Shivering, she realised that her coat was still in the cloak-room.
She turned and walked back to the Pavilion, stopping in her tracks when she saw a familiar figure standing by the exit. It was a moment before she saw that it was not Daniel, but Stephen Lyons.
‘Going without saying goodbye?’ he asked, lighting up a cigarette and putting the packet back in the pocket of his dinner jacket.
Arrogant bastard, she thought to herself. Stephen Lyons was in his late fifties but he clearly thought he was a character out of Mad Men. She didn’t like to admit to herself that it wasn’t too far from the truth. The lines of his jacket were sharp, his cold, hard eyes were the same icy shade of blue as his son’s, his arrogance worn with the confidence of someone with millions in the bank who no longer needed to prove himself.
Behind her she could hear the voices and the laughter from the party. A band was playing now and she imagined those crusty old couples getting up to dance politely, arms held out straight so as not to touch each other too much.
‘Goodbye, Mr Lyons,’ she said, not even meeting his gaze.
‘Stephen,’ he replied casually, exhaling a line of smoke through his nostrils.
‘Goodbye, Stephen,’ she said, feeling goose bumps pop on her forearms.
‘Do you need a car? Or money for a taxi?’
‘I don’t want your money,’ said Amy. ‘I never did,’ she added more quietly as he stepped towards her.
‘I know this must be hard for you,’ said Stephen Lyons, his expression changing from mock concern to something more businesslike. ‘But you have to be realistic. This is about Daniel’s career, not your relationship.’
‘Quite clearly the two are linked,’ said Amy, hating the bitterness in her voice – but why hide it? They both knew that she had just been dumped in favour of a job.
Stephen tilted his head to one side – a gesture of sympathy, mixed with condescension.
‘I’m sure Daniel cares for you,’ he said. ‘But you have to understand he is devoted to achieving his potential. Always has been, ever since he was a little boy. Always put in that little bit extra to keep ahead of the pack.’
‘And I’d get in the way of all that?’
Stephen pulled a face.
‘Amy, Daniel’s posting to Washington is just the start of it. Entre nous, there’s talk of an ambassadorship for him within three or four years. Do you know how unusual it is for anyone to snap up a senior diplomatic post under thirty-five?’
He crushed his cigarette stub under his shoe and continued.
‘Daniel wants to go all the way. We know he can go all the way. HM Ambassador to France, hell, even the US ambassadorship itself. And for that to happen, for him to do the job as well as it can be done, he needs the right partner by his side.’
‘And you’re suggesting that I wouldn’t support him?’
‘Not wouldn’t,’ said Stephen. ‘Couldn’t. The wife of a senior ambassador is a very specific role. You need to understand etiquette, procedure, small talk, how to handle delicate situations. It’s not for everybody. And not everyone can do it.’
‘This is about the artichoke, isn’t it?’
Stephen laughed, his eyes lingering on her body just a fraction too long.
‘No, it’s not about the artichoke.’
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a card.
‘I should go back in,’ he said finally. ‘But perhaps we could meet again under more pleasant circumstances. I used to like dancers myself, back in the day. Old habits die hard, as they say.’ He said the word ‘dancers’ as though it was one step up from prostitutes.
‘Screw you,’ growled Amy, hot tears of humiliation threatening to fall.
‘I’d say my son got off lightly. Can you imagine that sort of language at the embassy,’ he said, and disappeared back into the Pavilion.
She got off the tube at Leicester Square and started to walk. The streets of London flashed past her like streaks of fireworks in the night sky, cars beeped as she darted between them, her brain barely processing how close they were to clipping her as she cut across Shaftesbury Avenue and into the bowels of Soho. Blinking back the tears, she reminded herself that she was tough – you didn’t grow up in a blue-collar area of New York and let men get to you – but by the time she arrived at the Berwick Theatre her eyes were red-ringed and raw.
The show had long finished, and there was just a dribble of people on the pavement, drunks, and theatregoers hanging around the stage door in the hope of seeing some of the stars. Amy joined them, leaning against the wall to pull off her shoe and massage her toes. The shoes she had chosen to show Daniel how sexy and sophisticated she was. Proposal shoes, her mind mocked her, the ones she would never throw away, the ones that were going to have such special meaning in years to come. Well, the moment she got home – whenever that was – she was going to throw them in the trash. They were ugly and tainted, and anyway, they were too damn tight.