‘Hey.’
I whirl around. It is Lana. In the soft light she looks very beautiful. Why has she followed me? She is the bride, the sparkling star of the party. The princess of the day.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Of course. Why do you ask?’
‘You just looked a bit lost for a moment.’
That—and you know I don’t like to swear—but that fucking gets my back up. I am not feeling lost. I laugh. The sound is unnatural. I curse it. ‘No, I’m fine.’
‘I think Vann likes you.’
Fuck you! I don’t want Vann, I want Jack. I am so irritated and annoyed at that moment, I don’t care that it is her day. She was the bride and all of us were meant to be the moons that orbit around her great body.
‘Oh wonderful. Thank you so much. You kept the billionaire for yourself and saved the servant for me.’
Her conspiratorial smile turns into an O of shock. There is a hurt look in her eyes. Like a child that has been slapped when it came for a kiss. Shame punches through me. I am furious with myself. At that moment I hate myself. I am the worst bitch in the world. I fucking hate myself. I honestly did not mean to say that. I mouthed those ugly thoughts before I was conscious of them myself. I was just in my own world, my own wounded world. How I wish she hadn’t followed me. How I wish I could take the words back.
We stare at each other.
There is a sound at the doorway. We both turn. Blake looks at us, his eyes going from one to the other, and then they rest briefly on me. I see the cold fury in them. He knows I have upset his doll, and he is intimidating as hell. Great, now I have pissed off the billionaire. No flat in Little Venice for me. Fuck them both. I raise my chin. I’m not about to apologize. But Lana does the good thing, the right thing. She comes to me and puts her hand on my arm. Her wedding ring is cool against my warm skin.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interfered?’
For a moment I just look at her and feel truly outclassed and outgunned. She is the bigger person. She is trying to make it all OK again. Why? I don’t know and I don’t care. I lean forward and hug her. She is the thinnest person I have hugged. Come to think of it, I have never hugged anyone else but my mother, and that was many years ago, and even then my hands had not gone around all of her. We move away from each other. I fancy that she must be relieved to be drawing away.
‘Let’s have lunch when I get back,’ she says.
I am too choked to speak. I simply nod.
‘I actually came to give you this.’ She hands me her bouquet.
I take it from her with both hands. The frog in my throat croaks out a thanks.
‘Got to go. I’ll call you when I get back.’
I know she is flying off to a surprise, secret location first, and Billie will be staying at Lana’s apartment with Sorab, but after a week Billie and Sorab will fly out to Thailand to meet the couple for a week-long holiday.
‘Yes, please do.’
She grins. ‘Good, I’ll bore you then with all my photographs.’
I smile weakly, and she turns away from me and goes to Blake. They link hands. I watch him. His entire attention is on Lana. Without another glance at me, he takes her hand and guides her away from me, the super bitch. At the door Lana turns around.
‘He’s not who you think he is,’ she says, and then they go down the lantern-lit path. I watch them walk under the fairy lights and the oversized pom-poms until they are swallowed by the topiary garden. But even from here I can already see the guests have lighted their sparklers. Hundreds are waving around. There is clapping and cheering and wedding bubbles start rising up. A beautiful end to a superb day. I wish I had not come here alone. I should have stayed with everyone else.
Suddenly music, music that I recognize booms out of the loudspeakers, and John Newman’s strong, raw voice: ‘Know I’ve done wrong, left your heart torn.’ I smile. It is one of my favorite songs. He is screaming in that totally cool way: ‘IIIIIIIII need to know now, know now, will you love me again?’ I look down at the bouquet in my hand. Bring it to my nose and inhale the faint scent deeply.
‘Congratulations, Lana,’ I whisper sadly.
No joy shall be equal…
Sixteen
The Yellow Emperor asked: ‘How can I know if a woman is close to having an orgasm?’
The simple Girl answered: ‘A woman presents five signs and five desires. These are the five signs: First she blushes, now the man can come close to her.’
—Notes from the Bedchamber
I push the button beside the nameplate that reads twenty-five.
‘Yes,’ a man’s voice crackles through.
‘It’s Julie Sugar. We have an…er…appointment.’
For a few moments there is silence. I interpret it as surprise. We did say Monday? Have I got the date wrong? Is it Monday next? Has he forgotten?
‘Take the lift to the top floor.’
The buzzer sounds and I push the heavy door open, into a reception with tall mirrors and flowers. I take the lift to the fifth floor and walk along a blue carpet. I knock on his door and he opens it almost immediately. He is wearing a faded, paint-splattered T-shirt and an extremely old, torn pair of black jeans that hugs his lean hips and strong thighs in a way that makes my eyes want to linger. He is not wearing shoes and his hair is messy in the way David Garrett’s gets messy while he is in concert. Silky strands have escaped their tie and hang about his throat.
Sexy.
This man is actually very hot! I feel my throat drying up. Now: if Fat Mary is right about his sexual prowess… My traveling eyes return to his face. In the dim of that heavily curtained room I had not noticed, but, God, what eyes! Fringed with thick lashes and a truly astonishing color. I had thought they were blue. They’re not. They are uniquely greenish blue. Like the ocean on a hot day in places like Barbados. They are also totally expressionless. Reserved. Almost cold. Strange. Whatever happened to that man with the laughing eyes?
‘I was working. I thought you weren’t coming,’ he says.
‘Why did you think I wouldn’t come?’
He shrugs. ‘People say things, make…er…appointments…’ He lets his voice trail off.
I look around the open plan, large, spacious apartment. It is decorated in a modern, non-individualistic but typically masculine way. A sleek sandstone fireplace, black leather sofas, glass coffee table, expensive built-in sound system and oversized plasma screen. Not a plant in sight. There is nothing personal in the flat either. No photographs or scatter cushions that don’t match, no collection of anything in glass showcases. But it is situated in the city’s prime real estate and must cost a bomb.
‘This is a nice place you have.’
‘It’s not mine. It belongs to Blake. I’m just using it temporarily. The only things that belong to me are my clothes, my CDs, my paints and canvasses, and Smith.’
‘Well, it’s nice anyway.’ I walk to the plate glass wall that stretches from ceiling to floor and look down on London. The view is pleasant. ‘Who is Smith?’
‘Smith,’ he calls and a huge cat, one of those haughty, long-haired, terribly expensive Chinchillas, saunters into the room and goes to rub itself against his legs. He bends down and strokes him. I watch his golden brown hand moving sensuously against the soft fur and I am reminded of Fat Mary’s words. He has a slow hand. I walk up to the cat.