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HETTIE GOT A LIFT TO the party with Imogen and Helen, glad she wouldn’t have to walk in on her own. She wished she hadn’t agreed to go. The dress looked awful. Her efforts to liven it up with beads and bangles hadn’t achieved the boho chic she’d been trying for. She’d left her hair loose so she had something to hide behind.
As they drove past her old cottage, Hettie turned her head. Her eyes locked on to the lit kitchen window and stayed on it as the car moved on. She’d been happy in that little house. Life had been simple then. Could that only have been a couple of years ago? It felt so much longer, before the adventures of travel and building her business, before breaking her leg and breaking her relationship.
She leant back in the seat. Draymere Hall was in front of her now, lit up, dressed for a party. Floodlights on the lawn bathed the walls honey gold, with an imposing backdrop of ancient trees in dark silhouette. Lights shone out of every mullioned window. The doors stood open, drawing the eye, tempting guests towards the stone steps and into the warmth. Imogen parked the car.
Hettie ran her fingers through her curls and straightened her back. They walked towards the doors amidst a throng of other guests. The men were smartly buttoned in formal black tie, the women colourful blooms on their partners’ arms, faltering on the gravel in unforgiving heels. She hoped her own limp wasn’t too obvious.
White-shirted stewards stood in the galleried entrance, bearing trays of champagne. She grabbed a glass and seriously considered taking two.
Ted and Anju stood at the door of the dining room, receiving their guests. Anju was resplendent in a turquoise satin saree, her dark hair luminous in contrast. Hettie waved. Anju waved back and rushed over, deserting her place in the receiving line. ‘Thank goodness, someone I know at last! I think Grace invited the whole county.’
‘Never safe to let Grace off the leash with a party, but she’s done a great job. The Hall looks fantastic, and you look stunning, Anj. Imo’s here too, you know her...’ She glanced behind her, but Imogen and Helen were gone. She looked towards the vast dining room with its tables and a throng of bodies, all lit from above by sparkling droplets on crystal chandeliers. Beyond the French doors, she glimpsed the marquee, with its black draping and LED star lights.
Anju followed the direction of her gaze and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And this is only the engagement party. How the hell do we follow this?’ She scooped her hair back over her shoulders. ‘I’d better get back to my duties. Find me later!’
She hadn’t caught sight of Alexander yet, and she still couldn’t see Imo, but Grace was bearing down on her, metallic sequins glittering at the neckline of her dress, tulle swooping around her legs. She looked unusually anxious. Taking her hands, Grace pulled her aside. ‘Hettie, I have to warn you. Alexander has brought a date. Some girl who works at the practice. I’m so sorry. I should have told you sooner.’
She felt bleak and nauseous. More than just shagging then. She wanted to turn and leave, but she was damned if she would make a show of herself or let anyone else see just how much this hurt. Tonight was Ted and Anju’s night, and Grace’s. All she had to do was fake it. Smile for an hour, avoid Alexander and then she could go, call a taxi and get out back to the sanctuary of her bungalow, curl up on the sofa and fall apart as much as she wanted to. ‘Don’t be daft, Grace. It isn’t your fault, and it definitely isn’t a problem for me.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious—’
‘Stop it! Do I look bothered? Relax and enjoy your party. You must have been working for weeks! The place looks amazing, and that dress is gorgeous.’
‘Oh Hettie, are you sure?’ Grace glanced over her shoulder at the gathering crowd. ‘Well, make sure that you enjoy the party too. You look... lovely...’
She saw the flicker of confusion when Grace took in her outfit. In other circumstances she might have chuckled, but she was beginning to feel slightly hysterical, stuck in a strange panicky pause between laughter and tears.
She just had to get through the hour.
She swigged her champagne and saw Fred heading towards her with his tray of canapés tilted at an alarming angle. She rescued him and then spent a desperate twenty minutes moving through the dining room with a smile fixed on her face, waving at clients and acquaintances. She collected a second glass of champagne.
When she finally saw him, her stomach clenched. His back was to her, but he looked so bloody good: the dark hair on his neck above the white collar, wide-shouldered in his black jacket. She wanted to hit him.
Him or the stunning blonde standing next to him. She tried to make herself walk away but they were laughing together, and her legs wouldn’t move.
‘Hettie!’ Tom called her name, and the shout caught Alexander’s attention.
He turned his head to look, and their eyes connected. Her heart kicked in her chest. Alexander nodded and went back to his conversation.
