How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(26)

‘You know the secret is to picture the audience naked?’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard that.’ He looks around the gardens, at the hordes of white middle-aged men and their middle-aged spreads. ‘Can’t say that’s a particularly appealing thought though.’

He looks back at me and I hold his gaze.

‘I don’t know, I’m sure there are some men in this place worth seeing without their suits on.’ I let the unsaid words hang in the air for a minute before I break the spell. ‘So how come you’re giving a speech?’

‘I work for The Refugee Charity. It’s, uh, one of the charities supporting the awards. We want to thank everyone who has helped us this year. It’s been a really tough one. Especially for charities.’

I nod. ‘You guys helped loads of women and children get homes over here, didn’t you? That’s some pretty heroic stuff.’

His eyes light up, surprised that I know anything about what he does.

‘Don’t look so stunned,’ I say. ‘Do I look like a total rattlehead?’

‘Honestly?’

I nod. ‘Apparently it’s the best policy.’

He runs his eyes – and they are very green indeed – over my designer dress and styled hair. ‘You just look like everyone else here. I mean, you look very lovely and everything. But I wouldn’t have you down as an avid news reader.’

If only he knew.

‘Were you never told not to judge a book by its cover? I’m Kitty by the way. Kitty Collins.’ I hold my hand out to him.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Kitty-by-the-way. I’m Charlie. Charlie Chambers.’ He shakes my hand, strong, no rings. ‘So, what brings you to our humble gathering?’

I laugh, looking round the elaborate garden venue, complete with stage, sound system and several outdoor bars. It’s more like a festival than a ‘humble’ anything.

‘I’m here to watch my friend’s very rich dad collect an award for his generous and philanthropic nature, while we drink Champagne and tell him how brilliant he is before we all head back to our oversized homes to sleep in our oversized beds, grateful we’ve won the genetic lottery.’

Charlie laughs again before offering me a reluctant smile. ‘Well, Kitty, as lovely as it’s been talking to you, though very brief, I really need to try to memorise this speech. Dying on stage in front of the world’s wealthiest people and a load of press isn’t really on my bucket list.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course. Good luck.’ I smile at him again, but he’s already turned away from me and back to his notes. I’m more than slightly taken aback.

I stumble back to my table through the mud and slip into my seat as the starters begin to arrive.

I’m a little perturbed over what just happened. I mean, Charlie was perfectly polite, but he didn’t act like most men do around me. I take a long slug of wine to douse the feeling.

‘Nice chat?’ Maisie asks as small plates of something beige and gooey arrive in front of us.

‘Foie gras?’ I look at my plate in horror.

‘Oh gosh, Kits, I totally forgot about the vegan thing!’ Hen says.

James looks over at me with a wide smile on his face. ‘Are you still doing that vegan thing, Kitty?’ he asks. For some reason James has always found it hilarious that I don’t eat animals or their by-products. ‘Your father would be turning in his grave.’

A chilly silence creeps over the table. Hen glares at her dad, her face murderous.

‘He’s missing,’ she hisses. ‘Not dead.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say, trying to pour water on the awkward vibes. ‘And, with all respect, if you’d grown up visiting abattoirs and meat production plants on your family days out, I guarantee you wouldn’t touch this stuff either.’

I push my plate of swollen goose livers away.

The dinner passes in a blur of things I don’t eat and conversations I don’t listen to. Finally, as the sun begins to dip down behind the London skyline, an ear-piercing noise shatters the buzz of small talk, and feedback from the sound system fills the sticky summer air. An amplified, nervous cough echoes around the grounds and Charlie – gorgeous, gorgeous Charlie – appears on the makeshift stage in the centre of the garden.

There are little fairy lights wound around the trellises and waitresses who look like Victoria’s Secret models dancing among the tables and lighting candles. The whole venue has a magical feel, like we’ve stumbled onto a film set. And I have to admit, up on stage, Charlie looks even more handsome. It’s probably the lighting.

And the three glasses of Krug I’ve chugged on a virtually empty stomach. Why am I drinking?

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says. ‘I hear there are still some of us around.’

A ripple of laughter from the crowd.

‘Thank you, each of you, for taking the time out of your busy social lives and schedules to attend our little soiree.’

The audience laugh again. This is anything but a ‘little soiree’.

‘As you know, we’re gathered here— Sorry, I sound like I’m doing a funeral.’ He pauses and his cheeks flush a little. He pulls the crumpled sheet of paper from earlier out of his jacket pocket. ‘As you know, we’re here tonight to pay tribute to one man whose generosity has kept The Refugee Charity going over a very tough year. So, ladies and gents, please raise your glasses and toast our wonderful patron and all-round saviour James Pemberton.’