Chapter Ten
C A N A P É
Friday, June 12th
With one hand up against the toilet cubicle door, the other stuck behind the back of the ridiculous black heels I'd regrettably chosen during my rush to leave the flat this morning, I try with all my might to wedge my foot in. It's a losing battle.
So far my attempts at looking half presentable, like a woman who might deserve an invite to the launch of a high end fashion collection have all failed miserably. I've got on the wrong colour bra, my hairs a mess and the ruby red coloured dress given the thumbs up by Louisa doesn't seem to fit quite like it used to.
It's been a long week, loaded with wine and carbs. Late night takeaways. Long lunches and fatty desk snacks, so it's safe to say that finding the right outfit for Violet's party hasn't been an easy task. My usual black figure hugging dress is out of the question, and it seems that the Lanvin off the shoulder number I'd snagged at a sample sale has shrunk in the wash since the last time it saw daylight, and isn't in a forgiving mood.
But it's all I've got to work with. I've been stuck at my desk all day, pushing out overdue Top Ten features. It doesn't help that Millie's decided to conveniently call in sick either.
Still, with Ruby's help I've managed to clear through it all with a little time to spare so I can fix up my hair, and squeeze myself into a dress I'm regretting ever buying.
And when I step out of the cubicle, heels now on, the large sink mirrors reveal a slightly flustered, awkward looking woman in desperate need of some bronzer and a lint brush.
Dismissing my unflattering appearance, I swing open the door and step out. Walking isn't an easy feat, and the hem keeps rising up. Yanking it down so I can keep some dignity, I hear a faint low whistle. Jack steps out of the lift, cigarette packet tucked into the pocket of his shirt.
"Wow."
His grin is unnerving yet secretly I welcome it. Maybe I don't look like mutton dressed as lamb. Perhaps I am actually pulling off the sultry vixen vibe I'd been keen to channel.
"You look amazing. Didn't realise we had a date planned."
"Oh shut it," I reply slinging my bag over my arm.
Jack doesn't. It only spurs him on. His gaze fixated on my bare shoulders, the hint of cleavage. "Don't be like that. It's a compliment. You look really-"
"Save it. I'm in a rush."
"Going anywhere nice?" he asks, still blocking my path to the glass doors of the office. "I hope whoever it is your meeting appreciates the effort you've gone to."
"Jack, I need to get past okay?"
He stands firm. Digs his hands into his pockets. "By the way you never replied to my texts."
"That's what you're calling them?" I snort back in disbelief. Does he really think it's wise to go there? Try and make me feel guilty for not rushing to send back my thanks for receiving a barrage of seemingly drunken, misspelt messages to my phone the night before.
"Thought you might have wanted to come over," he replies. "It's been a while since we, well you know saw each other properly. Outside of work."
His I've actually missed you text, the last to be sent burning in my mind.
"Please don't remind me." I know it sounds cruel, my delivery harsh but I'm in no mood to be playing games. It's no fun to be reminded of my past weakness and lack of self control.
"Come on, just let me past. I've got a lot to sort out and I'd appreciate it if you'd just stop talking."
"Fine..." he sounds hurt but he allows me to slide by. Watches as I press my key fob to the glass, pushing my weight against it to escape his gaze.
"Wowee Jem, that dress is beautiful!" Ruby must notice I'm a little flushed because she suddenly changes tact, asks if I'm ok. I sigh and she looks past me, at Jack still hovering by the doors.
"Oh god. What did he say to you?" Her concern is sweet.
I don't reply until he retreats up the stairs. "Nothing important. Just being his irritating self as usual."
She groans, and continues to spread the contents of her make up bag out on the desk. Ready to give me picture perfect smokey eyes and a party ready dark red pout.
When Louisa and Rachel eventually pack up to leave, Ruby and I put on the radio, turning it up loud. The office is now finally empty, and I help myself to Jess, our beauty editors secret stash of sent in samples, mini bottles of hairspray and the curling tongs she keeps in her draw.
"What are you doing?" I ask, when she lifts her phone up above her head, arms stretched out. Head titled at an unnatural angle.
"Taking a picture for my Instagram," she replies casually. "I can take one of us and tag you in it. You've got an account right?"
I shake my head. I'm lying. Of course I do. Doesn't everyone? I just don't think she'll be impressed by my lack of updates, or the picture of what I once had for dinner three months ago.
"You should definitely get one."
