Chapter Thirty One The First Dance
The first dance was James’s idea of romance, which is to say, it was awkward, sincere and utterly charming.
DJ Stardust played their song: something unexpected that had meaning only to them. It was from the night at the fish and chip shop on the South Bank, a song that had been playing on someone’s phone while they sat on a bench watching the Thames, their first real date, the moment they really clicked.
James couldn’t dance. Not really. He moved more or less in time with the music, his feet finding a rhythm that was adjacent to the beat if not precisely on it. He held Anastasia close, one hand on her waist, the other clasping her fingers and tried very hard not to step on her.
He did, but not on purpose, either time.
‘Sorry,’ he whispered, the second time. ‘I tried lessons. The instructor said I was ‘uniquely resistant to rhythm.’’
‘You’re terrible at this,’ Anastasia said.
‘I know.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Really?’
‘I care that you tried.’ She looked up at him and something in her expression softened, the mask slipping, just for a moment, to reveal something real beneath.
‘I care that you’re here. That you chose me.
That despite everything, despite not knowing anything about me, you’re still here, still holding me, still looking at me like I’m something precious. ’
‘You are something precious.’
‘James...’
‘I mean it. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of it.’
They danced. Around them, other couples joined the floor: Gerald leading Elizabeth in a waltz that was considerably more competent than James’s shuffling, Granny dancing with the Reverend Tobias in a way that suggested both of them had done this before in circumstances best not discussed.
The snow fell outside the windows. The fairy lights twinkled. For one song, nothing else mattered.
James and Anastasia’s first dance was lovely, understated, exactly right; but then the rest of dance floor filled up with guests whose enthusiasm often overwhelmed ability.
Rupert and Mei took to the floor with a confidence that belied the destruction they were about to cause.
‘Watch your toes,’ Freddie advised, backing away to a safe distance. ‘Rupert dances like he plays rugby. Lots of movement, minimal precision.’
This proved, if anything, an understatement.
Rupert danced with the enthusiasm of a man who had never met a beat he couldn’t ignore.
He threw Mei into spins that seemed to defy physics.
He lifted her overhead at moments that had not been choreographed and set her down in locations she had not anticipated.
At one point, he executed a move that might have been a dip or might have been a controlled fall (the distinction was unclear) and Mei emerged laughing, windswept and surprisingly unhurt.
‘They’re clearing the floor,’ Camilla observed, watching the other dancers retreat to safety. ‘Actually clearing it. That’s almost impressive.’
‘Rupert takes up a lot of space,’ I said. ‘In every sense.’
‘He really does.’ She raised her champagne. ‘To dangerous dancers everywhere.’
They danced completely oblivious to everyone else, locked in their moment. Around them, an exclusion zone formed naturally: stamped toes and elbowed ribs establishing boundaries that no one dared cross twice.
Sophie found Archie at the bar, approximately three hours into the reception, nursing a whisky and looking unusually thoughtful.
‘You remembered my name all evening,’ she said, sliding onto the stool beside him. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘I’ve been practicing.’ He met her eyes. ‘In the mirror. Before events: Her name is Sophie, her name is Sophie, her name is Sophie. Very embarrassing if anyone overhears.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because you deserve someone who remembers your name. At minimum. You probably deserve quite a lot more actually, but name-remembering seemed like a good place to start.’
Sophie was quiet for a moment. ‘That might be the most thoughtful thing you’ve ever said to me.’
‘I have depths. Very shallow depths, admittedly. More like a paddling pool than an ocean. But depths nonetheless.’
‘Archie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Would you like to get out of here? Go somewhere quiet and have a conversation that lasts longer than three sentences?’
Archie looked at her, really looked, perhaps for the first time since they’d met and saw someone who was smart and kind and inexplicably willing to give him a chance.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think I really would.’
They slipped out together and I didn’t see either of them again until morning.
Marcus, freed from the restraints of countryside reserve by champagne and celebration, turned out to be an unexpectedly enthusiastic presence on the dance floor.
‘He has hidden depths,’ Tariq said to me, watching Marcus attempt something that might have been voguing. ‘So hidden, that it takes quite a party to bring them out.’
‘He’s having fun.’
‘He’s having the time of his life. I rarely get to see him like this. Usually, he’s all soil pH levels and sheep vaccination schedules. This is... a different side to him.’
Marcus caught Tariq’s eye across the dance floor and beckoned with a theatrical gesture.
‘I think you’re being summoned.’
‘I think I am.’ Tariq grinned. ‘Wish me luck. If Robbie Williams comes on, I am in for some serious dancing.’
