I realise, with a jolt, that there’s another person in this car. I vaguely recognise her as one of the other attendees sitting at the table with Imani back at the gala.
‘Asher? Sloane. Sloane? Asher,’ Imani says briskly. Realisation dawns on me. This must be Sloane Chavan, the best friend Imani highlighted in her dossier pages.
I give her an awkward wave. She responds by slightly lifting her chin in greeting, like this whole sequence of events isn’t extremely bizarre and is barely on her radar.
‘Don’t worry,’ Imani says, accurately deciphering the slightly wary look on my face. ‘She knows all about our plan.’
‘I know all about yourridiculousplan,’ Sloane corrects her, taking care to put extra emphasis on the ridiculous. I can’t blame her. Itispretty ridiculous.
Imani shoots her friend a scowl, but there’s no bite to it. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’ She turns to me and gives me a sheepish wince. ‘I’m so sorry, by the way. God, this is becoming a bit of a habit, isn’t it? Me having to apologise because I took things way too far.’
‘You didn’t take it too far,’ I say at the exact same time Sloane mutters, ‘Too far is an understatement.’
Imani smacks her cheeks and lets out a pained groan. ‘I threw a drink over you. A drink! I threw it! At you! Over you! At a charity event filled with some of the most influential people in this bloody city. And Ithrew a drink over you.’ Another groan escapes her lips. ‘Look, your shirt is ruined.’
I glance down. The front of my shirt is pink; the stain having grown larger and darker thanks to my useless attempt to dry it.
‘Imani,’ I start, but she’s not listening.
‘I’ll pay for it to be dry-cleaned,’ she says, now nervously picking at the skin around her fingers. This close, I can see that the skin around her thumb and forefinger is red and slightly raw, like she’s spent an inordinate amount of time picking at it. ‘Or I’ll just buy you another one,’ she continues, voice taking on a slightly hysterical tone. ‘I’ll buy you another two to make up for it.’
I glance over at Sloane, who looks vaguely amused and gives me a shrug that seems to say, ‘You deal with it.’
‘Imani,’ I say again.
She doesn’t hear, too lost in a spiral of panic. She’s still apologising over and over and pulling at the red skin around her thumb.
I reach out, place a hand on her thigh, and give her a gentle squeeze. ‘Imani.’
The effect is instantaneous. She cuts herself off mid apology, and stares at me with wide, slightly teary eyes.
‘It’s fine,’ I say softly, and I mean it too. ‘It’s just a shirt. God knows I’ve got enough. And this was the plan, wasn’t it? I’d say we sold the whole “exes who hate each other” thing really well. So, tonight was a win, wasn’t it?’
Imani gives me a shaky nod. ‘I know, I know. It’s just I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t even give you a heads-up on what I was about to do. You didn’t sign up to be humiliated in front of all our peers like that. And then, the way you looked at me?’
A dry laugh claws its way out of my throat. ‘The wayIlooked atyou? What about how you looked at me? I’ve spent the last two hours sure that you actually do hate me.’
She shakes her head furiously. ‘No, not at all. Of course not. I guess it was just the shock of it all? Hearing you say—’
‘I was just playing the part,’ I say, cutting her off before she can repeat the cruel words I spat at her – I don’t need to hear them again. ‘Believe me, I didn’t mean a word of it.’
A little bit of tension seems to ease off her and she relaxesslightly. My hand is still on her thigh, and I can feel the way she seems to relax underneath my touch. ‘Sorry,’ she says again through a weak grin. ‘For the dramatics, I mean. You must think I’m such a mess.’
‘Never,’ I say, matching her grin with one of my own. Mess is simply not a word I’d ever associate with Imani. Even with tears pricking at the corner of her eyes and her fingers picked raw, she’s still as bright and beautiful as she was when I first laid eyes on her this evening.
Sloane clears her throat and we both jump. I hadn’t realised how close we’d got to each other. Imani’s shifted in her seat, leaning in so her bare arm is brushing against my jacket sleeve, and my hand is still on her thigh. I snatch it away quickly and Imani clears her throat and scootches a little closer to the window, putting some space between us.
‘Now we’ve got that over and done with,’ Sloane drawls with a slight roll of the eyes. It’s been less than five minutes, but I’m beginning to learn that Sloane has one setting, and it’s sarcasm. ‘Can we hurry up and debrief so I can get home and out of these?’ She wiggles her feet, showing off impressively high heels.
‘Right,’ Imani is suddenly all business again. She sits up a little straighter. ‘You were right, we absolutely sold the whole “we have a history and hate each other” story. Emmy wouldn’t stop probing.’
At this, Sloane pretends to gag. ‘What else is new with her?’
‘Emmy?’ I ask.
‘The blonde girl I was sitting next to,’ Imani explains. ‘She’s like the queen of high-society gossip.’
‘A bonafide modern Lady Whistledown,’ Sloane says.