"Nah, I'm alight. Seems like too much effort," I sigh. Knowing all too well that there's not enough filters in the world that'll be able to trick people into believing I'm living my best life.
Ruby dances along to the pop song on the radio, multitasking it with the upload of her black and white selfie. "You're missing out."
Somehow I doubt it.
"So what time do we need to leave by?"
She looks up at the office clock mounted to the wall by Norine's office. "Depends if you want to arrive when the doors open or turn up fashionably late."
"Whichever means we have to be there for the least amount of time."
Ruby sighs. "I guess we've got an hour or two to waste then."
"We could go get a drink. Prepare ourselves adequately," I joke, applying another layer of nail polish over last weeks chipped remains.
She grins, nods. "Sounds good."
Whist the polish dries I log out of my emails and make sure the dishwashers been set in the kitchen. Ruby's keeps happily tapping away at her phone, conversing with Joel over twitter.
When we're ready, heels on, make up applied, I check I've got all the essentials I'll need. Like a pair of sensible flats for when my feet hate me and a chocolate bar for when the canapés inevitably leave me still feeling hungry.
I check my phone too, making sure it's fully charged so I can text Abbie on the way to let her know that I won't be in for Dave's spaghetti bolognese. But I don't get far, an unread message diverting away my attention.
It's a number I've not got saved, but I recognise the digits, and the sparse construction of words. For the most part they're all spelt correctly. Yet there's something different about this one, compared to all those before. The ones sent in a beer fuelled haze, or after the Christmas party or the night after the first night spent in his bed.
Jack doesn't even have to sign his name at the end for me to know it's him. The pounding in my chest confirms it before I've read the first line.
Sorry bout earlier Jem. Didn't mean to be a dick. Hope you enjoy you're night.
PS - You really did look beautiful x
*** *** ***
When Ruby and I arrive at the imposingly tall tower on the other side of the Thames, it dawns on us that we are in fact pretty late, and that two drinks prior might have not been quite such a great idea.
There's a bit of a frenzy as we're kept waiting because Norine's favourite actor crush has rocked up and is giving the paparazzi good face, and a variety of lengthy model-esque poses. Once he's bathed in the attention and light of camera flashes, he's ushered in without the needless interrogations the rest of the guests waiting have been subjected to.
After some commotion about gatecrashers and rogue reporters, security check mine and Ruby's purses and our names get scrutinised by the snooty PR ladies holding court outside the large venue doors. Thankfully Ruby pulls out her Ace, repeats her surname till both their eyes bulge and they ferry us in with frantic apologies.
The inside of the ninth floor venue is just as expected: Tall ceilings, white washed walls with alcoves housing colourful mood lighting in pink and blue hues. Large grand windows and a sweeping decked balcony with views of the whole city. Tucked into the corner by the bar is a DJ booth. A young girl with large neon pink headphones on and a polka dot jumpsuit plays choppy electro funk beats.
As Ruby and I find a spot away towards the back by the white leather cube sofas, Violet's pouting face hung up behind, I can't help but laugh because it's just as horribly cliche as I'd hoped it might be, and frankly it's hilarious.
"Hmmm," I say as we're offered a flute of champagne, sarcasm rising up as the bubbles go down. "Do you think we've got the right party?"
Ruby spits back out her drink, and tries to hide her laughter by covering her mouth. "Oh my god."
"You know, I just feel like we may have got the wrong place."
"I wonder what could ever give you that impression," she snorts back, as we survey Violet's face plastered onto gigantic floor length posters.
"Speak of the devil," Ruby mumbles as I turn round to see the real life Violet walking towards us. She's modelling the two piece featured in the poster behind. Her hair shockingly white, slicked back into a tight ponytail. Her lipstick the same violet hue.
I'm not quite sure how she's able to walk in the high waisted culottes but she manages to meet us halfway before throwing her arms out.
"Darling, you made it!"
Ruby hunches her shoulders. Her smile tense. She doesn't move.
Violet notices. Throws a hand on her hip. "Darling, come here!"
Shuffling over in her boots, Ruby stops a foot away and let's her sister give her a kiss on the cheek. I can only see the back of her head but I'm sure her eyes are rolling uncontrollably.
"Let's get a picture shall we?" Violet says, spinning them both round. Her eyes searching the room. "Oh, the photographer was here just a minute ago. Where is he?" she calls out. No one responds.
Ruby looks utterly helpless.
"Never mind, we can get one later. So, are you enjoying the party?" Violet asks, the pitch of her voice unpleasant. Squeaky.
