“Mine neither, but I understand that some people enjoy it and it can be quite fun with your friends,” she points out, the mustached man looking unconvinced. “So I sort of laughed along with it and tried to listen to his conversation over the dire noise of a woman attempting a Leona Lewis hit.”
“A very challenging vocal range,” someone comments, to murmured agreements.
“Then he suddenly got up and left me at the bar. Said he was going to the loo.” She closes her eyes in dread at having to recall what happened next. “But he appears onstage, declaring the next song is for me.”
“Oh, no,” I gasp, completely engrossed. “What was it?”
“‘Truly Madly Deeply’ by Savage Garden.”
The crowd’s reaction is unanimous: a grave mistake.
“So, he’s not getting a third date, then?” the mustached man asks, with a grin.
“It’s a no,” she confirms, then sips her champagne and looks at me curiously. “Did I see you arriving with Tom earlier?”
“I thought he was here with that actress, Savannah Reed,” the mustached man says, before I can answer. “He told me earlier that he was going to find out where she was.”
“Oh, they’reold friends,” someone else comments, with a knowing smile. “That was all yonks ago now. I heard she’s after Christopher, these days. You know, Dashwell’s friend from school who always tells the same joke about the brown trout.”
There’s a murmur of recognition around the group.
“Sorry, it’s so hard to keep up with who’s with who in these circles. It’s like musical chairs,” the blonde says to me, with a wave of her hand.
“I’m not with anyone,” I assure her. “I’m Cordelia’s friend.”
She almost drops her drink. The mustached man and the rest of the group look me up and down with great interest, as though I’ve just said something highly unusual.
“Cordelia’sfriend?” the blond woman repeats in astonishment. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Hang on,” the mustached man says excitedly. “Are you the bridesmaid?”
“That’s right.” I smile.
“The bridesmaid! Yes. We’ve heard about you,” someone says, with a smirk.
“Is it true?” the mustached man asks, his eyebrows waggling. “About your job? You can tell us.”
Oh, no.Fear jolts through me. Secrecy was the most important thing to Lady Meade. If they know, everything’s ruined.
“My job?” I squeak.
“Yes.” The woman nods eagerly, lowering her voice. “Is it true you’re an escort?”
WHAT?I choke on my spit in shock. Mustached man gives me a delicate pat on the back.
“Cordelia let it slip to our friend Lex over there,” she says, jabbing a nail to a cluster of guests nearby. “She said it was a big secret, but you don’t mind telling us, do you? We won’t judge.”
“What’s it like?” someone asks. “Is it like that book,Secret Diary of a Call Girl?”
“Ilovedthat TV series! You should write a book about your experiences,” someone else advises me. “It would sell like hotcakes.”
“Yes, so true!” The blond woman nods, grinning mischievously at me. “You must have somehilarioussecrets.”
“I… I’m not…,” I begin, my face burning with embarrassment.
“Don’t worry, only a few people here know,” the mustached man says, winking at me. “And we promise we won’t tell asoul.”
