My god, look at all this,” Seb Ogilvy remarked later that evening as he sauntered, wide-eyed, into the theater at St. Cecilia’s School. “Someone’s made a bloody effort, haven’t they?”
“Yeah,” George Demetrios chortled. “You!” He pointed at the slim navy suit and skinny striped tie that his friend had put on especially for tonight’s event. It was pretty comical. Seb looked like he was at a different party from George, Jasper, Rando, and T, who had all stuck to their habitual uniform of baggy jeans, blazer, and half-tucked button-down shirt.
“Fuck you too,” Seb said. He slipped his tiny whisky flask out of his pocket and took a covert sip. The flask had been a present from his father for his sixteenth birthday, and it was engraved with his initials: SWPO. Sebastian Winston Patrick Ogilvy. He carried it with him everywhere.
He checked the time on his phone. It was six thirty—half an hour before the show was due to start—and the theater foyer was packed. Everywhere were chicly dressed parents, somewhat less chicly dressed teachers, freshly scrubbed Hasted House boys, and the St. Cecilia’s girls who’d been lucky enough to get tickets in the crush before they sold out. The place looked almost unrecognizable, thanks to Sonia’s rather zealous decorating job. Seb pinched the corner of a pashmina that was coiled round a pillar, along with several others. Above it, dozens more pashminas were tacked to the ceiling in waves (or undulations, as Sonia referred to them) so that the whole room looked like the inside of a Bedouin tent. Vases of pastel-colored flowers sat atop white tables, which were stacked with fine cheeses and skewered sausages and pâtés and crudités, not to mention champagne and wine, for the reception.
Seb furrowed his forehead. Wasn’t this soirée meant to be for charity? Good thing they’d spent so much on the refreshments…
Something slapped his hand lightly from behind.
“Naughty boy! Don’t touch.” Sonia flashed a grin—even though she wasn’t joking. Hic! she hiccuped. She’d knocked back a couple of vodka tonics with Alice and Tally backstage to combat her nerves, and it had worked.
“Seb, you look gorgeous.” She stared at him. He totally did. The navy of his suit complemented his deep blue eyes, and his skinny tie was so London cool. It was exactly the kind that stylishly emaciated indie rockers wore. Sonia just knew that the band he and Tristan were launching next month was going to take off. Big time.
“You look… beautiful too,” Seb said nervously.
“Thanks, Sebby. I have to. It’s my night. You know, this whole thing was my idea. I conceived it. The program never lies.” Sonia waved hers in his face.
He nodded, drinking her in. She was wearing a thin, shimmery, floor-length gown (she’d bought it at The Cross in Holland Park), that scooped way low at the back—almost to her ass crack—which meant, Seb realized with a tremor, that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her hair, half-pinned up, reminded him of a waterfall. She seemed taller than usual. He looked down. She was wearing the most gigantic shoes he’d ever seen. If they’d been any higher they would have been stilts.
“Sone!” Jasper squeezed her bare shoulders, rocking up with T and Rando. “Not bad, not bad. Like what you’ve done with the place.”
George Demetrios lumbered over and swept in for a kiss on each cheek. “Hot, darling. Love the costume.”
Sonia narrowed her eyes as she felt his stubble against her skin. Couldn’t people even shave when they came to such an elegant event? She cast a disapproving look at the boys’ outfits. She’d badly wanted to make the evening black tie, but Miss Sharkreve had insisted that no one would come if she did. “The guests are doing us enough of a favor as it is, traveling all the way here,” Sharko had said in that sappy-but-firm voice she liked to use when she was bossing people around.
Favor my ass, Sonia had thought. But she’d settled for smart-casual.
“So,” Rando cleared his throat. His eyes were searching the room. “Where are the others?”
“What others?”
“You know, like Alice and… people.”
His friends snickered.
“They’re backstage beautifying themselves, of course,” Sonia said. “You can’t see the models before the show. It’s like not seeing the bride before the wedding. God.” She rolled her eyes.
“Okay,” Rando said, “no need to—”
“Ooh, I’ve just seen someone I absolutely must talk to,” Sonia cut him off. She pecked Seb’s cheek. “Enjoy the pashminas, boys. See you after!”
T elbowed Seb. “Now we know why you got so dressed up.”
“Aw, is Sebby blushing?” George pinched his cheek.
“No! It’s just hot in here.” Seb yanked his face away and took another sip of whisky. Why couldn’t anyone ever leave him alone? He put the flask back in his pocket, but kept his hand on the lid just in case.
On the other side of the room, Sonia darted through the double doors into the auditorium, trailing her target.
“Hello,” she announced, thrusting herself in front of Bella’s father, Lucian Scott. He jumped.
“Christ, you scared me. Hello there.”