"Yeah," Ruby replies nonchalantly. She waves her hand behind her bag, signals me to come forwards.
"Hi," I say as Violet's eyes scan over me. I don't think she likes what she sees. The grimace on her lips speaks volumes.
"Ruby who is this?"
"This is Jemima. We work together."
"Work?" Violet squints.
Ruby sighs. "The internship? Remember? I'm Jem's intern at Aspire."
"Oh right, right of course," she offers out her slender hand. I take it though I worry I might crush it.
"Nice to meet you, great party." I'm such a liar. Not that Violet knows. She takes such praise and prattles on about the collection, the fabrics, the nightmare of the past few months, the strike at the stitching house that almost threatened to push the collection launch back.
"I mean how dare they. After all the work I've put in," she moans, on and on till Ruby forces her to stop by asking if their elusive mother is coming.
Violet shakes her head. "Still in Monte Carlo."
"Monte Carlo," Ruby replies, spreading the syllables out. Both of them take a pause. It's awkward.
I contemplate filling the silence with some chit chat about how nice the weathers been just to lift the weird tension but Ruby steps in. Speaks up.
"Do you think you can answer some questions about the collection," she says, pulling opening her purse to bring out a small notepad and pen. "It's for my internship. Thought I might be able to write up an interview with you."
Violet continues to smile but her eyes flit about. "Um, oh right. Well I am extremely busy at the moment, nows probably not the right time. Lots of guests still to arrive, greet, mingle with. You know the drill."
"It'll only take a few minutes,"
"Come find me later darling, once everyone's arrived," Violet replies curtly.
Ruby shrugs her shoulders, accepts another quick peck on the cheek from her sister. Then we both watch as she saunters off without a goodbye. Lighting a path straight into the posse of hanger-ons that Fisher Scott's acquired by the DJ booth.
"Well that went as well as expected," Ruby sighs, flopping down onto the sofa.
"Sorry,"
"Nah it's fine. It just means I get to feel even less guilt for not liking her."
I laugh. "That's one way of looking at it."
As the hour passes I try to keep Ruby entertained with my assumptions about the guests that pass by, how they secretly don't want to be here either, how everyones suffocating under the ego that is Violet and her stupid, wholly unoriginal collection. The stupid wigged mannequins. The watered down champagne.
"That jacket is so ugly," Ruby giggles as we continue to kill time. Eating up all the canapés offered out even through they're so tiny and tasteless they might as well be made of air.
When I slip off to the toilets I come back to find that Ruby's been collared by an over enthusiastic schlub in layers of long bead necklaces, who keeps reeling off all her older sisters accomplishments. How wonderful she is, so talented, so successful, a real gem in the overtly saturated celebrity fashion world, apparently.
It's a load of bollocks, we both know this. But when I gently tug on Ruby's arm, faking an apology for interrupting she whispers that she's fine, though the look in her eyes betrays such an admission.
I stand awkwardly for a moment before telling her I'm going to top up my glass, maybe get some fresh air outside on the balcony. She smiles, mouths that she's fine again and then continues to nod like a mechanical dog at the women.
My gag reflexes threaten to derail any notion of polite professionalism I've maintained since arriving so I make a hasty exit for the bar.
When I arrive, one of the servers is profusely apologising to a stocky man in a sky blue suit. The champagnes run out and there's only clear spirits left. I give him the go ahead to pour a gin and tonic and add a slice of lime. It's not my favourite but it'll do. And I follow a few stowaway guests out onto the sweeping balcony.
The suns about to set over the river, and the panoramic view is breathtaking. It's a twinkling hub of light, getting brighter with every passing second. The last of the summer fog lingering past the horizon.
It's when the cities at it's finest and for all of the evenings vapid schmoozing, the over-the top venues decor and lack of good alcohol there's no denying that the view from the ninth floor is spectacular.
I'm not the only one to notice either it seems, because as I suffer through a sip of gin, my arms out over the safety of the glass railing I sense someone saddle up on my left side. My hairs blowing wild, and I have to pull a chunk from out of my mouth to see their face.
"What a stunning view," he says, voice deep, his accent accentuated. He sounds stereotypically British. "Summer in the city, can't beat it."
I smile politely as he looks up. Face half lit by the fading sunlight. Quickly I swallow the gin I've been swigging, and try to keep my gaze firmly ahead. I'm sure it's not quite the reaction he'd been hoping for, probably not a common one in his presence.
