ONE
Three and a half years later
THE SPIKY HEELS OF the catering manager click viciously across the marble floor as she barks orders up and down the line of waiting staff.
‘ Don’t talk to the guests unless they ask you a question. Don’t gawp at the celebrities. Be there when you’re needed, otherwise be invisible. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Khloe,’ we all murmur together.
There are twelve of us, six to serve drinks, six to offer canapés. I’ve never waitressed before, but one of the regular staff fell sick and my flatmate Ava volunteered me to her boss. She waitresses at these kinds of swanky events part time, to fund her way through university. By rights, we ought to be out celebrating the end of our second-year exams – mine in sports psychology, hers in media studies – but I agreed to come to work with her instead because I’m a good friend and it’s decent money, which I desperately need. Plus, she has an ulterior motive for working tonight, and I’m curious to see how the top 1 per cent live.
‘Good.’ Khloe shoots one last withering look down the line. I know I don’t imagine the way her gaze narrows in on me. ‘Now, get out there and don’t fuck it up.’
‘Is she always like this?’ I whisper to Ava as we go to collect our trays.
‘Yes.’ Ava flicks a long, gingerbread-coloured braid over one shoulder. ‘I want to be that scary someday.’
‘You already are. Remember when I ate your H?agen-Dazs last week? I haven’t dared touch ice cream since.’
‘Liar. You ate two Magnums last night.’
‘They were mini ones.’ I hoist a tray of micro fish fillets and miniature lobster burgers into the air and toss my hair too, which is a mistake, as several curls seize their chance to escape from the messy bun on top of my head. ‘And they were medicinal. I can’t believe you’re holding that against me.’
‘You’re right. Totally unfair. You’ve been going through a lot. Have I mentioned what a bastard Harrison is, recently?’
‘No, but thank you.’
She gives me a supportive wink and then gets down to business. ‘So, remember, I want to speak to Letitia Haddon tonight. She’s one of the best aerodynamics engineers in Formula 1, so getting an interview with her for Single Seat News would be amazing – women in Formula 1 still don’t get the attention they deserve. She’s married to Mark Haddon, Fraser’s team principal, and this party is to celebrate their wedding anniversary, so hopefully it’ll be a good time to ask.’
‘And you need me to distract your terrifying boss while you do it – I know.’ I give her a cheeky nudge with my elbow. ‘Just try to control yourself around all their fabulous F1 friends. I know you’re a superfan.’
‘I’m always controlled.’ She looks offended that I could suggest otherwise. ‘Just wait for my signal, remember?’
I nod, outwardly confident, though deep down I’m dubious. It sounded like a reasonable plan when Ava explained it to me earlier, but now I’ve met Khloe I have a feeling that distracting her is going to be a lot easier said than done. Fortunately, I’m nothing if not adaptable.
‘Get out there!’ the catering manager hisses suddenly, thrusting her face between us like a cobra in high heels. I have no idea how she got so close without making any more clicking sounds, but I’m weirdly impressed. ‘I’m not paying you to stand around.’
We mutter our apologies and hurry out of the kitchen into the fanciest room in the fanciest house I’ve ever seen. The decor is all glaringly white, and it’s packed with beautiful people, the men in expensive suits, the women in barely-there designer dresses and glittering jewellery. Everyone’s so toned and tanned and shiny, it’s like walking into the pages of a glossy magazine, one that’s been sprinkled with stardust for added glamour. I spot a few famous people straight away, a couple of singers, a celebrity chef and a Love Island contestant, but I avert my gaze in case Khloe is watching me.
Annoyingly, all the beautiful people make me feel self-conscious about my own appearance. I’m not generally insecure, but right now I feel like a goose in a bevy of swans. I’m five foot six and my body shape hasn’t changed much since I was thirteen years old. Basically, I’ve given up waiting for either my hips or boobs to grow. My face is squarish, my hair is mid-brown – ditto my eyes – and the most expensive item of clothing I own is a pair of olive Doc Martens Mary Janes.
‘Canapé?’ I murmur in a barely audible pitch, moving from one group of gorgeous-looking people to another, while a pianist plays softly in the background. Most of them ignore me, which is a relief and faintly soul-destroying at the same time.
It’s half an hour before all my canapés are gone and I’m able to scurry back to the kitchen for a break – but Khloe has other ideas. My tray is instantly whipped away and I’m handed another, this one containing several rows of miniature desserts, just about the cruellest thing you can do to a person who’s recently broken up with their boyfriend. According to a harassed-looking minion, there are dark chocolate and cherry mousse domes, whisky and coffee macaroons, and clementine tartlets topped with edible flowers. I’m not hungry, because Ava insisted we eat a pre-emptive mountain of toast earlier, but I lick my lips anyway.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Khloe murmurs as I pass her in the doorway. If the kitchen were even half as dirty as the accompanying look she gives me, it would be shut down with immediate effect by the Food Standards Agency.