“You probably don’t remember me. I’m Sonia Khan, a friend of Arabella’s? I came to your Christmas party last year?”
“Oh, er, yes, of course,” the director said. “How lovely to see you.”
He clearly hadn’t a clue who she was, but Sonia was undeterred. When she was a famous director, she wouldn’t remember people either—they’d remember her. That was the whole point. There was no way she’d be as fat as Lucian Scott though, she thought, stretching over his stomach to kiss him hello. The man probably hadn’t seen his feet in years.
“I was such a fan of your last film,” she told him. “Gagging for Love is really just phenomenal.”
“That’s very kind. Now, why aren’t you backstage with my daughter and the rest of them, preparing for your big performance?”
“Actually,” Sonia began, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I don’t need to be preparing. See, I’m not strictly in the show. I am the show.”
Lucian Scott raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, like, in the sense that I created it,” she rushed on. “Directed it. You know, like a director. Duh, what am I saying, of course you know. You are one!” She gave a high-pitched giggle. The director frowned and glanced at his watch.
Sonia nearly slapped herself. This was not coming out right. How was she ever going to launch her career if she couldn’t even speak to a fellow auteur?
“Anyway, Lucian, sir, I’m so glad you came.” She hoped the desperation wasn’t coming through in her voice. “The thing is, I wanted to ask you… Since I’m just starting out and everything, it’d be so helpful to have a professional comment on my work. Would you mind terribly telling me what you think of the show?”
Scott’s face softened. “Now, there’s initiative,” he declared. “I appreciate that in young people. Listen, er, Sarah, why don’t we have a talk afterward. If everything goes smoothly, perhaps I can arrange work experience for you on one of my sets.”
“Oh, yes!” Sonia nearly hugged him in excitement. She didn’t even care that he’d forgotten her name. “Thank you, Lucian. It will go smoothly. I know it.”
The lights dipped to dim and then back again. The five-minute signal. “Shit!” Sonia squeaked, stiff with fear. “I’ve got to get to the dressing rooms for my pep talk.”
By now, most people were sitting in their seats, waiting, and the mood was anticipatory. Boys and girls were giggling. Parents were double-checking that their cameras worked. Up near the front, Tristan and his crew were staring at the closed curtains, underneath which they could see girls’ feet scampering about in a panic.
“Reckon this’ll be any good?” Jasper asked T, kicking back.
“Of course. It’ll be legend.” George leaned across. “Half-naked totty parading about for an hour—how could it not be?”
Someone’s mother, sitting in front of him, turned round and cleared her throat disapprovingly.
“I am sorry, madam!” Jasper exclaimed, shaking his head. “Please let me apologize for my friend. Language like that is totally unacceptable.”
“Precisely, young man. At least someone realizes it.”
“I wonder what Dylan will be wearing,” Jas continued, dropping his voice. “I meant to tell you, T, I think she’s hot. That rack? My god.”
“Er, thanks. I think.”
Just then, the lights dimmed all the way.
“Woohoo!” someone squealed, followed by laughter.
The first strains of Vogue serenaded the auditorium—“Christ, not Madonna,” T buried his face in his hands—and slowly, the curtain rose. Thirty girls stood on stage, each frozen in a dramatic pose. They were wearing pashminas in every color of the rainbow, all tied in exactly the same way: knotted at the back and hanging straight like shift dresses at the front. Each girl changed poses sharply in time with the music. Behind them, a video of pashminas waving artistically in the wind was being projected onto the wall. The effect was impressive.
From the audience, the Hasted House boys and St. Cecilia’s girls threw out a few catcalls, and the cheering escalated as the dance started in earnest. All the losers and horrible dancers had been banished to the back two rows, thank god, where they were bobbing from side to side and jigging their arms up and down. One of them was actually snapping her fingers, despite Sonia’s vehement instructions not to.
The cool girls dominated the front of the stage, twirling and swaying their hips and kicking their legs in the air.
“Phwoar,” breathed Jasper, getting several glimpses of underwear.
“I bloody hope they get skimpier than this,” George said.
Tally let herself scan the audience as she went in for a shimmy. Fucking terrifying, those 250 expectant faces, their energy rushing up to her. Neither of her parents was here, but she didn’t care. Only one person mattered. She was dancing her heart out for him.
Next to her, Alice was staring at the light in the projection box at the back of the theater, forcing herself not to look down. She had to concentrate on the routine. She had to ignore the fact that Tristan was in the audience. If she fucked up, not only would he think she was a total fool, but her father would never let it go. Richard Rochester did not condone mistakes.
At the other end of the line, Dylan was throwing in a few flashy moves wherever she could—a superhigh kick, an extra-fast pirouette. This dance was just a warm-up, a piece of cake compared to the Man Muncher. She couldn’t wait.
The song ended. Each girl held her position, panting.
So far so good.