‘Amy’s calling it a night. I’m seeing her to her room.’
His eyes flick from my face to Matthew’s, then back again. ‘I’ll do it,’ he says. He puts the drinks on the table. ‘You stay here, Matthew.’
‘No.’ I don’t want Dante anywhere near me.
‘Yeah, but –’
‘I’ll be back in five,’ Matthew says. ‘Stay here.’
As we walk away, I say to Matthew, ‘What’s up with your brother? Is he in love with you?’
He gives a short, dry laugh. ‘Something like that.’
Oh, Jesus Christ. Jesus, Jesus Christ, it’s Josh Rowan. Standing at the ballroom doorway, talking to someone. He’s seen me, his eyes are locked on to mine. I thought I didn’t want to meet him. I thought too much guilt was attached to the very notion of him. But now that I see him, it all comes back – the longing, the wanting, the wishing that things could have been different.
I see my own yearning written on his face. For a long moment, despite the jostling revellers, it’s like there are only the two of us here. I can actually feel his emotion and I’m sure he can feel mine. Without speaking, we’re communicating and it’s as if the sixteen months since we’ve seen each other have telescoped down to nothing.
A drunk man, with a head like a blood-blister, throws an arm around Josh’s neck, shouts jovially into his face, pulls him away and they disappear from view.
When Matthew and I push through the doorway, I scan the crowded lobby for Josh but he’s nowhere to be seen. Matthew is all business, walking me down the back stairs, then sliding in the keycard and sticking his head around the door. ‘Just checking there’s no one hiding under the bed,’ he says. Then, ‘Oh, my God, it’s like a cell!’
‘It’s fine.’
‘It’s appalling. I can’t condemn you to this. Come up to my room for a while. We can have a drink.’
‘No, no.’ I haven’t the bandwidth.
‘One drink. I don’t want to be on my own, not feeling like this. You’d be doing me a favour.’
‘Ah, what the hell?’ I say. ‘All right.’
Matthew’s suite has had a turn-down service, the lighting is ambient, and soft classical music is playing. I go to the window. It’s too dark to see the sea now but I can still hear it, sucking and splashing. The sound is calming.
‘Take a seat.’ Matthew indicates the sofa, then surveys the line of bottles on his sideboard. ‘What would you like to drink?’
‘Vodka, I suppose. And Diet Coke.’
He pours a hefty measure into a heavy-bottomed glass, then joins me on the sofa. ‘So tell me.’
I take a gulp of my drink, open my mouth and let my desolation unravel. My glass empties surprisingly quickly and Matthew refills it and encourages me to keep talking.
‘Actually, no,’ I say. ‘I’d prefer to stop. This misery is exhausting and I’m sick of being sad.’
From outside comes the sound of music, the disco must have started and suddenly my mood changes. ‘Hey, Matthew, there’s no point wallowing! Let’s go down to the disco, I want to go dancing.’
I’m a little drunk, but unexpectedly it’s happy drunk, not maudlin.
‘I can’t go to the disco,’ he says. ‘You said.’
I clap my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh, God, sorry!’
After an awkward pause, I exclaim, ‘We could have our own disco here, stick on some songs. Really! It’ll be great!’ Guilt is firing my enthusiasm.
Matthew starts fiddling on the in-house sound system, and some dancy thing comes on that I half recognize. Kiara probably plays it, then I hear ‘Groove Is In The Heart’ and my mood soars. ‘Oh, I LOVE this song!’ I jump to my feet and kick off my shoes. ‘Turn it up! Matthew, turn it up!’
Instantly the music is ten times louder and pulsing off the walls. The bassline is inside me and the melody is all around me and I feel alive. I twirl myself around the room and, briefly, all my worries lift away, there’s just me and the music and I feel happy and free.
Then I notice him watching me dance, his face tense and still. He’s relaxed his body against the sofa, his arms spread along the top. His black tie has disappeared, his shirt collar is open three buttons – I don’t remember that happening – and out of nowhere I’m super-aware of undercurrents. It’s like I’m giving him a lap-dance. The thought makes me excited, uncomfortable, then a queasy mix of the two.