And it's not because I'm not nervous, or surprised to find an admittedly good looking gentleman by my side. I just don't appreciate being interrupted. After all I'm quietly minding my business, watching the sunset. Back turned away from the party, all the noise and commotion. I'm out here because I want to be alone, not make small talk with a bit part actor who thinks I'll fall at his feet with cheesy lines about what I can clearly see with my own two eyes.
"So are you enjoying it?" he asks, leaning on the railing, a half smirk on his lips. It's a textbook Fisher Scott pose, one I bare witness to most days on large billboards, plastered in the back pages of the free daily newspaper.
"The view or the party?" I counter, feigning confusion at his questioning.
He grins, and it pulls on the neat stubble that frames his jaw. " I mean't the view of course. If you were enjoying the party you wouldn't be out here."
Regardless of his easy charm and eyes so green they're almost pastel I resist giving him my full attention. "The view is nice, yes."
"I see you're on the gin, like me," Fisher knocks his tumblr square into mine and I have to grip it to stop it slipping from my hand and off the balcony. "Running out of champagne before ten o'clock... Have you ever heard of anything so absurd?"
He might be laughing in a jovial manner yet something tells me that he's actually quite serious. When I don't reply, my lips tight to guard against any further small talk, because I want to give the indication that I don't want a conversation.
"Are you here for the party?"
I down the gin. It burns in my throat. "Work."
"Shame. Although I have to say you're quite dressed up for a lady whose supposedly only here for work," he drawls. Pastel eyes giving me the once over from heel to chest.
"Can't a lady do both?" I reply, mimicking his sly patronising tone.
Fisher laughs, it's loud and deep. "Of course. It's just that you stand out in such a dress. That colour really demands attention, especially amongst such a sea of mediocrity," he nods towards the open doors, and the guests inside. "It's like a beacon."
I smooth down the crinkles of the ruby red fabric. There doesn't seem to be enough of it, at least not enough to stop his leering.
Inching closer he finishes his drink, and as a strong gust of wind knocks against the balconies railing he asks if I feel cold. My goosebumps betray me but still I tell him firmly tell him I'm not.
"Are you sure? You're shivering. Here have this," he replies already removing his dark leather jacket. My arms instinctively bat it away but he's too fast. It's draped round my shoulders before I can protest against it. I almost hate it's musty, unpleasant smell as much as the stupid smirk plastered across his face.
"Uh, thanks," I mumble. Holding onto the sleeves so the weight of it doesn't pull me down. He finds it amusing I'm sure.
"Fisher Scott," he offers out a hand.
I pretend to struggle with holding onto my glass and his jacket so I don't have to shake it.
"And you are?"
"Gemma," I say. It's close enough.
"Lovely. So... you still haven't told me what you actually do for work," his shameless flirty delivery of such a boring question makes me cringe beneath his jacket.
I weigh up my options. All of them lies. But before I can think of a plausible substitute he cuts in, switching his body round to lean his elbows and weight against the glass railing.
Seizing the opportunity, I tilt my empty glass making sure he's watching. "Looks like I'm empty. Probably should get back inside."
Fisher is wise to such a plot. "Or we could just leave. Get drinks somewhere else. There's this great little place near by," he senses I'm hesitant. "No chance of them running out of champagne."
If Norine were here to witness such a proposition, and if she knew I had no desire to accept, she'd probably have my desk cleared before I could even verbalise it.
When I shake my head his hopeful expression fades. And I'm praying the balls finally dropped, the realisation that I might be tougher to crack than all those before me. Like the PR women who fawned over him on arrival, or the two near us in impossibly tall heels holding up their clutch bags to whisper behind them about his presence beside me.
"Oh good. Gemma turn round. Let's have our picture taken," he says, soon sliding an arm round my waist. He spins me with such force I stumble into his tight embrace.
A flash of intense light drowns us both, black spots clouding my vision. I can't even shield my eyes, not with his damn jacket or arm pinning my hand against his side.
Fishers smile remains firm. "Did you get it?"
"Yeah, I did."
My heart races at the sound of the voice behind the large camera, the person standing a few feet away from us. It's smooth, warm. Wonderful. All too familiar.
Dylan's eyes survey mine as I blink away the fog created by his bulky flash. He slowly brings the camera down to his waist, and his mouth drops slightly. Mine mimics his, like a fish out of water. Caught in a dire situation. That likely appears worse than it actually is.
"Jemima," he says faintly.
