The driver adjusts the rear-view mirror. “I’m under strict instructions from Mr Calloway to get you there on time.”
Farrah flashes me a smile before cupping her hand to her mouth. “If you insist, but just to warn you I get terrible travel sickness, and if you don’t stop soon, then I’ll…”
“Right away, miss.” The driver indicates to turn off the main road and pulls into a layby. The driver and Dante jump out of the car and hurry to open our doors to let us out. That is, they would do, had Farrah not leaned into the driver’s side seat and locked the doors from the inside.
“Finally, we’re alone,” Farrah says and sinks back into the leather upholstery.
The driver and Dante stand outside the car, the driver at Farrah’s window and Dante at mine.
Dante taps the glass. “Open the door.”
“Give us ten minutes,” Farrah says, her smile wide as she does a shooing action with her hands.
Dante points to the face of his watch, making Farrah aware he is timing us, then he rounds the car and perches on the bonnet. As for the driver, he leans against a nearby bus stop and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
“Now we’re alone,” Farrah says, shuffling closer, “tell me what’s bothering you.”
I let out a long breath whilst fidgeting with the lace on the dress. “Everything.”
Lucian
“The event started at seven pm, and it’s now seven-thirty. Where are they?” I jab my index finger into the domed face of my pocket watch.
“Probably fifteen seconds closer than they were the last time you asked,” Malachi says, whilst lazily rotating his golden dice cufflinks.
I pace up and down the hotel lobby, waiting for Farrah and my fiancée to join us. Cameras flash outside as the insanely rich and famous step onto the red carpet and enter through the large turnstile door. Ballgowns in every colour imaginable whiz by as women, escorted by their dates, pass us and proceed to the function room. None of the women who pass are Chelsea. Damn my sister, who insists on turning up to every event ‘fashionably late’. Farrah gave me her word that they’d be right behind us. She lied.
“There’s my date,” Malachi says, and he hurries to greet Lady Louise Whittington as she enters the lobby. Louise has a beautiful, bronzed skin tone and thick raven hair that is pinned back in a chunky braid. She is wearing a gold gown that hugs her voluptuous frame. She doesn’t acknowledge me. Her attention is fixed on my brother as he takes her hand.
I take a few steps forward and peer into the function room. A string quartet plays quietly on stage as guests mingle. My father was right when he said there would be a ton of influential people in attendance this evening. From the media, to celebrities, to billionaires from all different walks of life, not to mention the mayor of Cornwall, they are all here to support the annual Pink Ribbon Breast Cancer Charity Gala.
Whilst skimming the sea of faces, I make eye contact with Austin Lake, an oil tycoon from across the pond. He nods in acknowledgement and, sighing heavily, I nod back. Obligation calls, and I know I can’t stay in the lobby all evening. It’s time to mingle.
The conversation with Austin is enough to condemn anyone to death via boredom. I talk when I need to and laugh at his humourless jokes. In the corner of my eye, I notice Darren Moore fromCornwall Gossipmagazine. He sidles his way over to us. I have no interest in talking to him, so nod politely and make my way across the room to the beverage table. Empty glasses are stacked around a champagne fountain. I fill my fluted glass and lift it to my lips.
My gaze is trained on the lobby when striking blond hair and an offensive bright orange tan burn into my peripheral vision. I don’t need to turn to know it’s the same man.
“Darren,” I utter.
Darren claps my back, causing me to jerk and the champagne to spill over the rim of the glass. The gold liquid mottles my pristine white shirt.
“Oh, how terribly clumsy of me.” A ghost of a smile tugs at Darren’s lips. “Maybe next time you won’t be quite as generous when helping yourself to the complimentary champagne.”
How very typical of Darren, forever the practical joker. But I am not laughing.
Darren’s hazel eyes search mine. He waits for me to speak, and when I don’t, he sighs heavily. “You’ve been avoiding me, friend.”
“Friend.” I hold the last syllable for uncomfortable seconds before continuing. “Forgive me, but my definition of a ‘friend’ may differ slightly from yours. In my book a friend does not write a libellous article about you. No, Darren, you are an acquaintance at best.”
“Don’t be like that,” Darren whines, squeezing my shoulder. “We have history.”
It is true that once upon a time I considered this serpent of a man my friend. Darren’s father, Bruce, was the groundskeeper at Freesdon Hall, our family estate in Knightsbridge. Bruce would often bring Darren along with him to work and as boys we would play together. Darren taught me how to play football, and in return I taught him how to ride and play croquet. But Darren tarnished any friendship we had by printing a story about me that he had no right to publish.
“My relationship with Samantha Matthews was no business of yours. You should never have pressured her into selling her story.”
The day that story ran was the day I had dear Darren demoted from senior editor to a basic reporter. I threatened to sue the entire company for all they had, but I didn’t under the strict understanding that they were never to run another story about the Calloways. Or, more specifically, me.
“I didn’t pressure Samantha. It was she who came to me.”