Page 96 of The Invitation

I laugh, starting to walk with him to the elevator. Given I’ve had a hangover these past few days, I feel like this is an even bigger achievement. “What does this mean, Gary?” I ask. No one gets invited to partner drinks. Ever.

“It means what you think it means, Amelia.” He hits the call button for me. “We meet at eight.” The doors open, and I step inside. Gary looks down at his watch. “I’ll be heading straight from here once I’ve sent a few emails and freshened up. You’d better get moving if you want to change into something more casual.” He looks down at my pencil dress. “And comfortable.”

The doors start to close. “Where am I heading?”

“Evelyn’s.” The doors meet in the middle, and I stare at the metal, frozen.

“What?” I must have misheard him. Or at the very least there’s another bar, club, restaurant by that name.Please be another venue by that name.I pull out my mobile, my pulse quickening, and dial Gary. No network. “Shit.” The lift stops at every floor on the way down, the spacebecoming more and more crowded, until it finally arrives at the lobby and everyone spills out. I dial him again. “You said Evelyn’s, right?”

“Yes, do you remember it?”

“Arlington Hall,” I say quietly. “That Evelyn’s?”

“That’s right.”

“In Oxfordshire?”

“I did say you’d better get moving if you’re going to make the eight o’clock meet.”

He did, but why on earth would they travel to another county for their monthly meet when we have hundreds of bars and clubs on our doorstep here in London?

“We’ve got a golf day tomorrow,” he goes on. “I recommended it after the conference, and Bob just so happens to know a member who got us on the course with guest passes for the day tomorrow.”

“Convenient,” I murmur, staring ahead at the busy lobby, my stomach dropping into my heels.

“I’d tell you to get a room, but the company’s budget doesn’t stretch to a grand a night for accommodation.” He laughs, and so do I. The irony.

“See you there.” I hang up and send a million mental prayers to God. I also ask him ... why? Why would he do this to me?

Chapter 25

“You’re not seriously going?” Abbie says as she follows me from the bathroom to my makeshift bedroom.

“Of course I’m going. No one gets invited to the partners’ monthly meetup.” I rub myself dry and shake out my hair from the towel. “Besides, I remember him saying very clearly that he hardly ever goes to Evelyn’s.” He prefers the Library Bar.

“He went there the night you were there for the conference. Don’t you remember? He had Clark up against the bar by his throat.”

I give her a tired look. “He won’t know I’m there.” There’s an entrance to the club around the side of Arlington Hall. I’ll use that one. I’ll crawl combat-style if I have to.

“You’re mad.”

I sit down on the floor in front of the mirror. Maybe. But I don’t have much choice. “It’ll be fine,” I assure her, and she shakes her head, picking up a basket of washing and dropping it on the end of my bed. “Thanks.” I smile mildly.

“Wearing this?” She plucks something off the top of the pile. The bra Jude bought me.

“Throw it away.” I pick up my blow-dryer and drown out her sigh.

After clearing the gateman, my Uber drives painfully slowly toward the splendid old building, the driver releasing constant sounds of awe. I fidget in my seat, faffing with my hair. When he rolls around the fountain, I see the army of staff waiting to greet me, help me, escort me.

“Just keep going to the end,” I say, leaning forward, wanting to minimise interaction with anyone. “To the car park around the side.” Would they recognise me? “I can walk through the grounds, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

“I’m being signalled to stop,” he says, slowing down.

“Damn,” I murmur. My door is open before I can put a bag over my head, and I smile my thanks to Stan as I reluctantly step out. “I’m meeting colleagues at Evelyn’s,” I say. “I’ll just make my own way round.”

“Oh, I would highly advise against it.”

“Why?” I flinch when something hits my head, just as Stan produces a golf umbrella and the heavens open. “Oh my God,” I gasp, as heavy, fat drops of rain start pounding down. “Jesus.” I lift my clutch bag and hold it over my head as Stan fights to get the umbrella open.

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