He walked over and into the arms of a surprisingly competent dance partner. The sheep farmer and the immaculate urbanite moved together with an ease that suggested they had found their rhythm long before the music started.
‘They’re good together,’ Anastasia said, appearing beside me. ‘Tariq and Marcus. Different, but good.’
‘Opposites attract.’
‘Do they? I’ve never been sure about that.’ She watched them for a moment. ‘I think it’s more that they see each other. Really see. That’s rarer than attraction.’
‘Speaking from experience?’
‘Speaking from observation.’ She smiled, that small, private smile that suggested she knew more than she was saying. ‘James sees me. Most people look at me and see what they expect to see. He looks and sees... something else. Something I’m not sure I knew was there until he found it.’
‘That’s very romantic.’
‘It’s very true.’ She touched my arm lightly. ‘Thank you, Henry. For being here. For being his friend. For all of it.’
‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘You’ve done more than you know.’ And she was gone, swept away by the crowd, returning to her husband, her wedding and her new life.
I watched her go, this woman of secrets and shadows and I thought: whatever you are, whatever you’ve done, you make him happy. And maybe that’s enough.
It had to be enough.
???
During the chaos of the dancefloor, Anastasia slipped away.
A flash of white disappearing through a side door, moving with the purposeful efficiency of someone who knew exactly where she was going and what she planned to do when she got there.
The balloon was hidden away waiting for the grand exit, beyond the formal gardens, in a clearing. It was a beautiful thing, a traditional hot air balloon in deep blue with silver trim, the basket large enough for two, the burner ticking over, a hamper and cool box in the corner.
Their grand exit, which she had realised Viktor was planning to use as an escape vehicle. His way out when everything was done.
Anastasia worked quickly. She had the wire from champagne cages she picked up on her way through and a small bag that clinked softly with other items she had liberated from the party.
Combined with her stiletto and the skills that Viktor had taught her years ago and probably regretted teaching now, she was ready.
She rigged the balloon with the efficiency of someone who had done this before, or something like it.
The knife was stabbed in near the burner mechanism.
The wire created connections with the other elements and some bottles of liquid, liberated from the ushers’ supplies and positioned with surgical precision completed it.
The balloon would still take off. It would just have a limited range.
A very limited range.
She finished her work and stepped back, examining it with a critical eye. Satisfied, she returned to the party.
???
Midnight came far too fast.
James and Anastasia stood at the top of the grand staircase, framed by the great doors that led out onto the terrace. The guests had gathered below, champagne glasses raised, ready to toast the couple’s departure, a romantic exit into the night sky.
But James had a surprise.
‘I know you didn’t want the string quartet,’ he said, taking Anastasia’s hand. ‘And I know my mother’s plans weren’t really what you wanted. So I thought, maybe fireworks? Because you deserve something spectacular.’
‘James...’
‘Just watch.’
He signalled. A single rocket went up from the east lawn, trailing sparks and exploded in a cascade of gold and silver light.
???
As soon as the couple came onto the staircase, Viktor launched his drone into attack mode.
It rose from behind the house, a dark shape against the darker sky, moving with purpose toward the staircase where James and Anastasia stood.
It was a simple piece of equipment, a high-quality commercial drone, with a bomb slung below it.
His experience in Kiev had shown how effective this could be.
He designated them as the target and the autopilot instantly locked on to their coordinates. It was foolproof.
The fireworks launched from the east lawn, a huge volley to kick-start the display with a big bang. The drone flew straight into them, into a wall of searing light and flame that nothing could survive. It didn’t.
The resulting explosion was spectacular.
The drone disintegrated in a shower of sparks that merged seamlessly with the fireworks display, a burst of orange and red that seemed almost designed to be part of the show.
‘Did you see that one?’ James was delighted, pointing at the sky. ‘I asked for something big and they DELIVERED!’
The guests cheered. Someone started chanting ‘More! More!’ and the fireworks obliged, rocket after rocket painting the sky in colours that would be talked about for years.
Viktor stood at the edge of the crowd, watching his drone explode into a thousand pieces as part of what everyone assumed was the finale.
It wasn’t the finale; there were ten more minutes of fireworks. James had after all paid extra.
But it was the end for him. He had played his cards and he had been defeated by lobsters, snobbery, rugby players, an ancient sword and unexpected fireworks.
Anastasia knew what he had tried to do, he could tell by her face. It was time to leave and not by the front door. Viktor’s face was perfectly composed, but as he walked towards the grounds, he was a defeated man, with only one option left. The balloon and escape.