clarence,’ I said.
‘You’re not just any old time traveller from pre-time travel,’ he said, taking his hand back. ‘You happen to be stunningly beautiful. Your face is selling millions of extra copies of magazines and newspapers. Do you have any idea how many women are getting their hair dyed red since you arrived?’
I shrugged, embarrassed.
‘Not that I read the fashion pages,’ said Clarence, ‘but I flicked through my mother’s port-com yesterday. And apparently early twenty-first century fashion is going to be the next big thing. All because of you.’
I laughed. ‘I was probably the least fashion-conscious person I knew back in the twenty-first century. I practically lived in T-shirts and jeans.’
‘That’s what they were talking about,’ said Clarence. ‘Jeans.’
‘I hope they do come back in fashion. I’m not wild about twenty-second century styles.’
‘You’d look good in anything.’ He was looking at me in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.
The band started playing a jaunty tune.
‘Another dance?’ I asked.
‘You can’t get enough of my smooth moves, huh?’
‘This sounds like very danceable music. I’m determined to learn at least one dance.’
For the next two hours we danced. When we stopped for a rest – or for Clarence to top up his drink once again – he pointed out the rich, famous and infamous. He introduced me to his friends and only danced with other girls after ensuring I had a dance partner myself.
As Earth gently dipped away from the sun, the lights and candles grew brighter, the orchestra played louder, the guests laughed harder. Clarence had dispensed with his beer glass some time ago and was now swigging directly from the bottle, one arm around my shoulder, the other swinging the bottle by his side, his breath warm and beery as we danced.
‘You having a good time?’ he asked.
‘I’m having a great time,’ I said. ‘But my feet are starting to hurt from all the dancing. How about you give me a tour of the Institute?’
He crinkled his forehead. ‘Seriously?’
‘You have a residence here, don’t you? How about giving me the grand tour?’
His eyes twinkled. ‘You want to see my apartment? Absolutely.’
I slipped off my heels and walked barefoot across the cool lawn, glad to feel the soft, yielding earth beneath my sore feet. Clarence grabbed another large magnum of beer – his sixth or seventh now by my count – and led me around the side of the east wing.
‘If you want to see something really impressive, you should come up to Quebec and see our mansion up there,’ he was saying as we approached the side entrance.
A doorman smiled at Clarence and held the door and just like that we were inside. When I’d visited the Westlands in their apartment, I’d assumed the lack of security measures was because I was with Admiral Westland. But even with Clarence, there was no security protocol, no X-rays or body scanners or handbag search. Clarence pressed a button for the lift and we travelled up to the top floor.
‘They just let you in?’ I asked. ‘Why isn’t there any security?’
‘Don’t worry – you’re safe,’ he said, his voice slurring a little. ‘The doorman knows me. And you can’t access the administration block from here so no one really cares.’
‘Does this entrance only go to the apartments then?’
‘Yep. It’s completely self-contained.’
It suddenly dawned on me that I was going to be alone in an apartment with a very drunk boy I hardly knew. The lift door opened and we walked into a wide hallway.
‘Welcome to the penthouse,’ said Clarence. ‘One of them, anyway.’
He gave me the tour. There was a formal sitting room and a dining room with shiny walnut floors and a chandelier the size of a small car. His father’s office, which was adjacent to a large library, opened on to a roof terrace with views over the lawn and lake below. Clarence pushed open the glass doors and we wandered on to the terrace. The orchestra was still playing and the dancers were still dancing, and from this height – away from the spilled beer, the smell of flesh sweating in the warm evening air – the lawn looked like it was inhabited by hundreds of little flowers swaying and tumbling across the lawn.
Clarence lit a cigarette and leant out over the edge of the balcony. ‘All the world’s beautiful people gathered in one place,’ he said. ‘You can be a part of this set, Eden. You’re unique. Everyone wants to know you.’ He sucked hard on his cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air. ‘You could come to Quebec with me for Christmas. It’s the best place for parties. And then skiing in Alaska in February. Cruising the Arctic ocean in June – midnight sun and all that. It’s not a bad life.’