CHAPTER 5
Emma spun to find a young man with a smile so greased, it slipped from her face to her cleavage almost instantly. It was the one who’d been staring at her earlier.
“What’s this pretty little piece, eh?”
He very nearly would have been handsome, if he hadn’t looked so much like a weasel. Emma tried to edge past him, but the boy was blocking the corridor.
“Emma. I—I’m here with Julia,” she said, unpleasantly conscious of the low back of her dress, the cold air pricking her exposed skin.
“Fresh meat? Oh, lovely stuff. Can’t believe Julia’s been keeping you hidden away.
We’re gasping for fresh talent around here.
You don’t fancy slipping off together and—No?
Ha ha! Reckon the old GF wouldn’t be such a fan of that either.
She’s lurking about somewhere. Not a word, eh?
Got lost, did you? Don’t blame you. We’ve nothing like this at Fenchurch College, it’s all bloody Queen Anne architecture.
Ups-a-daisy—the drinks are through here.
Mind you don’t let anyone lure you away to a shady corner—unless it’s me, ha!
Ha! Piers Popwell, by the way—one of Jasper’s mates from school.
Eton, that is. Everyone calls me Peeper—”
He ushered her along. She peeled her lower back away from his hand.
“Now, you park your bottom here a minute; I’ll get us some—” He turned back. “Where’s she—? Bloody females.”
Pressed against the other side of a door, Emma chuckled to herself. Her escape from the corridor had brought her out somewhere at the back of the building, at the top of a flight of steps. They sank into a dark courtyard garden.
From the other side of the door, a particularly loud bump and a torrent of swearing indicated that Piers might have tried kicking the wall.
Emma snorted, then clapped her hand to her face.
It would be just her luck to give herself away.
But the door didn’t open. Emma waited, and Piers’ steps faded into silence.
The wind whispered through the olive trees in the garden below.
“Now, that was an intriguing entrance.”
Emma whirled around.
From the darkness, a cigarette flared. In its momentary glow, Emma made out a bright eye. The sharp edge of a cheekbone.
“I wonder what brought you outside in such a hurry?”
The voice was cultured, hovering somewhere between boredom and amusement.
Emma stumbled down the steps toward it. “What—who—what are you doing out here, in the dark?”
“Couldn’t I ask you the same thing?”
The speaker lounged against an olive trunk.
The party spilled enough light to hint at the burnt-tan hand around his cigarette, the gold threading his messy curls.
Emma moved closer. The boy was slim but powerfully built, like a big cat.
After a night navigating rooms of waistcoats and blazers, his loose T-shirt was a shock to Emma’s system.
The cotton looked soft with age. Careless, comfortable.
Emma wriggled inside her black velvet armor, feeling envious.
And as the boy turned his face into the light, Emma felt her throat catch.
She had once seen a statue of Apollo at a museum, she remembered dazedly.
And although usually she preferred the beauty of living things to the still, cold art humans kept in their galleries, something about this statue had gripped her.
She had stared at the perfect lines of cheek and belly and thigh.
The princely nose, the fierce eyes. That stone Apollo had looked as though he were about to leap from his plinth and sprint into the forest. The boy in front of her had the same sense of power, barely concealed in stillness.
Unused to being confronted by specimens of masculine perfection, Emma retreated into idiocy. She pointed at him—actually pointed—and asked the only thing that came to mind:
“What happened to your arm?”
The young man rubbed the welts that scored his forearm, rippling and purple. A rueful grin made him suddenly, and welcomely, more human.
“This? Being an idiot. I dove right onto a box jellyfish last year.”
Emma couldn’t repress a shudder. “A box jelly?” No wonder he still had the scars. Their venom was legendary.
“Yeah, just off the Tasmanian coast.”
Emma had been inspecting the scars with awe. But at this, her head snapped up.
The stranger tossed the cigarette into the shrubbery and leaned against the wall.
“It was after the Sydney-Hobart race, if you know it? The rest of the crew stayed with the yacht, but me’n one of the other guys, we rented a dinghy to explore the coast. The water was incredible, so—well, I jumped in, and found myself in a passionate embrace with a box jelly. ”
He looked at her, waiting for a laugh.
“You’re the photographer,” she said, a wordless joy creeping through her. She was certain. This slim young god, with the messy hair and careless clothes, was the one who had arranged those images on the walls.
