Arthur takes me by the cheeks and presses an impassioned kiss to my lips before pulling away with a breathless grin.
‘Come on. Let’s give London a little taste of our New York.’ He takes my hand in his and pulls me back out into the streetlights.
‘OurNew York?’ I pause for a moment to savour his words. I am in love with him. I’m almost sure of it. There’sno way I’m giving him the satisfaction of letting him know though.
‘OurNew York,’ is his reply along with another warm kiss to my hairline.
The gala is already bustling when we finally arrive. Arthur takes the tickets from his pocket but the attendant waves him on without so much as glancing at them.
‘Welcome, Mr Cavendish. What a pleasure it is to have your presence at the gala once again. You should find refreshments around the room, but if there is anything special you require, you need only ask.’ She smiles brightly with her posture as straight as a board and uniform so crisp it must have been pressed at least thrice before she put it on.
Arthur thanks her before stepping into the crowd. I go to follow, but a perfectly ironed shirt sleeve stops me. ‘Tickets?’ The attendant’s smile has vanished in an instant and she scowls at me as though I’m some sort of wild animal been let loose in her posh party.
‘Oh, I’m sorry …’ I bumble, trying not to echo her own rudeness back to her, ‘We’re …’ I point back and forth between myself and Arthur who is already deep in conversation with another unfamiliar face ‘… together,’ I finish and the attendant laughs.
‘Yeah, nice try.’ Her politeness has vanished as she now rolls her eyes and folds her arms over her chest.
‘I am, he has my ticket.’ She places her body directly in front of me so I have to lean around her to try to get Arthur’s attention. He doesn’t see me, or notice me missing. It seems he’s already being pulled in every other direction as his name is called by so many voices around the room. ‘Arthur.’ I try to raise my voice above the rest but it only melts into the cacophony. ‘Arthur!’
‘Shush!’ the attendant is so aggressive with her command, her spit flicks onto my face and I look back at her in disgust.
‘Who are you shushing?’ I direct my attention to her now, with a brow so highly arched I’m sure I can feel it in my hairline.
‘You’re disturbing the guests.’ Her face grows hot with irritation and the Lincolnshire lass in me is one more “shush” away from tackling her like one of my sheep.
Finally, Arthur turns back and sees me sweating profusely in the doorway. ‘Are you okay?’ He shuffles away from the conversation he was engrossed in and returns to me.
‘Sorry, sir. She’s saying she’s with you.’ The attendant all of a sudden has the posture of a royal guard and a smile that must have taken every one of her muscles to produce.
‘She is with me.’ Arthur takes me by the hand and pulls me forward into the crowd without a second thought, or a second glance at the woman. I, however, revel in looking back, to see her fallen face, and I take the opportunity to fire her cheek-cramping smile right back at her.
‘Jesus, I thought I’d fallen at the first hurdle then.’ I laugh breathily, though my heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I can hardly hear Arthur asking again if I’m okay.
‘Stay close to me.’ I hear him say that loud and clear ashe weaves our fingers together and pulls me into his side so we move as one.
‘Artie Cavendish!’ a voice calls out as soon as his face is back in the crowd.
‘Mr Perón,’ Arthur replies with a smile. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, very well. Are you not here with your mother and father tonight?’ Mr Perón asks with a thick French accent.
‘Not tonight, sir. I’m here with Miss Beatrice Norton.’ Arthur points to me with pride. ‘We have actually written a film together. It’s an exploration of youth, of the weight of decisions, and grief before death.’
‘Very interesting.’ Mr Perón taps his chin. ‘Your father is producing, yes?’
‘No, sir.’ Arthur tenses under my touch. ‘It is something that Beatrice and myself have worked on independently, and we are looking for someone like your good self to help us get it out into the world.’
The Frenchman bumbles some sort of faux interest and then excuses himself for something urgent, leaving Arthur and I, still hand in hand, a little disappointed though not yet entirely deflated.
‘It’s okay,’ he reassures me. ‘There are at least fifty others here I have my eye on. We will find one who will listen; I’m sure of it.’ His smile is desperate, as though he’s trying to convince himself, and though I nod, I can’t help but feel completely useless.
These conversations have only begun because of the prospect of a connection with Arthur’s famous parents. We are only here on the back of their reputations. Onceeveryone knows that they have no involvement, their interest is quickly spent. It isn’t lost on me, the knowledge that if I wanted to do this alone, or if Tommy had been the one by my side like we had always intended it to be, we would never have even got a foot in the door, let alone thirty seconds of listening. This whole thing is all about connections, and without Arthur I am no one. I am a gatecrasher turned away at the door. I am not a writer, or a talent in this room; I am a networking black hole, and no one is willing to take the risk of getting close to me.
The evening doesn’t stray from this pre-determined path. With every failed conversation, Arthur’s smile grows more strained, his arms grow more tense, and his eyes lose their light as fast as the sun on a winter’s evening. But still, he squeezes my fingers, encourages me at every failure, and tries his best to not let me see just how hard he’s taking it.
‘You wait here, let me go and get us some drinks.’ I finally pluck up some courage after seeing him look so exhausted and manoeuvre him to a little armchair in a quiet corner to rest for a moment. ‘Let’s sack off all of the professional shit and just make the most of a free bar, eh?’ Arthur sits down with a sigh and I take that as my cue to head to the bar.
For what feels like hours I try and get the barman’s attention but he seems to work around me as though I don’t exist at all. Back home, I never have trouble speaking up, making myself heard, but here I feel utterly drowned out. Just as I am about to give up, a long arm stretches out in front of me and a deep voice calls for attention that is given almost instantly. My blood boils.