I make another tour of the room, keeping an eye out for Ava. She’s loitering in a corner, close to a glamorous blonde couple who appear to be the hosts of the event, but since she’s not waggling her eyebrows at me or jerking her head in any meaningful way I keep moving.
‘That’s enough food.’ Khloe gestures towards a tray of champagne flutes on my next return to the kitchen. ‘Take that around the other rooms. People are splintering off.’
‘Are you sure?’ Panic flashes through me. The flutes look expensive and I’m pretty sure the contents are Dom Perignon. ‘The desserts are popular.’
She gives me a look that suggests she’s not paying me to have opinions, so I do what I’m told, making my way down a long, tiled corridor that feels like something from an art gallery, with low-hung pendant lights illuminating tasteful black-and-white photographs of people holding trophies. At the far end is an archway leading into another reception room, almost as big as the first, only with moodier lighting, a selection of white sofas placed at interesting angles and a woman with long platinum hair and bare feet strumming soulfully on a guitar.
I make a circuit, offloading two flutes and gaining three empty ones in return, then carry on into an adjoining sunroom. It’s deserted except for a couple on a daybed behind a palm tree giving off strong Do Not Disturb vibes, so I step through another door on to a terrace. There’s a large, kidney-shaped pool out here, with lights below the waterline so that it shimmers in the darkness like some kind of magical grotto; the effect is so pretty, accompanied by the gentle tinkling sound of a short waterfall, that I can’t resist stopping and staring for a few moments.
It’s so soothing it makes me feel calm in a way I haven’t felt for months, not since before February when Dad called to tell me about his heart scare, the angina attack he said not to worry about but that put him in hospital for three days and means he’ll be on medication for the rest of his life …
I shake my head and focus my attention back on my surroundings, letting them calm me again. I wish I could stay out here all evening, but since Khloe has probably already sensed I’m skiving I turn reluctantly to go back inside.
That’s when I hear a voice call out.
It’s such a surprise that I swivel round on the spot, inadvertently catching my left ankle behind my right foot and tipping myself off balance. I contort wildly, briefly imagining I’ve found my centre of gravity again before I topple forward, sending the entire contents of my tray flying. As if that isn’t enough, I manage to throw the tray too.
Everything seems to happen in slow motion as the champagne flutes arc through the air and land with a cacophony of smashing glass, the final clatter of the tray sounding like the cymbal at the end of a chorus.
‘Shit!’ I exclaim loudly before remembering that somebody else is out here. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It was my fault,’ the voice answers back from the shadows on the other side of the pool. It’s male, with a faintly European accent.
I look down at my ankle, the real culprit, then over my shoulder at the door, wondering how long it will take for Khloe to materialize and sack me. Given the amount of noise I just made, I’m guessing half a minute at most.
‘Are you OK?’ my invisible companion asks. ‘Did you cut yourself?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I tense, wondering if I’m imagining the click of rapidly approaching heels.
I’m not. Khloe appears in front of me suddenly, her expression livid.
‘It was an accident. I’ll clean it up,’ I rush to explain. I hate scenes, but I know there’s no avoiding this one. I only wish we didn’t have an audience – not that anyone else would know he was there.
‘You can’t just sweep it up!’ Her eyes are like laser pointers, flashing so brightly they practically scorch my retinas. ‘It’s glass . They’ll have to drain the pool.’
‘What?’ I’m genuinely mortified. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Enough.’ She holds a hand up, palm outwards. ‘Get your things and go. And don’t expect to be paid for tonight.’
‘I’ll pay for the damage.’ The man speaks again, causing Khloe to emit a high-pitched and extremely satisfying yelp. I think about telling her that’s how my accident happened, but I’d rather not be eviscerated.
Instead I follow her gaze as the man emerges from the shadows and strolls round the edge of the pool towards us. He looks even more gorgeous and glossy than all of the other gorgeous, glossy people, slim yet broad-shouldered, with lightly curling dark hair and cheekbones so sharp you’d probably cut yourself if you got too close, although it might be worth it. Some people would pay a fortune for that kind of bone structure.
He’s not particularly tall, but he moves with a feline grace, and practically exudes confidence and charisma. For a few stunned seconds all I can do is stare. If I were still holding my tray, I’d be in genuine danger of dropping it all over again. It’s honestly ridiculous how good-looking he is. Maybe this really is a magical grotto?
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were there.’ Khloe’s expression turns flustered.
‘I guessed.’ He stops in front of us, dressed in a crisp white shirt and slim-fit black suit, looking vaguely familiar. An actor? If I had to guess, I’d say he plays a vampire in some gothic drama, a sexy, conflicted member of the undead who spends eternity brooding about soulmates.
