by Lottie Lucas
“Okay.” I square my shoulders, winding an errant curl around my finger to coax it back into position. “We can’t hide in the ladies’ forever. We’d better get out there.”
Ruby gives me a look as if to say, Who’s hiding?
Taking a fortifying breath, I push open the bathroom door, only to be hit by a wall of sound. Classical music tinkles tastefully in the background, beneath the buzz of educated chatter and polite laughter. Waiters weave between the crowd with trays of champagne. Actual champagne in this case, I happen to know. And since when did our dusty little museum’s budget ever stretch to waiters? I mean, granted, the Holman Hunt is a big coup, probably one of the biggest in the museum’s history, but still. Jeremy must have had to pull hard on the purse strings for this one.
“Here …” Ruby snags a couple of glasses from a passing tray with her customary shameless ease. The waiter, who was obviously taking them somewhere, looks annoyed until she flashes him a disarming smile. He smiles shyly back, looking slightly awed; I can practically see him falling under her spell. How does she do that? Perhaps it’s the lamé catsuit. “This will help take the edge off.”
“Thanks.” I take it gratefully, knocking it back rather faster than I perhaps ought to.
“Steady!” She puts a hand on my wrist. “You don’t want to be half-cut for your speech, do you?”
Actually, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea right now. I look around at my intimidating audience, and my stomach tightens with nerves.
And then, across the room, I see a familiar face. And my stomach tightens even more, but this time it’s in a good way. A fluttery way.
Josh crosses the room in long strides. “Hey,” he says as he draws closer. “I’m not late, am I?”
He’s really here. It took quite a bit of persuading; he kept coming up with excuses, and all I managed to wrest from him in the end was a vague promise that he’d do his best to make it. My heart soars as I take him in; he looks incredible, in a dark suit, the white shirt setting off his golden skin. Like a Greek god.
“No,” I manage dazedly. “You’re perfect.”
And all mine.
He pulls me close and kisses me. It’s an amazing kiss, totally romantic, if not a little theatrical.
And if not a little inappropriate, considering the setting.
“Josh!” I push him gently away, my face already heating. “I’m at work.”
He retrieves a flute of champagne from a nearby waiter. “Not really. Isn’t this just an excuse for a party?”
I feel myself frowning. “This is a big moment for the museum. It means exposure and maybe even more funding. It’s important that we impress tonight.”
I’m aware that I sound like a stick-in-the-mud, but his casual dismissal of this evening has pricked me. I need him to know how important this is. I thought he did know how important this is. I told him all about it, and he said …
Well, actually, come to think of it, he didn’t say much at all. We were in bed at the time, and he started doing the most amazing things to …
Okay. I really have to stop over-sharing, don’t I?
“No Heather tonight?” he asks lightly, and I jump guiltily.
“Er … no. She had a last-minute emergency with Oscar.”
I haven’t told Josh about the argument with Heather. I don’t want him to think that we’ve fallen out because of him; he’d feel terrible, and that wouldn’t be fair. The issues which came up the other day were old and deep-set. Josh was just the catalyst.
“Oh?” He’s looking at me in alarm. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No, just a small case of …” I search the air for inspiration. This is the problem with lying; once you start, you just get yourself into all sorts of trouble.
“Marek’s disease, I think she said.”
I have no idea what that is; I seem to remember seeing it on a leaflet somewhere recently. Hopefully, it’s something so obscure that he won’t even question it.
If anything, he looks even more alarmed, not less.
“Doesn’t that affect poultry?”
Oh, crap. Of course, he’s a vet. He knows about stuff like this.
Actually, come to think of it, wasn’t it in the vet’s that I was reading that leaflet? (And before you even ask why I was reading a leaflet on avian diseases, they don’t change the magazines nearly often enough for such a frequent visitor as myself. I’ve read them all at least twice.)
