“She’s a teenage girl going through puberty; don’t say a word,” Elizabeth warned when he’d mentioned his concerns to her. But really, what would it look like for a respectedhigh-profiledoctor of nutrition and dietetics to have an overweight daughter? Hypocrisy, that’s what. When Elizabeth was out of the room, he’d occasionally mention the impact of fatty foods on the body, causing cellulite and acne. He was proud that he could talk in a language teenagers would understand. He’d learned that through his television work. And goodness, he loves every second of it. When that camera is on him, he feels like a superhero, like a world leader, like royalty. Finally, his chance to educate the common man! Unfortunately, he’s only asked to appear every few weeks, so when the invitation for tonight’s dinner party had appeared on his desk, he hoped to meet some media types to whom he could slip his new business card. The peacock on his place setting made him wonder about a speakers’ gathering. But the more he hears from his fellow dinner guests, the less likely this seems.
Then he looks down at his plate and realizes with horror thatit has been scraped clean. Did he really eat that huge portion himself? It didn’t seem possible, yet everyone else was either chatting or finishing off their own starters, so it had to be him. Suddenly, the heat from the open fire is unbearable, his suit jacket nipping under his arms.
“Excuse me, I won’t be a moment,” he mumbles, turning to Stella on his right and then Vivienne on his left, but neither responds, nor even show they’ve heard.
Gordon skirts the table and pushes open the heavy door they walked through just an hour before. Opposite him are the stairs heading up and, to his right, another wooden door markedWC.He pushes it open and finds a rather elegant restroom inside, complete with chaise longue, an enormous mirror with an ornate silver frame, huge porcelain sinks, and a neat pile of individual towels. He walks straight to the single cubicle and locks himself inside. Spinning around to face the toilet, he leans against the door and allows his body to slide down onto his haunches. The toilet bowl is perfectly clean, not a mark or spot of dust to be seen. Just how he likes it. He takes a deep breath and leans forward on his knees, the trousers of his slim-fitting suit pulling a little on his thighs.
Then he hears something—a creak of a door, a footstep. Someone is coming. They can’t hear this, they can’t smell it, they just can’t. If it got out, his burgeoning television career would be over. Quickly, he gets to his feet and flushes the toilet. Stepping back into the restroom, he glances at himself in the mirror. Sweat glimmers off his forehead, his cheeks are faintly pink. He grabs a towel and mops his brow, then throws it in the bin and pushesthrough the door. Glancing left and right, he sees the corridor is empty. He lets out a long sigh and walks back into the dining room.
Janet
Gazing at the gorgeous young banker to her right, Janet feels alive for the first time in months. When her PA had handed her a pile of post last week, she was drawn to the thick black envelope right away. As the managing director of Sophia’s Whisper lingerie company, she receives all manner of invitations every day, but when she opened the envelope, read over the words, she found herself pulled in by the air of mystery, as well as the promise of a proper sit-down dinner rather than those fiddly canapés. God knows, she needs some intrigue in her life right now. This morning, she’d spent yet another breakfast in silence. Her husband, Bill, flicked through theFinancial Timeswith his left hand while shoveling bacon, fried eggs, and buttered toast into his mouth with his right. Cheerful yellow egg yolk dripped down his chin, but he didn’t notice, just carried on flicking and chewing, flicking and chewing.
“There’s a bit of egg on your tie, dear,” Janet said, but even that didn’t make him look up or acknowledge his wife’s low-cut dress, which she’d picked up especially for the dinner party.
“Oh, crumbs, it’s my best one,” he muttered, grabbing a napkin. Watching Bill’s vain attempts to wipe the yolk away, Janet tried to remember a time when they’d talked late into the night, a time when they’d danced with their hips pushed together in acrowded club. But those memories escaped her, like darting fish. Had they ever been like that?
“I’ll be home late tonight,” she told him. “Work party. Don’t wait up.”
“OK, dear,” he mumbled, his focus now returned to his paper and half-eaten—but never forgotten—English breakfast.
As she’d walked away from the table, Janet briefly wondered if Bill had his own plans, a secret passion he kept hidden from her—gambling, drugs, women? Glancing back to see him merrily munching away, with yolk still smeared all over his chin, not unlike a weaning baby, she found the latter option hard to believe.
“Did you get a chance to ring Caroline yet?” Bill suddenly asked, finally looking at her. “She wants to speak to you about the christening.”
“Erm…not yet. I’ll see if I have time this afternoon,” she responded, caught off guard.
“You can’t ignore that baby forever,” Bill said. “She’s absolutely gorgeous, and our only niece.”
“I’m not ignoring her, Bill,” Janet snapped back. “I’ve just been busy.”
After grabbing her favorite Chanel tote, Janet glared at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Trust Bill to bring the baby up just when she’d been in such a good mood. Janet supposed it was bad form not to meet your sister’s baby—and she’d be, what, eight weeks old now? Bill had never understood. It didn’t matter how many years passed, the aching sadness still reared its head at the sight of a baby, especially a newborn.
“New dress?” Bill commented, stepping toward her, his chin cleaned of egg yolk.
“Yes, what do you think?”
“A little on the tight side.” He frowned, appraising her. “Perhaps it’s time to size up. Or think about utilizing that extortionate gym membership.”
Janet fumed silently as she watched himwaddleoff. How dare he comment about her size? She closed her eyes and brought up the image that had comforted her lately: Bill, cold and dead in bed next to her. She’d be sad for a while, of course, but she’d gotten over worse. Yes, she could picture herself as a sexy young widow. She took a deep breath, slicked on some of her favorite chili-red lipstick, and crossed her fingers for an adventure tonight.
With hungry eyes on Matthew, she wonders now if her adventure will come in the form of a younger man. She is sure there’s lots she could teach him about the world, about women. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d sought passion elsewhere. Or the second, or third…
“My God, that foie gras was amazing,” Matthew sighs. “Even better than at the Magnolia Room.”
Janet beams. Matthew recognizes her as a woman of class who knows her haute cuisine.
“Agreed.” She nods, trying to ignore the single drip of sweat snaking down between her shoulder blades.
“Still no sign of our host,” Vivienne pipes up. “At first, I thought this was an elaborate PR promotion, but surely they’d have got to the point by now.”
“Not sure why an old copper like me would be invited to a fancy PR event,” Melvin responds. “Maybe we’re taking part in a new reality TV show. Mary used to watch that one,Married at First Sight. Not my sort of thing, but you do get sucked in.”
“Oh God, do you think they’re filming right now?” Vivienne asks, glancing around the dark corners of the room. Janet notes that her eyes stop and linger on Matthew a little too long. She’s old enough to be his mother—or even grandmother—for goodness’ sake.
“Well, I doubt tonight’s events would make for compulsive viewing,” Janet guffaws while inwardly congratulating herself on wearing her new red dress. If they are being filmed, she’s sure it would look great on camera. “Could be some form of performance art?”
As Janet speaks, she leans over and holds her glass out toward Matthew.
