EMMA
I’ve learned that charity galas are often more about the party than the donation.
Dresses sparkle, champagne keeps flowing, and everyone pretends to know which fork to use for which course.
At least the food lived up to the hype. The vegetarian courses weren’t just side dishes masquerading as main courses, and I could’ve hugged the chef for the pastry shells that fell apart at the mere touch of a fork.
I was happy to be at one of the round tables near the stage and not in the middle of all the schmoozing.
I had done my duty during cocktail hour by smiling at donors, answering questions about “the writing life” with the usual mix of humility and mystery.
I had even managed to avoid the more scary ones about my next novel.
Now, I could just enjoy the food and conversation.
Our table was lively. Margaret was there, dressed in a beautiful silver dress, sharing anecdotes about one professor who couldn’t stay awake during his own seminars and another one who started his class talking about Shakespeare but always ended up showing his holiday pictures.
Two younger lecturers hung on her every word.
It could have been perfect, except for Henri.
Every time he leaned in, I felt a fresh wave of skin-crawling discomfort.
I looked past him to Margaret, who was entertaining the table with a story about a student who turned in an entire portfolio of haikus about an ex.
I wanted to be a part of that. Not this.
Maybe I could fake choking on a piece of carrot.
But knowing him, he would see it as an excuse to touch me in places that didn’t have anything to do with saving my life.
I reminded myself that men like Henri see ignoring as flirting and arguing as foreplay.
I thought the best strategy was just to wait it out.
But when his hand brushed my arm again, I decided I had earned a break.
“The loo,” I said lightly, dropping my napkin and escaping before he could insist on escorting me.
The bathroom was a sanctuary of soft lighting and black-and-white tiles. I had barely reached the mirror when a voice came from one of the stalls.
“Oh, fuck!”
There was a clatter: a handbag, a door and a string of restrained curses.
“Are you okay in there?” I called, half amused.
The door flew open. A woman with curly hair and a flushed face burst out, clutching the strap of her dress.
“That’s just typical,” she said, laughing and a bit panicked. “Of all nights. My strap broke. I can’t go back out there looking like this, can I? Well, I could, but I don’t want to show off a new side of myself at a fundraiser.”
Her despair was so honest it made me smile. “Don’t worry,” I said, rummaging through my bag. “I might have just the thing.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.” I fished out my little emergency tin, which had plasters, painkillers, hair grips, and yes, a safety pin. I held it up. “Behold.”
She clutched her chest. “You’re a saint.”
“Hardly. Turn.” It wasn’t easy, but I managed to put the strap back into place.
“There,” I said, tugging gently. “It’s not couture, but it’ll hold.”
She looked down, amazed. “You’ve saved me. I was about to try a napkin.”
“That would’ve been memorable. Maybe even cutting-edge.”
Then her eyes widened. “Oh my God,” she said suddenly. “You’re Emma Dawson. The Emma Dawson! I knew I recognized you. The Edinburgh books? I’ve read those books at least three times. And your debut was astonishing. I’ve never felt so connected to a protagonist.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I was half embarrassed, half pleased. Her excitement was so real that it slipped past my usual defences.
I laughed softly. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Grace,” she said, still glowing. “And you have to – absolutely have to – come sit at my table. Please. We’ll talk books properly, without any interruptions.”
Her warmth was such a contrast to Henri’s company that I almost melted. “I’d love to,” I said. “Let me check in at my table first, so they don’t think I’ve been abducted.”
“Of course,” she said. “But don’t you dare run off. I’ll wave until you come.”
“Deal.”
Back in the dining room, Henri was already half-standing. I slid into my seat just long enough to tell Margaret, “I’ve run into a friend and promised to join her.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked to Henri, then back to me with instant, silent understanding. “We’ll guard your chair.”
“A glare will do,” I said.
Henri turned towards me. “But we were about to–”
“Hold that thought,” I said, kind but firm. “I won’t be long.” And I was gone before he could turn it into an argument.
Grace was easy to spot; she was already waving with a smile that lit up the room. I walked over to her table, relieved to be going somewhere I wanted to be.