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‘Have you found your table?’ I ask Stacey, keen to change the subject.
‘We’re right at the front of the ballroom,’ she says. ‘You must have twisted a few arms to arrange that at such short notice.’
I smile. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure my husband spends far more than he should in the auction.’
Tom is good at tracking people online, even those who’re careful to minimise their digital footprint, but he didn’t manage to dig up much about Mr Stacey Porter. The man doesn’t have any social media presence at all, and apart from a few unavoidable listings – birth and marriage records, land registry details – Tom found next to nothing.
‘You remember my husband, Tom,’ I say, as he comes up behind me.
‘Of course. Good to see you again,’ she says. She glances around the hotel lobby, which is rapidly filling with barely-there dresses and too-tight dinner jackets. ‘Felix is somewhere around. I’ll introduce you in a minute.’
‘Mrs Downton!’
A woman in a scarlet dress with an elaborate up-do is bearing down on us in improbable heels, an impressively muscular man trailing in her wake. It takes me a moment to place them.
‘Mrs Conway,’ I say, as Stacey takes advantage of the distraction to slip away.
‘Call me Harper, please. Is this your lovely hubby?’
‘Tom Downton,’ he says, extending his hand.
‘We’resoexcited to be buying your house,’ Harper gushes. ‘We’re doing a special Countdown to Move-In Day on our vlog. We’ve got a competition to choose the new paint colour in the lounge – not that there’s anything wrong with the one you’ve got,’ she adds quickly. ‘But our Kyper Nation fans like to feelinvolved, you know?’
‘Absolutely,’ Tom says.
‘And when you’re on TV, you need some colour on set topop. Brighten things up a bit. Though our fans love your office, Mrs Downton,’ she adds. ‘It’s got loads of likes, almost as many as the terrace, hasn’t it, Kyle?’
Tom takes a couple of glasses of Prosecco from a passing waiter and hands one to the woman. Given her flushed cheeks and overbright eyes, I suspect it’s not her first. ‘What’s your connection to the hospital, Harper?’ he asks.
‘The hospital?’
‘Well, since you’re here to support its fundraising efforts I assumed you must have a connection,’ Tom says. ‘Nothing unhappy, I hope?’
Oh, my husband can be wicked sometimes.
Harper looks uncomfortable. ‘Just supporting the community,’ she says. ‘I mean, since we’re going to be part of it and everything.’
‘I do hope you’ll bid for something in the auction,’ I say sweetly. ‘We’ve been so lucky with our donors. Last year, someone paid ten thousand pounds for a reserved parking space outside Asher Brook Primary.’
‘I’m surprised it didn’t go for more,’ Tom says. ‘A parking spot near that school is rarer than hen’s teeth.’
‘Oh, your son goes to Asher Brook?’ Harper says, with a creditable attempt at surprise. ‘We’re hoping to getourboys in there.’
‘Then you must let me introduce you to Mark Bristow,’ Tom says kindly. ‘He’s in charge of admissions there. Good friend of mine.’
I can almost hear Harper’s knicker elastic snap.
Her husband, Kyle, hasn’t yet said a word. He looks as awkward in his black tie as Tom looks at ease in his.
A colleague of mine intercepts us as we merge into the throng heading towards the ballroom. An informal consult on a complex case: I lose track of Tom and the Conways, and don’t pick them up again until we are all about to sit down.
Stacey’s table is next to ours, of course. Our gilt chairs are back to back, and as I sit down, she taps me on the shoulder.
‘That’s Felix,’ she says, indicating the man two seats away from her.
Not what I expected. Much older, for a start: at least twenty years older than Stacey. Better looking than the few photographs Tom managed to find online: sharper jaw, sharper eyes. Clean-shaven, thick brown hair. His expression is flinty.
