Page 20 of Butterfly

IT TOOK ME a good hour to scrub the smell of horse from my skin, then another hour to do my hair and make-up. A testament to how little practice I have on both things. I should be faster. It’s not like I did anything complicated with my hair. It’s falling in curls over my shoulders since I gave up twisting it into that French braid that looked so easily done in that YouTube video. Instead, I nearly had to chop off a tendril that got twisted so hard, my scalp burned. Even the make-up is simple. A bit of blusher, blue eyeshadow, and pink lip gloss. Again, the smoky eyes were great on that make-up artist on Instagram, but geez, my hand trembled too much to apply the eyeliner without making the black line look like the waves of an electrocardiogram. When I’m operating, my hands are steady. But the moment I swap a scalpel with a mascara wand, the tremor sets in.

On top of that, I don’t know anyone in this big house, aside from Martin, the owner. A film producer, whatever that means exactly. And I wouldn’t call him a friend. Not really. I examined his horse, a magnificent chestnut with colic pain. The horse is up and about now, recovering well, but Martin’s gratitude is overwhelming, and the man can’t take ‘no’ as an answer. Hence my awkward presence here. He insisted. I declined as many times as was polite. And yes, I was a bit curious about Martin’s big mansion in the middle of London. From the outside, only trees and hedges appear through the fence. I had no idea central London had enough space for such a house. Marble everywhere. Thick oriental carpets and sleek furniture that must be worth my entire flat, and of course, a freaking stable.

With my glass of…I can’t remember what. I just grabbed the first glass I found not to appear like a psycho gawking at the other guests. I take a sniff. It seems like champagne. I smile at a passing lady wearing a long silk dress and enough diamonds to light London’s nights in winter. Lord, her earrings must weigh a tonne each. I’d never be able to walk on those stilettos without looking like I dislodged my hip. The noise of the traffic doesn’t penetrate the thick walls, although the windows open to the garden. The house could be anywhere in England, so quiet it is. Quiet aside from the chatter and the sad piano music coming from somewhere. Not a fan of that music, but I guess it makes everything posh.

I lean against a table, but jolt away from it as I take a look at it. Its polished wood shines to star brightness, and its curves scream expensive designer. Lest I ruin it, I inch away from it. There might still be some mud in my hair, and Martin’s gratitude might not stretch far enough to forgive me if I break something. Speaking of stars, Emily Lawrence is laughing at something a man in a tuxedo is telling her. That guy over there with the beard and the glasses might be that director who won a British Academy Film award a while ago. I don’t know. Directors are all similar.

“Sienna.” Martin beams at me, a hand on my shoulder.

I nearly spill my champagne right over a Prada carpet for the surprise. No idea Prada made carpets, but the name ‘Prada’ is printed all over the thing.

“Thank you for coming,” he says.

“Thank you for inviting me.” And not leaving me the chance to say no. “How’s Blazer?”

His smile turns into a sober expression. “He’s well, thanks to you. I checked on him a moment ago. He’s full of energy. No pain. Seeing him in pain broke my heart. I was so damn worried. Can’t thank you enough.”

I shrug. “No problem.”

“I doubt my vet would’ve done such an excellent job. That horse means the world to me. He’s the smartest stallion I’ve ever had. He’s a friend.” He pulls me closer, and I stiffen when his arm brushes my well-covered back. “Let me introduce you to my guests.”

“It’s not necess—” I twirl the glass as he drags me away. “Er, okay.”

He leads me on. “You might find a job here. Many of these people have horses and pets, and a lot of money.”

“I already have a job.”

He runs a hand through his thick raven hair. “Yes, but wouldn’t you like to earn a lot of money for doing a simple, quick job? Animals are hired all the time in the film industry, and a vet is always requested on set. At least I always request a vet on set when animals are involved. Usually, nothing happens. You can enjoy staying in beautiful locations while watching celebrities sweating under the lights and being abused by the director.”

Honestly, I don’t see the appeal. Tyler’s clinic is busy, and I love my job there with the cute pets and the chaos of a small clinic. It’s interesting dealing with horses though. A welcome break in the cat-and-dog routine. But doing nothing while watching celebrities on set? I’m not sure it’s for me.

“There.” He stops in front of Emily and…now I recognise the guy. It’s Dylan Matthews, the ballet dancer who did a bunch of dancing scenes in a few films. Not to mention he’s the actor Alex told me about.

Alex. My heart gives a solid kick as his face flashes through my mind. Could he be around? After the incident in the forest, I didn’t see him. Weeks have passed. I have no idea what he did after I left. Yes, I have no idea because I didn’t contact him. A little frisson of guilt works its way through me. I didn’t call him. How could I after I ran away from him, screaming? He must think I’m an idiot. At first, I wanted to call him, I swear it. Once I returned home, I promised to pick up the phone and call him as soon as my nerves settled, and I found a plausible excuse for my crazy behaviour. Then a day turned into a week. A week into two weeks, and suddenly picking up the phone and calling him became too difficult and gave me anxiety. There’s something about Alex that challenges my fragile mental equilibrium. He’s too intense for me. Maybe I might text him for Christmas and—

“Emily, Dylan, this is Sienna. My new veterinary doctor.” Pride fills Martin’s voice as he introduces me to two of the most highly paid celebrities in the United Kingdom, pulling me out of my thoughts. “She helped Blazer.”

Emily’s glossy lips stretch in a frozen smile. Now that she’s close, I recognise her as the woman sitting next to Alex at Tua’s airport. Yep. Her gaze roams over me and pauses on my fingernails. What? I did scrub them. There can’t be more dirt underneath them.

“Interesting,” she says. Perhaps she remembers having seen me at Tua’s airport, but I’m not going to tell her that.

I stretch out a hand, but no one shakes it. Great.

“Nice to meet you.” Dylan is looking at the other side of the room.

“Nice to meet you,” I say to his shoulder.

Finally, he turns to me. “A vet. Amazing.”

“Do you have pets?” Probably the most asked question in my life. When I don’t know what to say, I ask about pets. Safe subject, and people love to talk about their pets.

A subtle stiffness tautens Dylan’s lips. “No, I don’t have time for pets.”

A bark comes from the other side of the hall, and I whip my head around. A dog, yes! I can spend the whole evening with a dog without getting bored. It’s a golden retriever, bouncing around and playing with Martin’s German shepherd. The knot of anxiety in my stomach eases. There’s something soothing in watching two happy dogs play together, and in this case, the two clumsy dogs chasing each other are a stark contrast compared to the expensive dresses and tuxedos in the room. A good contrast. It brings a healthy dose of reality to the evening.

The two dogs rush close to Dylan who steps back from them.

“Not particularly fond of dogs, to be honest. Dirty and slobbering,” he says.

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