Once Tom had found her, he seemed reluctant to leave her side. They linked up with Ewan and Clare, which felt more comfortable than standing on her own or being alone with Tom, so she stuck with the group, but stood a step back from the circle they formed, keeping her mouth shut and her thoughts to herself.
Clare mouthed, ‘Are you okay?’
She shrugged in response. She wondered what the time was, declined an offer of cream cheese blinis and sipped her champagne.
When their group moved to the marquee, she took that as a chance to slip away. ‘I’m going out for a fag. On my own,’ she added, when Tom made to follow.
––––––––
IT WAS A RELIEF TO be outside and alone at last. She sat down on the grass and rolled a cigarette. The ground was cool and damp, but her leg was throbbing and frankly, at this point in the evening, she didn’t give a shit. She tried to recount all the positives in her life: the dogs, her business, Lockie. It didn’t work.
Music pumped and the canvas walls of the marquee flashed with coloured lights, but she’d never been in less of a party mood in her life. She made her way towards the patio, intent on escape through the kitchen garden, when the curtain flap of the marquee slapped open. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Fiona emerge.
‘Sneaking off? Well, that’s bad form.’
‘Trying to. Until you spotted me.’ It was only Fiona, she could just keep walking.
‘Welcome to the bitter rejects club.’
‘Yeah. You must be enjoying this.’
Fiona frowned and waved her arm in a strange circular motion that could have meant anything. ‘I should be, shouldn’t I? But I’m not. I’m rather bored of being a bitter reject.’
Hettie sighed. Fiona looked too drunk to notice if she left, but walking away would be rude given that she’d helped her out for the last six weeks. Instead, she limped back towards the marquee. ‘Good for you.’
‘Have you got a spare fag?’
‘Sure. I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I don’t. Stay there. I’ll grab us a bottle of champers.’
Shit. She sat back down on the grass. She hadn’t thought her evening could get any worse.
‘Tobacco! Dear Lord, you really are taking the hippie look seriously.’ Fiona found her own joke hilarious. She chortled for the entire time it took Hettie to roll two cigarettes.
Hettie found herself chuckling too. ‘It’s all I can afford at the moment. Do you want one or not?’
She took the champagne from Fiona and swigged from the neck of the bottle. What the hell did she have to laugh about? Here she was, a bitter reject, in a crappy outfit, sitting on the wet grass with Fiona while the party went on behind them.
Fiona smoked with pursed lips, and without inhaling, which gave Hettie the giggles. Hysteria or hilarity, the mood was infectious, and their laughter burst out often as they passed the bottle between them. Oiled by alcohol, their discussion swooped from deep to idiotic. Drunk and damp through to her underwear, Hettie rolled onto her front. Fiona lay on her back with her arms splayed wide and her hair in disarray around her head. She accidentally inhaled mid laugh, which brought on a bout of choking. Hettie slapped her on the back, vigorously enough to get a buzz of sadistic satisfaction, until the movement made her nauseous. ‘I need to go home. Before I make a fool of myself.’
‘You made a fool of yourself when you turned up in that hideous outfit,’ Fiona croaked, post coughing fit.
Hettie snorted laughter. ‘Christ, you really are a professional bitch, Fiona. Respect.’
‘It’s the only profession I’ve got.’
‘Can’t see that you need one with all your money.’
‘I can’t live off Daddy for the rest of my life!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s bloody well told me I can’t!’
This made them both collapse into giggles again.
‘Besides,’ Fiona continued when they stopped laughing, ‘it’s not very good for the pride.’
Poor little rich girl, Hettie thought. She wasn’t quite drunk enough to say the words out loud. ‘What will you do then?’
‘Fuck knows.’ Fiona upended the bottle of champagne and tipped the last few drips into her open mouth. ‘Not many openings for a professional bitch.’
‘You’re really good with Oscar.’
‘And you can see me as a carer?’
‘I can when you’re with Oscar. Not so much the rest of the time.’ Hettie rolled onto her side and propped herself up on one arm. The effort made her giddy. ‘I think I might throw up.’
‘Lightweight.’ Fiona glanced back at the Hall. ‘I ought to go back in.’
‘You’d better do something with your hair then. I’m not going back.’
Fiona peered at her. ‘Don’t waste too much of your life mooning after him. I made that mistake. He chews women up and spits them out. It’s who he is.’
‘It wasn’t really his fault this time.’
‘No, I heard. Alexander Almighty was the shat on instead of the shitter, for once. Respect returned, Redfern. But, unlike the rest of us, Alexander gets to parade his wounded pride like a badge of honour. Hypocritical bastard.’