“Well, you know, he goes to the farm park sometimes,” I say vaguely. “Anyway, Heather said it wasn’t serious. Just a bit of …” What? What would happen? Clucking? Scratching on the floor? “A temperature,” I finish weakly.
There. You can get a temperature with just about anything. Surely he can’t find anything wrong in that.
Mercifully, I never have to find out, because at that moment Jeremy appears, accompanied by an elderly man I faintly recognise.
“Clara, have you met Lord Boland?”
I find myself standing up straighter. Lord Boland is the head of the illustrious Pre-Raphaelite Collecting Society but, to be honest, that’s pretty much just a hobby. He comes from one of the oldest ducal families in Europe, and his vast fortune is always at the disposal of his greatest passion: art. His support, both financial and otherwise, has been the lifeline of many a smaller museum. It’s lifted obscure institutions out of near-closure and put them on the map. Any museum with him behind it finds its power and status in the art world permanently heightened. Suddenly, doors are open where before there were only walls. Acquisitions and loans from places which normally wouldn’t even give you the time of day. Coverage in the national art press. The list goes on.
Needless to say, Jeremy has been after Lord Boland for years. I think he could die happy if we were to secure his patronage.
We could all die happy.
“And are you ready for your speech, my dear?” Lord Boland asks with a benevolent smile.
Why do all old men in the art world think that it’s all right to call any woman under the age of sixty ‘my dear’? Even so, given the circumstances, I’m prepared to let it go. This time. Needs must, and all that.
“Thank you, yes,” I say prettily. “I’ve been writing it all week.”
“Well, we’re expecting great things,” Lord Boland says genially, leaning heavily upon his stick. He’s so slanted, it seems as though he might tip over at any moment. How old is he, anyway? He makes Jeremy look positively sprightly. “Jeremy here has been singing your praises to me.”
I shoot a disbelieving glance at Jeremy from beneath my eyelids, which he stoically ignores.
“Clara is a great asset,” he says simply. He even manages not to sound too begrudging about it. Even though I know it’s all for show, I can’t help but feel a small twinge of pride at his words.
“It’s important to have young blood about the place,” Lord Boland agrees. “New ideas, and all of that. Just because we deal in the past doesn’t mean we can allow ourselves to fall behind the times. Wouldn’t you agree, Jeremy?”
“Indeed,” Jeremy says stonily.
“I’ve had my eye on this place for a while, you know,” Lord Boland confides to me, apparently oblivious to the look on Jeremy’s face. “But I’ve always felt it needed something fresh, something to shake it out of its complacency. I suspect that could be you, my dear.”
“Oh!” A glow of delight unfurls within my chest. “Well, thank you very much. I hope my speech reassures you.”
“Of course it will,” Josh says, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “It’s fantastic.”
I hide a wry smile at his enthusiastic review. He hasn’t even heard it yet. I tried to read it to him in bed one night but, five minutes in, he’d gone very still and quiet and, when I looked, I discovered that he’d fallen asleep.
But still, I appreciate his support. I’m so thrilled that he’s here; I hadn’t realised how tense I’d been, how worried I was that he wouldn’t show. I beam up at him and his green eyes
meet mine, filled with warmth and affection and … something else. Something which makes my pupils dilate and my breath quicken.
I recall our earlier kiss, and my pulse skips with desire. I’m idly wondering if there’s time to drag him off to my office before my speech is due to start. Or, if we can’t make it that far, an innocuous broom cupboard.
“And you are, young man?” Lord Boland booms politely, making me start. “Are you with the museum too?”
I’d forgotten he was even there. Josh has a way of making everything around us disappear when he looks at me like that.
“Oh, no.” I laugh brightly, hoping he attributes the guilty tinge which warms my cheeks to the temperature in here rather than improper thoughts. “This is just my boyfriend, Josh. He’s here for moral support.”
The words trip off my tongue so easily. I almost feel like I’m floating: a combination of nerves, excitement, lust and champagne. I hardly know what I’ve said, but then it hits home and the most wonderful sense of rightness flows through me.
