I’m sorry, but that’s just way too many humans in one place; we’re not camping outside the gates of Troy for the next ten years.
Heart rate increasing, I rummage through my handbag until I find a set of neon-yellow earplugs. Nope. Rummaging again, I find a pair of pink ones. They clash unpleasantly with my dress, so I keep rummaging until I find the little gold pair I keep for particularly fancy kinds of noise.
Relieved, I pop them in and feel my breathing slow.
I can still hear, but everything is muffled, far away, as if everyone has had their volume buttons turned down.
Entering through the front doors, I stand at the entrance and feel reluctantly impressed: the room is dim, lit by candles, beautiful, and the fresco is magnificent. Underneath are long, thin tables—crammed with glittering people, mostly in black—and at some point, I have a horrible suspicion they’re going to clear them all away and expand the dance floor into something truly horrifying.
“Oh my gosh!” Sophie grabs my hand and pulls me across the room, waving her hand so frantically I worry she’s about to sprain her wrist. “We’ve got just the best table! Right in the middle of all the action! Hi, guys!”
In my muted bubble, I get tugged behind her like a tiny boat tied to a ship.
Strangers stand up and greet Sophie with kisses.
She beams, kissing them all back. “John, you dashing fellow, how’s the sprained ankle? Much better? I’m so glad! Gareth, your hair looks amazing! What mousse are you using? Jada, you absolute sweetheart, did you save me the seat next to you? That’s exactly where I wanted to be! Gabby, can I just say how stunning that color is on you? And Elaine! We’ve not met yet, but I have heard all about you. How’s your son? Is he settling into uni better now? Remind me to give you a list of all the best party venues in that area. It should help him acclimatize more easily.”
Stunned, I stare at Sophie as she makes her way around the circle, not an ounce of fakeness or sarcasm in sight. Who are all these people? I’m assuming they work at SharkSkin, which is ridiculous. I had all of time at my disposal, yet while I was on holiday Sophie managed to connect with the rest of the in-house team more than I managed in literally all of eternity.
When Prometheus made us, he clearly used very different clay.
“Oh!” Sophie takes her seat and jubilantly gestures at the spare seat space next to her until I sit down. “Cassie, this is everyone! I got to know them while you were gone and they’re awesome. Everyone, this is our amazing PR account manager and good friend of mine, Cassandra Dankworth!”
“Hello,” I murmur, staring at the table until everyone has gone back to whatever conversation they were having before we arrived. At Sophie’s last few words, a pleased bolt of orange has leaped through me—neon and warm—so I sit and wait for the glow to dissipate.
I guess I’m adding Sophie to my new-friend list too.
My shoulder prickles slightly, so I swivel to stare curiously at the man sitting directly to my right. He’s in a tux, just like every other man in here, which gives him a strange, homogeneous, penguin quality. For a moment, we’re both so out of context, I can’t work out who he is. He’s both familiar and strange, like seeing your dentist buying a loo roll next to you in a supermarket. Thrown, I frown at his chest—something is missing—and then realize what it is: a navy cashmere jumper.
“Ronald!” I say in amazement. “It’s you!”
He frowns. “Hi—”
“What are you doing here?” I’m so ridiculously pleased to see him. After the chaos of the last month, he feels deliciously known. Even though we’ve never really spoken. It’s quite strange: everything else has reached its conclusion now, and Ronald feels like the final piece of my time puzzle. “Of course, you must have started now! I sit next to you at work.”
Ronald is staring at me with the regular old expression on his face—I still have absolutely no idea what it is—and I feel a wave of pleasure at the sheer familiarity of it. It’s identical and so incredibly comforting. Although I have to be honest: this particular timeline must suit him, because I don’t remember him ever being this attractive before. He has a little dimple in his cheek and everything.
“Oh my God!” Sophie leans in front of me toward him. “Cassie, this is Cameron. Cameron, this is Cassie. You’re going to love her. You haven’t even seen the Weekday Jumpsuits yet! They’re a wonder! Ron started at Fawcett PR this week, but I begged Barry to put him on the SharkSkin account with us and it worked, so he’s here at the ball to get to know everybody properly!”
“Not a ball,” Jack sighs in frustration across the table. “A charity gala.”
Introduction done, Sophie returns to laughing with Elaine.
“Hi there.” Definitely-not-Ronald smiles.
I stare at him in blank silence while I wait for this horrifying new information to process. Either something I have done over the last few weeks has altered Ronald’s entire identity from birth—which seems unlikely—or, in an effort to be more polite and formal, I have been calling this poor man by the wrong name since he started.
At least I finally know what that bloody expression means.
“Cameron,” I say, putting my hand over my mouth. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, I just assumed... And I’ve been calling you Ronald for months.” I kick myself yet again. “By which I mean days, obviously. Because you only just started and we’ve never met before, so that would be chronologically impossible. Time is a bit weird. Sorry.”
“Just Ron is fine.” Ron laughs and leans slightly toward me. He really does smell lovely: like vanilla and doughnut and a hint of something blue. Have his eyelashes always been this long? “I actually feel much more like a Ronald than a Cameron, if I’m being honest. And time is weird. For instance, I’m not a big fan of stuff like this and my watch is saying I only arrived fifteen minutes ago, but I’m pretty sure it’s been years.”
“Decades,” I laugh, knowing exactly what he means.
“When I got here,” he whispers, “there were still bloody Tudors.”
We both chuckle like coconspirators who hate socializing, and was his smile always this wide? Were his eyes always this warm and friendly? Were his cheekbones always so high, and his shoulders so very—
Fuck.
I drop my gaze to the tablecloth, suddenly unable to look at him.
“Wow, I like your earrings.” I can feel his dark brown pupils on the side of my face. “Are they earrings? I’ve never seen the kind that goes inside your ear before. It’s cool. You look like a glamorous spaceman.”
I flush with pleasure and risk another quick glance at him. There’s still a strange expression on Ron’s face—still incalculable, still unreadable, like a book written in a language I can’t understand—but there’s a beautiful shade of peach coming out of him now, warm like a nectarine in the sun. Except, if his facial expression wasn’t entirely me getting his name wrong, then what else could it be? Unless...
Oh.
“They’re earplugs,” I admit as the space between us crackles bright magenta. “I find everything a little bit too loud.”
“Me too.” He nods and passes me the bread. “I have noise-canceling headphones permanently attached for the same reason.”
“Me too,” I say in amazement, finally meeting his pupils with mine.
There’s an almost audible explosion.
Something in me leaps like a little yellow fish, there’s a flicker of something neon orange, then Jack stands up and aggressively tinkles his glass with his fork, thus immediately ruining everything.
“Speaking of unnecessary noise...” Ron chuckles quietly.
“Before the official event begins,” Jack announces, surveying our table with distaste as if he’s just inadvertently found himself in the servants’ quarters, “I would like to thank the entire SharkSkin team for—”
I can feel myself starting to beam at everyone, in no particular direction. The room is shimmering; with the volume turned down, I can feel and see the soft colors seeping from everyone, and it’s so incredibly beautiful.
“Cassandra.”
Raspberry and mint and cornflower and crimson and jade.
“Cassandra.”
Ruby and flax and flamingo and azure; cream and bronze and cyan and lavender and coral; tangerine, charcoal and mustard. And as the brightness melts and spirals, I feel an abrupt shudder of happiness so overwhelming—so three-dimensional—I have to bounce up and down and wriggle and flex as it moves through me: channeling the excess joy through the soles of my feet.
I did it.