Page 47 of The Invitation

“There you are,” Clark says, dancing over. “We’re going to Evelyn’s. You have to come.”

“Evelyn’s?”

“It’s the nightclub on the grounds. Everyone’s heading there for drinks.”

I don’t want to appreciate the nod to his mother. “Do you have a pass?” I ask, thinking Rachel will not love my brother rocking up late totally bombed. He’s a terrible drunk. Slurry, wobbly, clingy, and he feels the need to be virtually licking people’s earlobes when he’s talking to them.

“I’ve cleared it with the boss. Come on, sis, live on the edge.” He claps his hands and does some obscene dance as he backs away. He’s such a goofball. Like an excitable child on Christmas Eve.

“What about your car?” I call.

“Rach said she’d bring me over tomorrow after work to get it.”

“I’m going to pass.” I wave a hand flippantly. I’m looking forward to a wine and cheese coma with Abbie. And off-loading my woes. “I’ll get the bus back.”

“Oh, we’ve put the transport back a few hours,” Shelley says, dancing past, joining the crowd heading through the glass tunnel to Evelyn’s. “Majority vote, I’m afraid. Soz.”

My shoulders drop. “I’ll get a train.”

“Oh, come on, Amelia,” she yells back. “Live on the edge.”

Easy for everyone else to say. I sense it’s going to be really fucking painful if I fall off that edge.

“A club?” I motion down my body. “Dressed like this?”

“Look around you,” Shelley sings, laughing. “You’re surrounded by suits and pencil skirts.”

“I’m wearing a dress,” I grumble. “It’s Victoria Beckham,” I add, like that sets me apart from the others. Nowtheyare stiff. I huff to myself. Jesus Christ, I haven’t been to a club since I went to Ibiza after we graduated. That was a great trip. None of us wanted to come home and resume adulting.

Glancing around me, I watch every guest from the conference heading eagerly in the direction of freedom from their day jobs. Relief. Hair-down time. There will undoubtedly be a pile of sore heads and regrets in the morning. Someone will end up in the restrooms withsomeone they shouldn’t. It’s never been for me, and it shouldn’t be now. Especially since it’s Jude Harrison’s club.

I check the time, then open my Uber app to see how far away the nearest car is to get me to the train station. “No available cars?” I blurt, baulking at my screen. I look up and around, following my feet to the reception area and finding Anouska passing through to the Library Bar. “Hey, is there a taxi firm I can call to take me to the station? Uber has nothing available in the area.” I laugh like,How crazy is that?

She grimaces. “Yes, we’re in the sticks here, you have to order Ubers well in advance, and the nearest taxi firm is in Oxford. Do you want me to call?”

“Would you mind?”

“Sure.” A few clicks on the screen of her mobile and she starts talking, telling them where we are and where I’m going. She frowns. Thinks. Covers the receiver. “Two hours.”

“Two?”

She nods, eyes a little wide.

“How on earth do guests come and go if they don’t drive?”

“Chauffeur. Either theirs or ours. And we have the helicopter pad too.”

“Of course.” I exhale, exasperated, and think. “Clark,” I breathe. I’ll use his car. “Thanks for trying,” I call, dialling my brother as I wander away. Of course, he doesn’t answer, and I growl my frustration as I come to a stop at the entrance to the Library Bar, seeing people dotted around, drinking, chatting quietly. Soft, relaxing jazz plays in the background. I breathe in and let my eyes drift to the end of the bar, remembering every detail of the moment I first set eyes on Jude Harrison. Except then, he was your not-so-average businessman. How wrong I’d been. How fucked I didn’t know I was.

I head for Evelyn’s, passing through the glass tunnel and breaking out into the chilly nighttime air, following the illuminated gravel path through the pergolas draped in white clematis until I reach the glass building on the other side of the paddocks. The lights from inside shine out, and when I enter, I justhaveto take a moment to appreciatethe space. This isn’t a nightclub—not like I know nightclubs. This is a cocktail bar on steroids, with a DJ and velvet club chairs that no man or woman has ever thrown up on. The bar is oval-shaped, set dead centre, stools lining the entire circumference, and tubes suspended from the high ceiling cast a hazy light on the white stone surface of the bar.

I search the clusters of people, scan the bar, the seating areas. No Clark. “Where are you?” I say to myself as “Silence” by Delerium starts playing, and a swarm of mid-forties people flock to the dance floor. I smile, seeing them transform one by one into their lost clubbing selves.

Stepping out on the terrace, I spy my brother smoking. “You haven’t smoked for two years,” I say, approaching with a scornful look.

“Shhh,” he slurs, holding the B&H upright to his lips. “Don’t tell Rachel.”

My God, he’s already slurring. “Can I take your car?”

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