Chapter 10
Even at seven or eight, I knew where I belonged at Rosehill—and it wasn’t in the ballroom.
Particularly during one of my parents’ famous dinner parties.
While the grown-ups drank sherry and waltzed beneath the chandeliers, I stayed tucked away in the kitchen with the caterers, who let me stir sauces and sprinkle herbs like I was part of the team.
I spent hours there, apron tied over my party dress, happily invisible.
But my favorite part of the evening always came after the catering staff packed up and slipped out the side door.
That’s when the stealth portion of the night began.
I’d tiptoe through the house, observing the party from the shadows, crouched in nooks and behind curtains, tucked on stair landings or behind half-closed doors.
I didn’t really need to hide. By that time of night, the guests were too drunk or too distracted to care.
I always carried my diary and pencil with me as I did my rounds, making notes about everything I saw, as if I were a journalist.
I recorded the last entry from the floor of the coat closet, which was why I could only see the people’s feet. I was still in the closet writing up my notes when the door whooshed open and a hand dipped inside, retrieving a fur.
“What are you doing there, scallywag?”
Mum looked like a movie star. She was wearing a cream dress with a glittery cape and heels so high I worried for her ankles.
“To bed,” she said, as I scrambled to my feet. She dropped a kiss on my head. “Scoot.”
I scurried up the stairs. But as I started down the hallway toward my bedroom, I heard something. It sounded breathy and gruff and frightening—and close. I stopped, looked around.
I saw the blond Hollywood hair first—a beacon in the darkness at the end of the hallway against the wall.
Next I saw shoes, glittery gold mules that were attached to creamy white legs that were suspended midair at an odd angle.
For a moment, I thought I was seeing an angel.
Then I realized the legs were wrapped around a black-suited man.
As my eyes adjusted I realized the man’s trousers were pooling around his ankles and his buttocks were visible, clenching and unclenching rhythmically against the woman.
In horror, my eyes fell to the man’s shiny black lace-ups, and that’s when I noticed. The man’s socks were pulled up to mid-calf. They were maroon. With gray diamonds. Pure wool.