Fisher's turning his head back and forth between us, trying to connect the dots. Still holding onto me tight, not letting go for all my squirming, and sharp elbowing. Only when Dylan steps forward with an expression of both shock and concern does he loosen up his grip. I shimmy away, throwing back his jacket. Stabbing my left foot with back of my other heel in the process.
"Dylan," My cheeks are rosy, hot. He's noticed too.
Oh god.
He looks wonderful. Dressed in smart black trousers, and a black shirt tight round his shoulders and arms. Hair pulled back, stubble trimmed.
"I didn't realise it was you..." he trails off, using his camera as a distraction to avoid looking up.
"I think you've got the wrong person buddy," Fisher snorts.
"Sorry?"
"You said Jemima right? This is Gemma."
Dylan stands firm. Keeping his lips tight, and eyes on me as I try to mouth the words help so that Fisher won't pick up on it.
Thankfully my plea computes.
"Hey, you're that actor right?" Dylan says looking up at the sky, brilliantly playing the role of forgetfulness.
"I am but what's it to you?" Fisher replies warily, polluting the air with toxic male dominance.
With wide eyes Dylan takes another step closer. "They're trying to get everyone together, you know for a big press shot, the guy inside said something about it going on the front page of The Times. They were asking after you."
God damn is this man a genius.
"Oh, really?" Fisher might as well knock me over the balcony to fall to the streets below, with the speed he separates away. Legs ready to sprint in panic at the thought of missing out on exposure.
Dylan's megawatt grin gives my heart palpitations. "Yeah buddy."
The way he hangs on the last word make me chuckle.
Fisher doesn't even notice the dig. "Ok. Duty calls. I'd better go, nice to meet you Gemma. Take care."
I nod, as he sprints away from us to squeeze through a crowd gathered by the open doors. Like a lost dog searching for it's bone. Dylan and I both watch in awe, quietly laughing.
"Thank you," I sigh once he's out of sight.
Dylan shifts on his feet. "No problem."
"That was very quick of you. Very smart."
He laughs, and fills Fishers vacant spot. Unfortunately just not as close. "Just did what I could. Guy seems like a jerk, how longs he been bothering you for?
"Ten minutes or so. Too long for my liking."
"He's been hassling one of the other photographers most of the night about getting a group shot. Used that as bait."
"Sounds about right."
"Took a guess that he might be an actor. I actually have no idea who he is."
I want to throw my arms round and hug him. Thank him again for coming to my aide, for helping. For just being him. A much welcome surprise.
"You seem to be in all the right places don't you? Just at the right time," I say, memories of the beer garden and my bruised elbow coming back.
He smiles, fiddles with the loose lens cap of his camera. "It's a secret talent of mine. Lowly photographer by day, and rescuer of damsels in slight distress at the hands of douchebags by night."
"You're a modern day Clark Kent," I joke. "Just without the lycra."
"Yeah. I don't think that's a sight anyone should be subjected too."
I have to catch a breath. I'm so caught up in the moment, the fun of it. His great wit. My admiration for him increasing each time he opens his mouth.
And as the wind picks up again, and the dark night sets in, Dylan rests his arms over the ledge and sighs. "Maybe I was too soft. Probably should have knocked him around a bit, duffed him up."
"Duffed him up?" I reply, laughing back at his uncharacteristic choice of words.
"I've been watching a lot of British telly recently. Picked up some of the lingo."
Playfully I nudge his arm. "Suits you."
"Cheers."
Whilst we watch the city swing into it's prime, the lights of the tall towers kicking in, I ask Dylan why he's here at such an event, teasing him a little. "I can't imagine you've got a lot of use for striped sundresses."
"Fortunately not," he says stretching out his arms. "It's a last minute thing, the guy who was suppose to do the main photography well his wife went into labour this evening with their first kid so I stepped in. He's a good friend of my editor at the magazine. Works for one of the national papers, they're obligated to cover the event because they're sponsoring it, or something."
"Wow, so you're double the hero tonight."
"I wouldn't go that far. It's not really my kinda thing but a favours a favour and the pays pretty decent. Even if I do have to dress like this," Dylan pulls at the fabric of his black shirt. The top two buttons undone to reveal a sprinkling of dark chest hair.
"Don't be daft. You scrub up pretty well," I assure him, ignoring the wrinkles and the button missing from one of the cuffs. "Just be grateful you're not in heels."
Dylan nods in agreement. "You look great by the way, really."
My cheeks flush the colour of my dress. "That's very sweet of you to say."