‘We’ll deal with this inside.’ Khloe’s heels click backwards. ‘Please excuse us.’
He holds a hand up, the way she just did, halting her in her tracks. ‘Actually, if Miss …?’ He turns his head to look me straight in the eye. His are blue, I notice, the same turquoise shade as the swimming pool; piercing yet filled with mysterious dark shadows. Definitely a vampire because I feel mesmerised.
‘Evans?’ I don’t know why I answer like it’s a question, but I can’t seem to help it.
‘If Miss Evans is no longer working tonight, I’d like her to stay as my guest.’ His lips quirk in a half-smile. ‘If you’d like to, that is, Miss Evans?’
‘Um … yes?’ Apparently I’m still asking questions.
‘And we’d like some more champagne,’ he says to Khloe, though he doesn’t shift his gaze from mine. ‘Bring the bottle.’
I lift a hand to my mouth, hiding my grin, as Khloe makes a strangled sound and then storms away.
‘Thank you.’ I burst out laughing the moment I can’t hear clicking any longer. ‘I can’t believe you did that!’
‘She deserved it.’ He slides his hands into his pockets, still smiling that half-smile. ‘So now that you’re officially a guest, what do you think of the party?’
‘I think I don’t meet the dress code.’ I gesture at my practical outfit of three-quarter-length black trousers and black shirt, and then realize I’ve just invited him to check me out.
‘You look good to me.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter, aware of my cheeks warming under his gaze. ‘So I appreciate the help, but I should probably go.’
‘Already?’ His thick, dark brows draw together. ‘Don’t you want her to serve you champagne?’
I open my mouth to say I don’t believe in revenge , then remember I came with Ava and she’s my ride home. If I leave now, I’ll only have to spend the rest of the evening sitting in a car waiting for her to either finish work or get fired as well. I just hope she’s used my accidental distraction to speak with Letitia Haddon, because I’m definitely not providing another.
‘Are you sure you’re allowed to invite me?’ I ask, tempted because I’ve never had Dom Perignon with a vampire before.
‘The invitation said plus one.’
‘But didn’t you bring a date?’ I look over his shoulder, half expecting a supermodel to sashay out of the shadows behind him.
‘No.’ He spreads his hands out. ‘I’m all yours.’
I blink, unable to answer for several seconds because this whole situation is so bizarre and unexpected, and the thought of him actually being all mine makes my pulse stutter. I don’t understand what he’s doing out here by himself or why he’s inviting me to join him. It’s probably just guilt for getting me fired, but then again, what does it matter? Why shouldn’t I have a little champagne?
‘OK.’ I sit on one of the sunloungers beside the pool and stretch my legs out. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He takes the lounger beside mine, as Khloe comes back with a bottle and two flutes. ‘You can put them there.’ He gestures to a table on his other side, waiting until she’s stalked away again before popping the cork, then pouring and handing me a glass.
‘Cheers,’ I say, then realize his own hand is empty. ‘Aren’t you having any?’
‘No, I’m taking a break from alcohol.’
‘Then why did you ask for a bottle?’ I ask in confusion. ‘I can’t drink all of it.’
‘You can try.’ He grins wickedly. ‘I wanted to annoy her.’
I gulp, swallowing a mouthful of bubbles as his grin hits me straight in the stomach. I’ve felt butterflies before, but these ones are so powerful they’re practically bats. Fortunately, another question pops into my head to distract me. ‘But if you didn’t want a drink, why did you call out to me before?’
‘Ah …’ He leans back on his sunlounger, lying close enough for me to catch the scent of something musky and expensive. ‘I wanted to know what you were thinking. You looked like you were daydreaming. It was … captivating.’
I catch my breath as the butterflies flap their wings a little harder. I’ve never been called captivating before. It makes me feel noticed among all these beautiful people.
‘And I was bored,’ he adds.
‘Oh.’ The butterflies drop dead and my stomach contracts into a knot of disappointment. ‘Why didn’t you go inside, if you wanted somebody to talk to?’
‘Because I was sent out here to calm down.’ He lifts a shoulder when I look at him quizzically. ‘I had a minor disagreement with another guest earlier. I’ll be thrown out completely if I show my face again too soon, and there’s no way I’m giving that dickhead Farron the satisfaction.’
I touch a hand to my throat, surprised by the sudden venom in his tone. The name Farron sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. ‘So when you say disagreement, you mean a real fight?’
His grin is more of a smirk this time. ‘Well, we didn’t use pillows.’
‘That’s a minor disagreement?’ I open my eyes wide. ‘Did anyone get hurt?’
He shrugs again, flicking some imaginary dust off his shoulder. ‘I got a smudge on my suit.’