“I’ve been in your bedroom,” she added, before she could stop herself.
That startled him out of his languid lean. He cocked his head to one side, eyes sparkling. “Oh yes?”
“I saw a photograph there. In your room. Of the rocks outside Hobart.”
“The organ pipe cliff,” he said slowly. “Yes, with—”
“—the seal colony,” Emma finished. “I loved it. I used to spend hours there, just watching them.”
The knowing smile had slipped from his face. He looked years younger, and eager, as though he were running up on a beach to ask if she wanted to play skipping stones.
“You know it?”
“I lived near there. When I was younger.” She grinned back at him. “We’d go to the national park on weekends. That photo caught how I remember it feeling, exactly. The sun, the waves. And that was you, wasn’t it? Your photo. Your bedroom.”
He shook his head in wonder. “Well—yeah. You got all that from me telling you about diving onto a jelly?”
“As soon as you said you’d been to Tasmania, really.”
The boy let out a delighted laugh. “Just when you think there’s nothing new in the world to surprise you—” He swung her around to a stone bench and sat them both down. “I think we should get introduced.”
“I’m Emma. Emma Curran.”
“Emma Curran, who lived in Tasmania. And loved the seals. And who still hasn’t said why she’s hiding at a party.”
“I’m not hiding.”
The photographer just grinned at her. Venetia had been mad to call him boring. The famous Jasper’s roommate—Richard, Emma remembered, that was what Julia had said—was certainly not as loud as the boors in tailcoats inside. But fascination rolled from him, stronger than anyone she’d met.
“Fine. I am hiding. This party isn’t for me. No offence to your roommate.”
“My roommate?”
“The great Jasper Balfour. King of the so-called Society, or whatever that secret nonsense is,” said Emma, made reckless by the warmth of several glasses of wine inside her.
The photographer shifted on the bench beside her.
“I’m sorry, I know he’s your friend. But the way people talk about him.
To make a big deal of inviting everyone here, and then not turn up to his own party? How pretentious is that?”
“Oh, very,” said the photographer, picking a stray leaf from his jeans with a small and curious smile. “Seriously pretentious.”
“Yes,” said Emma, warming to her theme. “And the way people talk about him. Like his money makes him important. Like that’s what matters, how extravagant his parties are. How many private jet rides he takes them on. It’s just stupid. And sad. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” the photographer said quietly. He was shredding the leaf to pieces. “I actually do.”
He shot a sideways glance at her. “And you don’t care? About that stuff?”
A sudden vision rose in Emma’s mind. She was in a ball gown, layers of tulle frothing around her seat belt. She watched the earth drop away from the window, felt Julia’s hand in hers. Next stop, Paris, someone crowed.
Emma crushed the thought. “No,” she said quickly. “I don’t care. At all.”
“Then you’re cleverer than most people.”
A bang made them both jump. The door at the top of the stairs had flown open. The noise of the party spilled out around a boy in a tailcoat.
“Come on, we’re about to crack open the port old Cranner’s brought. Spence said you were skulking outside.”
The photographer’s face crinkled in a grimace. He ducked his head.
The figure leaned out farther.
“Oy, Jasper. You still down there?”
The courtyard was silent for a moment.
“Er, yeah—be up in a minute, mate.”
The photographer looked at Emma, who was sure her face couldn’t have been more aghast if a tree root had burst up through the concrete and dragged the whole building down into the depths of the earth, like a kraken.
“Jasper,” she said, in a voice of calm despair. “You’re not Richard. You’re Jasper.”
A mischievous dimple hovered in his cheek. “I’m afraid so. The ‘great Jasper Balfour,’ as you put it.”
She sprang from the bench.
“No—wait, don’t go.” He clasped her wrist, laughing, and pulled her back. “I’m sorry. You were right, anyway. About how stupid it is, all the people in there who only care about my parents’ money.”
“I’m sorry I said that.”
“It’s true, though.” His voice was laced with bitterness. “None of those people see me. Not really. They want Jasper Balfour.”
“And you don’t want to be that?”
“Look, I wasn’t even meant to be here this year. I wanted to be sailing the world, far away from—” He waved a hand at the building, where writhing shapes pressed against the windows. “My yacht was all ready.”
“And they’d let you take the year off?” Emma asked.