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‘What a thing to say! Why would they get divorced?’
‘Because she craves attention and money and he craves other women and money.’
‘Ergo, they have a lot in common.’
I can’t help but laugh. ‘True.’
* * *
Mr and Mrs Rochester welcome you to celebrate the engagement
of
Marybella Elizabeth Charlotte Rochester
and
Edward Harold George Wellington-Purrell
I stare at the gold-embossed sign at the entrance to the Rochesters’ ten-bedroom home in Mortlake, one of the wealthiest suburbs of London. Anna and I went to school with Marybella. Mrs Rochester, or Victoria, is one of the leading LOLs – ladies of leisure – in my mother’s clan.
I can imagine Brooks reading the sign and saying something like,Who needs all those names? You only use one. I curl my fingers against my clutch: gold, like my shoes, because Anna said I had to add some color to the black dress. I feel my mobile through the material of my bag and wonder whether I should call Brooks, or just text him. See how he’s doing. See what he’s doing.
‘Isabella, come on, darling.’
My mother calls from the top of the steps that lead to the Rochesters’ home, her arm linked through my father’s. She’s in a silver and blue sequined dress, he in black tie. Anna has already found a friend and gone inside. I’m quite pleased; her fuchsia dress was beginning to hurt my eyes.
The house has been turned into a gala hall, with waiters serving canapes and champagne as a concert harpist plays in one corner.
‘Ah, Isabella, how wonderful to see you.’ Claudia Huckleberry almost swings me by the shoulders to face her. I perform the obligatory air kisses. ‘It has been too long. Your mother told me about your new book. She’s very proud. Said it’s a best-seller.New York Times, is it? A thriller? Oh, excuse me, I must say hello to Helena Delaney. Her daughter just got the results for her pre-university testing. It hasn’t gone well. Everyone knows about it. Helena will be distraught. We’ll speak soon.’
And I was just about to say hello, Claudia. Shame.
As a waiter passes, I take a glass of champagne. From the next, I take a caviar canape.
‘Darling, do be careful,’ my mother says. ‘We are having a three-course dinner. You don’t want to overeat. I didn’t think you drank alcohol these days.’
‘Mm, yeah, it’s a new me,’ I say, purposely leaving caviar in my mouth as I speak. I know I’m turning over a new leaf and doing things for me rather than to piss off my parents but, well, I couldn’t help myself.
‘Isabella, do not embarrass us this evening.’
‘I would never, Mummy.’
A marquee has been erected in the grounds at the back of the house. It is lavish inside. Crystal chandeliers, red carpets, white-clothed tables with tall, floral centerpieces. They’re going to have to really up their game for the wedding. As I think that, I snort-laugh at my own wit. People already seated at my designated table scrutinize me, then get back to their conversations. I take my seat, recognizing some of the faces from Chelsea’s social scene. Boy-girl seating has been enforced, with a rule that we all rotate two seats to the left at the end of every course.
‘Hi, I’m Marcus Hendrickson.’
I take the hand offered to me by the guy to my left. He’s kind of puny but his suit has been cut to fit his thin shoulders and skinny arms. He has a big forehead that I think is shiny from face cream. His hair is slicked back with so much product, he looks like Leonardo DiCaprio’s version of Jay Gatsby.
Brooks wears a suit far better than this guy, or any of the five men at this table, for that matter.
‘Nice to meet you, Marcus. I’m Izzy.’
‘Izzy…?’
Trying not to roll my eyes, I tell him, ‘Coulthard. Izzy Coulthard.’
Now he can mentally assess whether I’m worth talking to. Whether I might be able to do anything for his social standing.