‘O-K.’ I frown and take another sip of champagne. It seems pretty uncool to throw fists at someone’s anniversary party. Maybe there’s more to the story, but him being out here suggests he wasn’t exactly blameless. He doesn’t sound sorry either. He sounds like he’s just morphed from a sexy vampire into an immature asshole. Suddenly I’m no longer mesmerized …
‘So, how do you know the hosts?’ I ask, changing the subject.
He’s the one to look surprised this time. ‘Mark Haddon is my boss.’
‘No way!’ I lift my eyebrows because this sounds a lot more promising. ‘My friend says he runs one of the Formula 1 teams. Are you in racing too?’
‘Something like that.’ He answers slowly, with a kind of bemused expression. ‘You’re not a fan of F1?’
‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘I mean, I’ve seen bits of races, but to be honest I’ve never totally understood how anything with an engine counts as a sport. No offence.’
‘None taken. It’s a common misconception. So what sports do you like?’
Mountain biking . Downhill racing. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get them past my lips. ‘I don’t know. Athletics, tennis, swimming.’ A lightbulb suddenly pops to life in my head. ‘How well do you know your boss’s wife?’
He laughs so hard my cheeks turn hot.
‘Sorry!’ I press my champagne flute to my face to cool it. ‘That came out wrong. I’m only asking because my friend has an F1 podcast and she’d really like an interview with Letitia Haddon. That’s actually the reason I was working tonight, to help her get close enough to ask. She’s basically a Letitia superfan.’ I glance over my shoulder at the house, wishing I could text Ava to let her know where I am, but we weren’t allowed to bring phones in case we took celeb photos and tried to sell them.
‘I know Letitia pretty well,’ my companion says, folding his arms behind his head. ‘What’s the name of your friend’s podcast?’
‘ Single Seat News .’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘That would be amazing!’ I beam at him. Suddenly all my glass smashing seems worthwhile, a stroke of genius even.
‘On one condition.’
My face freezes suspiciously. ‘What condition?’
‘Nothing terrible. Just tell me what your friend thinks of the season so far.’
‘Oh …’ I hesitate, but I can’t see any harm in sharing. ‘Fair enough, but I warn you, I’m not good with names. So she thinks the championship is between three drivers. She liked some new driver at first, but now she thinks he’s thrown his chance away. He’s been in the tabloids a lot recently, partying and drinking and behaving like a total fuckboy—’ I stop talking abruptly, noticing the lift of my companion’s dark eyebrows, like he’s waiting for me to join the dots.
I may not know much about Formula 1, but I’ve caught snippets of it when Ava’s been watching. I realize in a moment of horrible, humiliating clarity why he looks so familiar. He’s not an actor, he’s a driver. That driver. That fuckboy.
Crap.
‘You could have told me who you were.’ I narrow my eyes accusingly.
‘Until a couple of minutes ago, I assumed you already knew. Then I was curious to know what your F1 podcaster friend thinks of me, and now I do.’ A cocky grin spreads over his face, like he’s pleased with himself for having tricked me, despite what I just called him. ‘I’m Giovanni Bauer.’ He winks. ‘You can call me Gio.’
I gulp the last of my champagne and then swing my legs over the side of my lounger. Considering the venue tonight, him being a racing driver makes a lot more sense than small-screen heartthrob, but hindsight is everything. My foot is so far down my throat, there doesn’t seem to be much point in apologizing, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy whose ego is easily dinted. ‘I’ll go wait outside.’
‘You don’t have to.’ He mirrors my movements so that our knees are almost touching. ‘Your friend is right. I’ve been in the headlines for all the wrong reasons lately, but you can tell her I’ve put all that behind me. I plan on being the youngest world champion in Formula 1 history.’
‘Sounds ambitious,’ I say, jutting my chin out. I refuse to say anything more positive when I’m still annoyed at him.
‘I am. I’m also the best driver on the grid this year.’ He tips his head to one side, his gaze holding on to mine like he’s trying to mesmerize me again. ‘Why don’t you come to the race next weekend and watch me prove it? It’s in Montreal.’
‘Canada? That sounds fun, but I just sold my private jet.’ I stand up, breaking eye contact before I can be tempted. It’s an incredible offer, but he can’t be serious. And, anyway, I’m not about to fly halfway around the world with a guy I just met, no matter how attractive he is. Especially not one who’s this arrogant. ‘Now I need to go and find my friend. Good luck winning your championship.’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ He stretches out on his sunlounger again. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your first name before you go, Miss Evans?’
‘Not that you deserve it –’ I hand him my champagne flute like he’s the hired help and I’m the millionaire in this scenario – ‘but it’s Maisie.’
‘Maisie Evans …’ he echoes, like he’s making a point of remembering it.
I turn and walk back into the house, feeling kind of a badass and then totally ridiculous.
As if he’ll ever say my name again.