Hettie wanted to cheer, but somewhere, deep down, she also felt a need to defend Alexander. She knew him, better than she wanted to. She knew that he’d spent his whole adult life making sure he couldn’t be hurt again. And he’d trusted her. But what she’d done was trivial really, a minor sin. Hettie slumped back on the grass. As trivial as walking into Lockie’s stable and jabbing him in the ribs. That thought made her wince. She knew what reaction she’d get there too. Not that she would ever do that to Lockie. Christ, it would be so much easier if she could just believe that he was a hypocritical bastard. And he was a bastard, sometimes.
This thinking was making her head throb. What a relief it would be to let rip, tell Fiona how mad she was with him. But, even in her drunken state, Hettie knew this was not a conversation she should be having with Fiona. Fi wasn’t trustworthy. Fi would share it.
This was her business. Hers and Alexander’s.
––––––––
DESPITE HIS DETERMINATION to enjoy the evening, Alexander was rattled, and it was Hettie who rattled him. That look had been painful. He’d felt it in his gut, and he’d sensed that she had too. And then he’d felt guilty for bringing Ruby when he’d known Hettie would be there. That had been thoughtless. He raked his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t thoughtless, it was cruel, because he had thought about it. He got angry then, he wasn’t sure who with. Angry and uncomfortable, his thoughts conflicted. She’d cheated on him, so why the fuck should he feel guilty? He tried to concentrate on the conversation going on around him, laid his hand in the small of Ruby’s back. She looked good in that tight black dress, but Hettie looked fantastic, arresting and heartbreaking, in that floaty dress with her curls framing her face. His fingers curled into a fist. He shook his head and laughed when someone made a joke. Ruby was speaking. He’d missed what she said... and yet he could still pinpoint Hettie’s position, as if an invisible cable were dragging his consciousness to her. He dragged it back, dropping his arm around Ruby’s shoulders. ‘Time for some dancing, I think.’
She smiled up at him, and they moved together towards the marquee. From the corner of his vision, he saw Tom moving in on Hettie.
The crush in the marquee was hot and heady with dancing bodies, live music and coloured lights sweeping over the crowd. Ted and Anju jived to cries of encouragement. Alexander felt a rush of sentimental nostalgia; his little brother looked so happy in his hurtle towards his new life. But the throb of the music and the spinning lights were getting to him.
Claustrophobia needled and, in spite of his efforts to shut it up, his radar alerted him that Hettie was no longer there. He ignored it and tracked Tom’s movements instead. He watched Tom duck out through the flap of the marquee, and he couldn’t resist the urge to follow him. He told himself he needed to go out, that the fresh air would do him good.
He tapped Ruby’s shoulder and signalled over the music that he was going outside to smoke. She nodded and waved him off.
Fiona was sitting on the grass with her skirt spread around her. She raised a bottle in his direction. ‘Alexander! Join the real party!’
He felt bewildered for a moment, dazed by the sudden cool air, his hearing still muted from the blare of the music. Tom was beside Hettie, patting her back. She was bent over and vomiting into the flowerbed. Fiona, off her head, waved a bottle and looked like she’d been in a fight.
‘What the fuck have you done to her?’
‘Me? You did that, you twat.’
Alexander was distracted from trying to work out what she meant when he overheard Tom offering to take Hettie home. He walked over to them. ‘Just pissed then.’ It was a question, but the way it came out, it sounded more like a judgement.
Hettie retched again. ‘Fuck off, both of you. You most of all.’
The two men looked at each other. Tom spoke first. ‘It’s okay, I’ll make sure she gets home safe—’
‘No need. We have cabs lined up on the drive for that purpose.’ He turned back to Hettie, pathetically doubled over. All he could see was the back of her head. This wasn’t his fault. He’d done nothing wrong. But was he really going to let her get in a cab and go home alone just because he couldn’t stand to see somebody else looking after her? He didn’t move, and Tom kept patting Hettie’s back. He wanted to swat Tom’s hand away. Who did she want to fuck off most of all?
Unnoticed by either of them, Fiona struggled to her feet. She stood an impressive six foot in her heels, on which she wobbled only slightly. Thrusting her not insignificant bosom, she shouted across at them, ‘You heard the lady, and she said fuck off! Get back to the party, both of you. I will take care of Hettie.’
The stare she directed at Alexander forbade any discussion. ‘And climb down off your high horse, Melton, before someone pushes you off. Go and climb on the next poor bitch instead.’