I’ve said it! Finally! I mean, perhaps it’s not quite the moment I’d have chosen, with Lord Boland and Jeremy standing there. Not exactly the spirit of romance, those two. But, even so, right now, I find that I don’t care. It’s said, and I feel so relieved, and so suffused with happiness, and I’m looking at Josh, who is …
Standing there. Just standing there. Lord Boland is holding out his hand, asking ‘How do you do?’, but Josh’s not taking it. He’s staring at me instead, with a look of utmost horror on his face.
“Clara,” he says, very slowly. “What did you just call me?”
Chapter 22
I just look back at him, not blinking. Time seems to have stopped. Lord Boland’s hand is still hovering, outstretched. Jeremy has frozen, his champagne flute halfway to his lips. Josh’s face is immobile, his skin white as chalk beneath his golden tan.
Except time hasn’t stopped at all. For an interminable couple of seconds, nobody moves. Then Josh speaks again, more forcefully this time.
“I’m not your boyfriend, Clara. Surely you know that?”
That seems to break the spell. Lord Boland’s hand drops to his side. Jeremy takes a half step backwards. And I finally manage the faintest, “What?”
“I thought we were on the same page.” He runs a hand through his hair, dishevelling it. Which somehow only makes him look even better. “Christ, Clara, I thought we were just having fun.”
His voice sounds like it’s coming to me down a long tunnel. I know I should be feeling something here. I should be reacting. I know what he’s saying, but it doesn’t make sense. It’s like another language.
“But … I thought it was obvious,” I say helplessly. “I thought we both knew …”
Dimly, I’m aware that we shouldn’t be discussing this here. Not in front of Lord Boland. Jeremy. Everyone else, too; heads are beginning to swivel in our direction, with the natural human instinct for a brewing drama. But the haze is pressing close around me; they all seem so far away.
“When did I ever say that we were in a relationship?” Josh demands, his voice rising. “I laughed when you kissed another guy, for Christ’s sake!”
Lord Boland’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline at that last statement. It would almost be comical in any other situation. But finally, belatedly, things are starting to hit me. I look around at the sea of faces, all staring with unabashed curiosity. I’m a show— this is all just a show to them. I feel cold, shivery with shock and mortification.
“So, all of that,” I say shakily. “It was just …”
“Nothing!” Josh cries desperately. “It was nothing. I liked you, Clara. You were a laugh, but that’s all. We’re only young; no one settles down at our age. No one actually wants a relationship. No one wants to be tied down.” Panic flares in his eyes as he utters those last words. “What did you honestly expect?”
That was a rhetorical question, I think, but I decide to answer it anyway.
“Romance,” I say quietly, with as much dignity as I can muster. I tilt my chin and look him right in the eyes, challenging him to respond.
He laughs bitterly, although there’s not much conviction behind it. “There’s no such thing. Not any more. You’re a great girl, Clara, but you need to get real. There are no unicorns, or magical healing crystals, or romantic heroes. It’s time to stop believing in fairy tales before you really get yourself hurt.”
“That’s quite enough.” Ruby emerges from the crowd like an avenging angel, a resplendent Amazonian vision in green and pink. “I think you should leave now.”
She links her arm through mine and looks challengingly at Jeremy, as though daring him not to support her.
It obviously works because he leaps to attention. “Er … yes,” he says stridently. Then he turns, and his face falls as he realises that his head only comes up to Josh’s shoulder. To his credit, though, he carries on. “As she said, I’m afraid …”
“Don’t worry, I’ll go,” I hear Josh’s deep voice respond. “I’ve no reason to stay.”
My heart thuds against my ribs. I wish I could turn back to look at his face, but Ruby’s already steering me away, pushing through the throng to reach the door.
“What a weasel,” she’s saying furiously. I get the impression she’s deliberately moderating her language. The Ruby I know would find a much more descriptive word than that. “How could he do that to you? And tonight, of all nights, when he knows …” she rants on, but I’ve already tuned out. I still feel cold and numb, like none of this is real. Like I’ll wake up any moment and I’ll be in my bedroom with Casper wheezing away on the pillow next to me.
