Chapter Thirty-Five Adrianna
Chapter Thirty-Five
ADRIANNA
Passing through the thick studded door of Fortune House brought a wave of emotions. I manage to get five minutes alone to call Mark, before we all need to reconvene.
As the call connects, it’s such a relief to see his handsome face.
‘Adrianna.’ At the sound of his voice my whole body relaxes. He’s my rock in a sea of illusions. ‘How is security out on the island?’
‘It’s good,’ I assure him, checking the little thumbnail image of myself in the phone, to be sure my face matches the words.
‘Not strange to be back?’
‘Ophelia has changed all the design,’ I say, opting for a half answer. ‘Did she speak to you about the table arrangements?’
He nods. ‘She also let slip that the bridesmaids had a fight, the night Simone died,’ he says pointedly. ‘You never told me that.’
‘Oh,’ I let out a ringing little laugh. ‘Ophelia can be a little dramatic. I wouldn’t have called it a fight. All girls together in a hotel, on the night of a wedding demo. It can get a little catty.’ I curl a strand of hair around my finger, wondering what to tell him.
‘Particularly when Georgia decides to make the unveiling of your bridesmaids a big staged occasion, and none of them knew who the others would be,’ says Mark.
‘Yeah,’ I examine a pink fingernail. ‘Maximum drama, right? It made for good pictures.’
‘That’s what the fight was about?’ he suggests. ‘Some of the girls weren’t happy to share space with the others?’
‘I told you, it wasn’t a fight. And we’re all Kensington Manor girls. We keep our jealousies hidden.’ I sigh. ‘Simone was talking about her latest show, is all. She wanted to shoot some scenes for Wrongfully Accused out on Elysium. Petra and Georgia didn’t like the idea.’
‘They didn’t?’
‘Of course not. Georgia doesn’t want all that old crime stuff raked over.
Not unless she’s executive producer. And Petra …
she’s always the one the conspiracy theorists accuse, isn’t she?
’ I hesitate. Flashes of paranoia grip me.
Mark can be trusted, can’t he? Every last one of my boyfriends sold stories about me to the newspapers.
‘I have to go,’ I tell him. ‘Cake tasting.’
We end the call, and I try to push aside the conversation. But I can’t.
My bridesmaids. Box-bright Ophelia with her orange hair and wide smile. Troubled Silky, pale and jittery. Platinum-blonde, long-limbed Petra, with her forceful supermodel stare. Buttoned-down Georgia, pin-neat and tightly smiling.
Simone.
And a whole lot of history.
We’ve all met back in the vestibule after a hair and make-up retouch; it’s hard not to feel overwhelmed. The cool air of the reception area smells of scrubbed wood and fresh paint.
Ophelia’s designs for Fortune House seemed like a good idea, back in New York. Now I’m actually here … Georgia is going to freak out when she finds out about the new bar.
I fix on my best hostess smile, and take in the new decor.
The high walls have been stripped back to bare, pitted plaster, and painstakingly hand-illustrated with vivid, jewel-bright jungle vines.
Midnight-blue skirting and dado rails frame the savage wilderness in polished paint.
It’s a clever contrast. Like a gothic jungle, or a midnight tropical garden.
‘It’s perfect,’ I exclaim, in a pitch several notes higher than I intended. I clap my hands together firmly. ‘Exactly on brand.’ This time my dazzling smile lands correctly.
‘Remember how it was before?’ Petra’s voice is languid, as if the whole business of hanging out with us amuses her.
‘Red flock wallpaper. Fake gold palm trees. Crystal chandeliers.’ She stands a little apart from the others, I notice with a crackle of annoyance.
As if she owns the place, in her rock-singer attire.
Luckily, Ophelia fires up, before I have to wrestle down my hatred of Petra into a polite reply.
‘Do you want to see the secret bar?’ she asks.
‘What secret bar?’ Georgia addresses me, not even bothering to look at Ophelia. ‘I thought we weren’t doing that?’
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ I tell her, even though I know Georgia hates surprises.
‘O-kay.’ Georgia’s confusion is evident as she and the others follow me down the hallway. ‘Why are we going this way?’ she asks. ‘This leads toward the library. Dri shouldn’t be here.’
‘I’m OK,’ I say, but my voice sounds strange.
As we walk through the library doors, Georgia makes a strange little internalized yelp of deep horror. Her fists are tight balls at her sides.
‘Ophelia,’ hisses Georgia, ‘please tell me this isn’t what I think it is?’
Even Petra has a shocked cast to her elfin features.
‘I remember this room,’ she says, her Swedish accent thicker than usual. ‘Wasn’t this … where the entrance to the panic room was?’