"So I take it you're here for work too?"
"Unfortunately. The woman whose responsible for all this..." I point to the large mounted print out of Violet in an uncomfortable looking pose modelling a two piece. "...is my interns older sister. So I'm helping her review the event, for work. Unsurprisingly she's not much of a fan either."
"Wow, that's some connection. She seems to be a big deal, at least going by all these huge promo selfies," he smirks, shaking his head slightly. I'm glad he's in agreement and can see just how vain and absurd it all is.
"She's a real wallflower," I laugh.
Adjusting the bulky strap round his neck, Dylan takes a quick peek at his watch. Sighs heavily and backs away from the railings."I really don't want to leave but I've got a couple of hours left on the clock and a few more people to please with this thing," he lifts the camera up. "But thank you for being a breath of fresh air, for allowing me to escape the madness for a little while."
Butterflies dance in stomach with such force I worry he'll notice I've become wobbly on my feet.
"We still on for tomorrow?" he asks.
"Of course. I texted you the details earlier, about where to meet."
"Cool. I have a feeling I'm gonna be up all night editing these photos but don't worry I'll be there. Eleven thirty right?"
"Eleven thirty, outside the front of Hoxton station."
"Great, can't wait. I'm very intrigued to say the least, do I need to bring anything?"
"Just yourself, and your camera. If you want too."
"The intrigue builds," he laughs scratching his stubble before backing away slowly. "Hope you have a good rest of the night Jemima."
I hold my glass tight against my chest. "You too."
"Oh and don't worry about that last picture I took of you and your admirer. I have a feeling it didn't take properly," His grin is infectious, and incredibly hot.
"I doubt I'll be too upset it somehow mysterious disappears..."
I can hear him laugh still, even when he steps down off the split level wooden decking. My eyes follow as he enters the party again, landing on the small figure that brushes past him. Both of them completely unaware of each other.
When Ruby walks over to join, she asks why I've been staring at her.
"Dylan's here," I whisper even though he's long gone. "And you just walked right past him."
Her mouth drops open. "Oh My God Jem."
"Be careful, if the wind changes you might get stuck like that," I joke.
"You mean he's here? At the party? Why? Did you invite him? You want to go find him again?"
Too many questions. My head spins. "One at time alright?"
"Oh my god," she repeats. "Ok, why is he here?"
"For work, he's photographing the event. As a last minute favour to someone," I explain slowly as Ruby jigs about with apparent joy.
"That's him? The guy with the camera, black shirt?"
"Yeah."
"Violet's apparently been singing his praises all night. She thinks that's why all her friends are actually happy about getting their picture taken for once," Ruby giggles.
"Poor guy."
"Yeah. Violet's being such a bitch. I just about managed to get her to talk to me. You know for Norine? It's not anything amazing but at least we've got the interview part sorted."
"Shit, I'm sorry I was supposed to do that," I say, feeling bad for leaving her with such a dreadful task. "Some actor cornered me out here and then Dylan appeared and I completely lost track of time."
"No worries. It's done. It's over, we're finally free!" She laughs and spins round on the heel of her boots, arms spread wide. Wind in her hair.
"You mean to leave? Don't we have to stay, wait for Violet's big speech?"
She shakes her head resolutely. "Nah uh. No way. I'm not hanging round for that garbage. There's enough people here to stroke her ego."
I laugh, give her a high five. "Well if we leave now you'll probably just make it in time to take Joel up on his offer of some late night, sneaky back of the cinema fumbling."
"But it's miles away," she sighs, screwing up her nose. "Sucks."
"I'll drop you off. We can get the bus and I'll just get the tube home. Don't want you walking the streets by yourself at night."
"You'd do that?"
Leaving my balcony perch, I take off my heels, and slip on the flats I've kept squashed into my purse all night. The relief is almost as pleasurable as unexpectedly seeing Dylan again. Almost.
"Sure. Of course."
Ruby throws her arms round me, nearly knocks me over. "Thank you."
"There's just one condition."
"What's that?"
Sticking close to each other so we can sneak out without Violet seeing, I duck my head past the mannequins and makeshift DJ booth. The exit in sight. With a grin I pull her through the door, and past security straight towards the lift.
"I'll go with you, if we can get some real food on the way. I don't want to see another smoked salmon voulevant ever again."
She chuckles. "So you want kebab and chips?"
"Oh Ruby," I sigh as the lift door opens with the promise of freedom. "You know me too well."
. . .