Page 38 of The Unraveling

Something is being communicated between them that I am not meant to understand.

“I think it would be a good match,” says Mary. “They aren’t sponsoring any dancer at the moment. As you know.” Mary turns her attention back to me. “After losing Victoria Haley to Hollywood, Clementine has been extremely selective about whom to next sponsor.” She narrows her eyes. “I’m going to recommend that she have a meeting with you. I was with her in Vienna, I know she’s familiar with your work.”

“That would be—” I try not to sputter desperately. “That would be incredible.”

“To be completely honest with you, they’re the only donors in the city I can see being willing to take on a new dancer. There are very few spots at the best of times, but lately, even fewer.

“Are you free this weekend?”

“Yes, of course I am, I’ll make the time.”

“Good answer.” Her phone lights up and she glances at it. “My car is here. Keep your phone handy, I’ll message you the second I get word on her availability. Arabella, please behave.”

They double-air-kiss and hug, Arabella groaning, “But behaving is no fun, Mary.”

Mary smiles indulgently. “Thank you for introducing me to this star.” She moves on to me: “Jocelyn, I’ll be in touch.”

She does the air kiss and hug with me.

“I’m so glad to have met you. This was so fun,” I say.

And then, off she goes.

Once she’s through the door, Arabella and I turn to each other.

“I think she likes me, right?” I ask, insecure.

Arabella pauses a beat too long while eyeing me. I get a bit of a chill from it, but then she quickly gushes, “Oh my god, of course she does, what is there not to like?”

“I have very shallow nail beds,” I joke.

She shoves me playfully. “Cheers, doll, you’re in the good graces of one of the most powerful women in the arts.”

I clink glasses with her. “Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me,” she agrees. “God, the Cavendishes? You don’t have any idea who they are, I take it?”

“Not the foggiest.”

“Well, they’re basically new old-money. Alistair’s family made their fortune in America’s prohibition era. They shipped gin in through Boston or something like that. His family was in Ireland, but he’s properly English, raised here and everything. He’s fucking gorgeous, an absolute silver fox. Or getting there, anyway; he’s in his late forties. He spends money like Jay Gatsby. Like it might go away at any moment. If he takes you out for drinks, you’ll wind up underground at some secret place—like a real speakeasy, not the Instagram-era kind where everyone on the Internet knows about it. I mean, he knows where the real fun is.”

“Well, you definitely seem to know a lot about him!” I laugh. “Has he taken you out for drinks or something?”

“You silly girl, of course not! But I have friends who have gone.” She winks.

I laugh again, becoming a bit giddy. “Okay, okay. What about his wife?”

“She’s one of those distant relatives of the royal family in some way. She’s related to Princess Diana in some cousin-once-removed kind of way. But her maiden name was Spencer.”

“Jesus, really?”

“Really. But her family didn’t have much money, just a lot of land. I mean, she did grow up in what is basically a castle out in the countryside. She’s a true blue blood. There was an article in Vanity Fair about her when she was in her twenties—she was a socialite. Isn’t that glam?”

“Very glam.”

I scrape the bottom of the popcorn bowl for any stray pieces.

“You better be careful,” says Arabella. “You’re not on a hiatus anymore.”

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