*
No effort or expense had been spared by Elana Trevalyen. The dining room of Claridge’s had been turned into the most beautiful venue known to man. Flowers were everywhere. Enormous arrangements on the periphery of the room, smaller bunches in the centre of the tables, and garlands had been strung overhead in delicate pastel shades of yellow and peach.
“Elana. It’s a triumph,” Imogen heard as she walked into the room, wishing now she’d chosen something slightly more … pastel … to wear. The black floor-length dress was classy enough, in an understated way, and she’d teamed it with a dark grey pashmina and a string of baroque pearls her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday. But her nails were unpainted, her shoes sensible flat ballet slippers and she’d been too uncomfortable to go to much effort with her hair, so she’d made do with a simple, high bun, mainly to keep it out of her face.
“You missed your calling as an Event Planner,” another society baroness cooed as Imogen slid her sunglasses into her handbag. She wished she’d let Theo come in after all, instead of being brave and agreeing to face the lions solo. And they were lions. Or lionesses. Her eyes skimmed the assembled guests. Perhaps fifty or sixty women, all the last-word in elegance and haughty haute couture.
Imogen stood out like a weed on a golf course.
“Ah, here she is,” Elana murmured, not bothering to attempt to hide the way her eyes glossed over Imogen from head to toe, her tight frown showing clearly what she thought of the outfit.
Imogen fought a pathetic impulse to apologise. She was eight months pregnant and the last thing she could be bothered doing was giving two hoots how she looked. Besides, she didn’t look that bad, did she?
“You’re here,” Elana said as she came closer, kissing the space an inch wide of Imogen’s cheeks.
“Yes,” Imogen was nervous. She hated that. “Thanks for doing this.”
“Of course, dear. How are you?”
“Fine,” Imogen lied.
“And the baby?”
“Fine,” Imogen nodded, her mouth dry. “This is a lot of people.”
“Just a few friends,” Elana contradicted. “Come. I’ll introduce you to Raquel. She’s a primary school teacher, like you.”
“I work in childcare,” Imogen clarified, falling into step beside the fast-moving Elana. A twinge pulled low in her abdomen and she slowed her pace, even though it meant incurring the visible impatience of Theo’s mother. She waited though, and then walked more slowly the rest of the way, pausing at a table of women who were closer to Imogen in age.
“Raquel, this is Imogen. Theo’s… friend.” She said the word with a pointed look to Imogen’s belly. A look that made Imogen’s heart stammer and her pride falter and made everything wobble and worry inside of her.
“Hi,” Raquel stood, casting a smile at the other women she’d been sitting with. “It’s so nice to meet you finally.”
Elana stepped back, apparently feeling she’d done her duty and affected an introduction.
Imogen felt that she’d been hit by a truck. So many people, so many of them staring at her with either curiosity or hostility. Her eyes were enormous when she turned back to Raquel.
“Don’t be nervous,” Raquel’s smile, at least, was kind. “Elana acts like she’s got a huge stick up her you-know-where but really she’s just desperate for Theo to be happy,” she said. “Let’s sit down.” She nodded to a small table to the side.
“How do you know Theo?” Imogen asked as she settled her hefty weight into the bentwood chair. The scent of flowers was overpowering. She tried not to react visibly but Raquel reached for the vase and settled them on the next table.
“Do you mind? I get hayfever.”
Imogen shook her head, not sure if the explanation was true, or if the other woman was just incredibly tactful and kind.
“Theo’s my cousin. My mother is Elana’s sister.”
“Oh,” Imogen was surprised and it showed. She looked more closely at Raquel now, trying to see any family similarities.
“I take after my father,” Raquel explained.
“So do I.”
It was an ice breaker and both women smiled.
“You’re a school teacher?” Imogen asked after a moment. A waiter appeared and took their order.
“I’m a tutor of behaviourally poor students,” she said with a soft smile. “My aunt doesn’t approve.”