And he knows about the same level of information when it comes to me. It’s nothing real. Nothing substantial. Though, for the purposes of our little con, I suppose it’ll have to do.
It does make me nervous though. To be putting this much trust and faith into someone I’ve spent one afternoon with and know exactly one one-sided sheet of A4 paper about.Still, I reason with myself, as our car begins to slow, he’s putting the same amount of trust in me with equally little information.
Tonight will be the first true test of whether my stupid plan (thank you, Sloane) actually has any legs.
After Asher and I firmed up our fake history, we spent the rest of our evening combing through the social calendar to find an upcoming event the two of us could plausibly be attending at the same time. It didn’t take long for us to find tonight’s event: a charity gala raising money and awareness for the growing homelessness in our city.
Admittedly, it feels oxymoronic for an event packed with celebrities and socialites, dressed head to toe in gowns and suits that could pay the average Londoner’s rent for half a year, to be fundraising for homelessness, but I’ve become almost numb to the theatrics of my social circle.
My father learned very early on in his career that showing face at these events and being generous with the number on the cheque he hands over at the end of the night is one of the easiest ways to get and maintain friends in high places. My parents still attend the occasional event throughout the year, but I’ve been going in their place to the vast majority since I graduated. If this were any other night, I’d be fine. After all these years, I know the drill:
Smile for the cameras.
Do the rounds.
Be seen with a few prominent faces – namely, the children of other tycoons in the same orbit as my father.
And make sure to sign away a hefty donation on behalf of Peregrine Airways before the night is over.
It sounds like fun, but it’s become a chore. Aside from Sloane, there aren’t many regular attendees of these events that I actually enjoy being around. The supposed charity of it all is nothing but an afterthought and instead the evening is filled with two-faced schmoozing, drunken deals and catty gossiping. While I normally hate it, I’m relying on the vapidness of it all tonight. Asher will be in attendance, and it’s time to start sowing the seeds of a disastrous failed attempt at love all those years ago.
I huff out a deep breath and sink into my seat, wishing for a moment that it would suck me into a vortex and spit me out into a universe where I mean more than a bottom line or profit margin to my father.
‘You know you don’t have to do this,’ Sloane says.
‘Do you have an alternative plan?’ I grumble.
Sloane purses her lips and stays mute.
‘Exactly,’ I sigh. ‘For better or for worse, this is the plan.’
Right now, it’s starting to feel like the latter. Our car slows to a complete stop and I take another deep breath.
Showtime.
An attendant pulls open the door and Sloane slinks out first, her silver dress glittering immediately with the sudden onslaught of blinking bulbs. Without a doubt, she’ll be gracing the top of the best-dressed lists that’ll be published in the morning. I might stand a chance of making an appearance too, if the response from the waiting paparazzi as I exit our car is anything to go by. I let a well-practised and suitablydemure smile take over my face as I follow Sloane up the marble steps and into the hotel foyer.
Sloane waits for me at the entrance next to the board with the seating arrangements for the night, gives me what I think is supposed to be an encouraging grin but comes out more like a grimace, and then leans into my side as we step into the grand ballroom.
As much as I’ve come to loathe these events, I can’t help but have a kind of reluctant appreciation for the work the behind-the-scenes staff do that goes into decorating them, because the hotel ballroom – already a fairly impressive space on a daily basis – is nothing short of breathtaking. There are chandeliers overhead dripping with crystals, their light casting a soft, warm glow across the room. The marble floors are gleaming underneath a sea of designer shoes, and the walls are lined with lush greenery with ivy spilling out from gold-framed trellises. It’s beautiful.
Sloane and I cut across the floor as we look for our table, which are all adorned in white linen and feature centrepieces of towering roses and delicate orchids, every single petal and stem arranged in intricate patterns, which have turned them into floral works of art. There’s a string quartet playing at the furthest end of the room, the soft, lilting music just barely rising above the collective hum of conversation.
Guests are scattered in clusters, some sat at their tables, others milling around, greeting friends with loud, obnoxious laughter or sipping champagne from thin, crystal flutes. As we move through the sea of socialites and celebrities, Ican’t help but overhear snippets of the same conversations over and over again – the beginnings of business deals being made over hors d’oeuvres, thinly veiled critiques about the latest scandals, and promises of ‘oh we must catch up properly soon’ that feel more like formalities than genuine attempts at rekindling with an old friend.
We’re a predictable bunch.
‘We’re at table eleven,’ Sloane reminds me as we move through the crowd. She’s scanning each of the little gilded numbers set into the base of each floral arrangement as we pass by. ‘Ah. There.’ She nudges me with her elbow. ‘Front and centre. Your father must be feeling generous tonight.’
I pull a face. ‘My father is always feeling generous when there’s a camera within a five-mile radius.’
Sloane snorts and I feel a twinge of envy. I wish I could mimic her ease right now. She’s gliding across the marble like she owns the place; meanwhile every muscle in my body feels pulled tight and my pulse is like my own personal drumbeat in my ears.
It’s silly, I know. Nothing has even happened yet, and I haven’t even seen Asher, but knowing that he’s on his way and that the next hour or so will determine whether this entire scheme is a masterstroke or will end in a humiliating public disaster is enough to make my stomach churn.
We pass by about twenty people I recognise as we make our way to our table. That’s twenty raised hands, clipped smiles, nods of the head and promises to come find them again later in the evening. But I don’t see him.
Panic swells in my chest.