‘Louder!’ I say.
Moving only his arm, still watching me avidly, he reaches behind him and, without looking, twists the volume knob.
His silent gaze is too much. ‘Come on, get up and dance.’ I take his hands and pull him out of the seat.
He’s on his feet, still watching me intently. ‘Dance with me,’ he says.
‘I am.’
‘Don’t dance at me, dance with me.’
He tries to grab me around my waist and I twist away. But he comes after me, slides his hands around to my back and pulls me against him.
‘No!’ I don’t want to slow down, I don’t want to stop. But in a fluid motion, he sweeps my hair to one side, buries his face in my neck and gives it a small sharp bite. Suddenly he’s got my attention. I’m not dancing any more. I whisper, ‘What was that?’ I want to move away but his arms are hard against my back and, caught in his force-field, all I can do is look at him.
His face is coming closer to mine, he’s moved one hand to the back of my head and he’s pulling me towards him. Then his mouth is on me, hard and probing, he means business, things aren’t going to end at this – I wrench myself free. ‘We can’t – I can’t!’
I’m panting, he’s panting, his shirt is crumpled and his eyes are wild.
He groans and I repeat, ‘We can’t.’ I push myself away, creating distance.
‘Why not?’
Because … because I don’t want to.
I’m a bit drunk, I’m in shock, but I’m certain about this.
‘I’m not sorry.’ He steps towards me again. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since forever.’
‘You have?’
‘Since the first time I saw you.’
They’re good words, I should be flattered, but I’m not … ‘What about Ruthie?’
‘What about your husband? We could comfort each other.’
No. No way.
My phone rings, startling me. It’s Alastair.
‘Where are you?’ he asks.
‘Why?’
‘Are you with Matthew Carlisle?’
‘Yes.’
‘Meet me in the lobby right now.’ He sounds furious. ‘If you don’t come down, I’ll be up to get you.’
I turn towards the door – and Matthew blocks me. ‘Don’t go.’
For a half-second I think it’s more flattery, but he’s suddenly a menacing figure.
‘You’ve told me to stay away from all other women,’ he says. ‘So you’ve got to …’
Oh, God. Oh, my God, this is awful. And scary.
‘If I don’t go downstairs right now,’ my voice is shaking, ‘Alastair’s coming up here.’
His face darkens with impotent fury. ‘Go, then.’ His mouth is a bitter twist.
Alastair is waiting, with Tim and Dante Carlisle, in the heaving lobby.
‘Over here.’ Alastair leads us to a sofa and the four of us sit.
‘Have you?’ Alastair asks. ‘Did you?’
‘Get with Matthew Carlisle? Would that not be my business?’ I ask.
‘No,’ Alastair says. ‘Number one, he’s a client.’
God, he’s a fine one to talk.
‘Number two,’ Dante says. ‘He’s having a thing with Sharmaine King.’
Oh.
‘Sorry, Ames,’ Alastair says. ‘It’s true.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She wouldn’t, you know, sleep with me and wouldn’t tell me why. But I suspected. When Dante here told me, I rang her. It’s true.’
My head is trying to keep up. ‘Is that why Ruthie left?’
‘Last straw,’ Dante says. ‘He slept with all their nannies.’
‘He can’t keep it zipped.’ Alastair sounds almost prim.
‘There are other women too,’ Dante says. ‘Always.’
‘But he loves Ruthie.’ Well, he does a very good impression of it.
‘He does love her,’ Dante says. ‘That’s the tragedy.’
‘Then why …?’
‘He’s a sex-pest.’ Alastair’s tone is judgemental.
‘Pot, kettle.’ Tim speaks for the first time. His voice is croaky. Any trace of twinkly Tim has vanished.
‘He’s miles worse than me.’ Alastair is earnest. ‘Dante has stories.’