Page 42 of Wanting Mr Black

Art straightens his black bow tie in the rearview mirror. “It’s just a house.”

My eyes land on the rows of cars parked beside us. Jaguars, Ferraris, BMWs. I’m surrounded by money, and I can’t help but feel a little out of place. I want him to be proud of me and I want to make a good impression.

“So, who will be at this party? People involved in your mum’s charity?”

He unfastens his seat belt. “Yeah, mostly.” He rests his hand on top of mine, as if sensing my nerves. “I’m not planning on staying long. Just for an hour or two.” His eyes glint in the darkness. “Besides, all I can think of is taking you home and peeling that dress off you.”

“Behave,” I tease.

“Come on,” he urges. “Before I turn the car round.”

A fresh wave of nerves fizz in my stomach as I climb out of the car. I take his arm and walk across the drive and up the steps. The din of loud chatter and music can be heard from inside. Whoever the guests are, they’re clearly enjoying themselves. Art pushes the brass doorbell, and seconds later, Barbara opens the door, and the noise spills out into the night.

She breaks into a broad smile as she sets eyes on us. Dressed in a soft mint-green jumpsuit, accessorized with diamond earrings and sparkly sandals, she looks classy and elegant.

“Lovely to see you both,” she gushes, stepping aside to let us through. “Come in, come in.”

Art leads the way. There’s an air of grandeur about the hexagonal hall with its dark oak-panelled walls and stone fireplace. Doors lead off in all directions, and through a wooden archway, I can see a panelled staircase winding upwards. A magnificent crystal chandelier hangs from the centre of the ceiling like a work of art.

“It’s wonderful to see you again, Sophie, and what an absolutely beautiful dress.”

I tear my eyes away from admiring my surroundings and find Barbara giving me a serene smile.

“Oh, thank you,” I reply. “Your outfit’s lovely too.”

“Oh, this old thing.” She gives a wave of her hand and turns her attention to Art. “Good to see you, darling.”

He gives her a peck on the cheek. “You too, Mum.”

“Food and drink are in the drawing room, and we’ve just opened another bottle of champagne.” Barbara’s eyes sparkle. “I know that won’t interest you, Art dear, but Sophie can have a drink.”

Sophie needs it, I think to myself.

“Another? How many have you gone through already?” he exclaims with a playful glint in his eye. “Slow down, Mum.”

“Oh, shush, dear.” She laughs, smoothing down the back of her bob. She stops suddenly and takes my hand in hers, patting it. “It’s so nice of you to come tonight. I’msohappy.”

There’s a misty look in her eyes as she stares at me for a few moments, lost in thought and beaming with happiness. I can only deduce her slightly over-the-top reaction to me being here is because Art hasn’t brought many women home. If any at all.

Barbara regains her composure and sniffs. “Come on through to the drawing room.”

She heads through a set of double doors to the left, gesturing for us to follow her. Art’s hand remains firmly around mine as he leads me into the massive room. Large cream sofas dominate the room, and eclectic pieces of antique-style furniture are positioned in the corners, displaying expensive-looking vases and ornaments. A magnificent gilt-framed mirror hangs above a spectacularly carved stone fireplace, which houses two large, porcelain Chinese dogs on either side. The hum of chatter and laughter drown out the soft music floating around the room, which is filled with guests. All the men are dressed in their finery, wearing black dinner jackets or tuxedos, and the women are dressed equally splendidly in long, flowing dresses. I’m glad I didn’t opt for the shorter dress.

Anxiety cramps in my stomach at the display of wealth in the room, and I can’t deny the twinge of relief I feel when I notice a waiter passing with a silver tray filled with champagne glasses. I swipe one, thankful for something to take the edge off.

“Prepare to be bored,” Art murmurs in my ear as Barbara leads us into the throng of guests.

The next thirty minutes fly by as we’re introduced to key people in the fostering charity of which Barbara is a patron. The director – a short, balding, middle-aged man who smells of mints; the treasurer – a bookish-looking, older lady with a grey perm who has a love of Siamese cats; and the marketingmanager – a tall, slim man with a mop of brown hair and round Harry Potter–style glasses.

Art manoeuvres me around the room on his arm, swapping pleasantries and talking business with a host of different guests while I smile politely and sip my drink. As Barbara becomes distracted by one of her guests, Art spies an opportunity and tugs me outside into the hallway.

“Come on before Mum finds somebody else for us to talk to.” He grins, leading me upstairs and onto the large, green-carpeted landing. “I want to show you something.”

Twenty-One

Art pulls me through a door off to the right and flicks on a light switch. A double bed with a navy checked bedspread stands against the back wall, facing a large bay window, which overlooks a slabbed patio area and long rear lawn. The carpet is dark blue, and there’s a run of integrated wardrobes on the other side of the room along with a door that I can see leads to the en suite. A selection of trophies and plaques of assorted shapes and sizes are on display on top of a dark wooden chest of drawers. The colour scheme and trophies scream teenage boy’s bedroom.

“This was my room,” he says, confirming my thoughts.

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