I wish. Oh, how I wish. But there’s no doubt about it; this is real. What just happened, how I feel … it’s all too real. The ache in my chest is real. The pain and humiliation is real. It drenches me like a waterfall, making me gasp inwardly.
How could I have got it all so wrong? And after everything I said to Heather, all of those awful things … I close my eyes against a rising wave of dizziness, trying to breathe.
“… anyway, let’s get you to the ladies’. We’ll freshen up your make-up, and you’ll feel better,” Ruby’s saying briskly, as though a touch of lipstick will suddenly make all of this go away. “Then you can get out there and smash that speech of yours. That’ll show him.”
Oh, my God. The speech. All of those faces, looking up at me. Panic lances through me, closing in around my throat.
“I can’t …” The words tumble from my mouth in a rush. “I mean, I need some air.”
I have to get away. From everyone, even Ruby, with her bright, well-intentioned mien. Somehow, her attempts to pretend it wasn’t so bad only make me feel worse.
I wrench my arm from her grasp and, before she can stop me, I’m off, half walking, half running down the corridor. Even in this state, I have far too much self-respect to actually be seen fleeing the scene.
I don’t even know where I’m going. All I do know is that the further the sounds of the party recede into the distance, the more the pounding in my head eases.
I’ve reached the end of the corridor. There’s only one way out now— the glass door which leads into the gardens. I grasp the brass handle, praying that our infamously lax security guard has left it open. It turns easily, and I practically stumble out into the night air, sucking in a deep, frosty breath. It clears my head, the haze melting away into the dark.
Unfortunately, that’s not altogether a good thing.
“Oh, God.” I sink down onto the stone steps which lead down from the terrace to the lawn. It’s not exactly a big garden, just a square strip of grass planted with wide borders and fruit trees. It doesn’t look much at this time of year, but in the spring and summer it’s actually very pretty. The whole thing’s encircled by a high sandstone wall; originally, this would only have been one small part of the garden. The orchard, I suppose, looking at those old, gnarled fruit trees. But, over the centuries, the space has gradually been so
ld off until all we’re left with is this. We’re actually quite lucky to have it; most museums don’t have the luxury of a green space to call their own.
Come to think of it, this place has always felt like something of a haven. A quiet spot to escape to on lunch breaks, to listen to the birds, to get away from the unbearably stuffy, overcrowded atmosphere of the museum during the summer months. Well, I need its sanctuary more than ever now.
There’s a soft squeaking sound as the door handle turns again, and I’m aware of a presence behind me. For a heartbeat I wonder if it’s Josh, and my head spins around.
“Oh,” I say flatly. “It’s you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Nice to see you too.”
Immediately, I feel terrible. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be abrupt. It’s just been a trying evening, that’s all.”
He doesn’t reply to that, and it all becomes clear in an instant. Of course he hasn’t just turned up, has he? And he hasn’t just wandered into the garden by coincidence either.
I screw my eyes shut. “How much did you overhear?”
“Some of it.”
He’s being kind, I know.
“You heard it all, didn’t you?”
There’s a pause, and I can almost hear him deliberating with himself.
“Yes.”
I release the breath I’d been holding with a sharp exhale.
“Great. That’s just … great.” I screw a fistful of my skirt in my hand. “I should have sold tickets, shouldn’t I? Invited everyone in my life to come and watch. See what a mess I’m making of it all. My parents would be so proud, if they could see me now, wouldn’t they?”
“Clara …” He places a hand on my shoulder but I shake him off, scrubbing at my eyes with the back of my hand. I’m probably causing havoc with my eye make-up, but who cares now? It’s only me and Adam out here in the dark, and he’s seen me looking much worse. He saw me after I’d fallen in the river, after all. It doesn’t get much worse than that.