How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(27)

Hen, Ben and Antoinette all gaze lovingly over at their father as he soaks up the glory of two hundred people applauding his philanthropy. He smiles his trademark dazzling smile – dazzling because of the unnaturally white shade of his teeth – and hops up to the stage beside Charlie. He’s surprisingly agile for a man of his age. And size. Laurelle – a former model now nipped and tucked and barely recognisable as human, let alone herself – fizzes with pride-by-proxy as her husband delivers a speech about the importance of helping those less fortunate than oneself. He tells us all about the special feelings donating money to good causes like The Refugee Charity gives him, before encouraging everyone to reach into their pockets and make a donation.

‘You’ll find next to your seats buttons that allow you to donate to this wonderful charity right now,’ James says as he pulls on a golden cord unveiling a huge screen behind him.

It currently displays nothing apart from ?0.00 along with some images of women and children from various trouble spots around the world. ‘We can even watch the amount we raise tonight as it updates. So, go ahead, ladies, press your buttons!’

There’s another ripple of mirth as James uses his sexist catchphrase from a now-defunct TV talent show he used to be a judge on. ‘I’m watching you, Ally Thomas,’ he adds, pointing at a well-known TV columnist. The guests watch in awe as the number on the screen climbs and climbs before finally settling on an impressive seven-figure number. The Krug has obviously loosened some purse strings.

Unable to stomach the mutual backslapping while the horrifying footage of starving children continues to play on the screen, I head to one of the pop-up bars.

‘Vodka, please,’ I ask the bartender. ‘Actually, make it a double.’ What’s my problem tonight?

She pours Grey Goose into an iced glass and I knock it back straight, shuddering as it joins the Champagne already swilling around in my otherwise empty stomach.

‘That bad?’

I look up to see Charlie has joined me at the bar. He’s taken his glasses off now and looks even hotter than before. I really need to slow down on the booze.

‘Oh hey. Aren’t you supposed to be up there doing your master of ceremonies thing?’ I nod to where James is still stood, soaking up the attention of the crowd.

‘Nah. Some things are better left to the professionals. So why are you back here drowning your sorrows instead of getting the party started with your friends?’

There’s something about the way he says ‘friends’ that makes me think he doesn’t think too highly of us.

‘I’m not really a party person. Well, not tonight.’

‘So, what kind of person are you? Because, and sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, you don’t seem to be the kind to be downing straight vodka on your own.’ He looks pointedly at the empty shot glass next to me.

I sigh. ‘It’s just all this.’ I nod towards the party. ‘Rich people stuffing their faces and getting drunk in the name of charity. It doesn’t feel right.’

Charlie looks at me, waiting for me to say more.

‘Oh, ignore me, I’m probably just hungry. And a bit drunk.’

‘Didn’t you like the food?’

‘Actually, I’m vegan. All that offal and flesh weren’t appealing to be honest. Sorry.’

‘No way,’ he says. ‘You must be starving! Right, don’t move an inch.’

He disappears into the crowd and returns about ten minutes later – just as I was starting to think he’d bailed on me – with a paper plate stacked with plant-based loveliness.

‘Oh good, you’re still here. I told them to offer a vegan option when we were menu-planning but was assured that no one would want that. It’s not much, but it should keep you going.’

’Thank you!’ I say through a mouthful of falafel.

‘Are you all right for a drink? Or would you like some more neat vodka to cleanse your palate?’

‘I’m fine. Thank you. You really didn’t need to go to all this trouble for me.’

Charlie grabs a stuffed vine leaf from the plate and smiles at me. ‘I didn’t do this for you, Kitty Collins, I did this for me.’

My confused face seems to amuse him.

‘I’m a Boy Scout, you see. And I think you’ve just helped me earn my – very hard to obtain – feed-a-hungry-vegan badge.’

We sit there smiling at each other and munching through the plate of food until Hen comes over, trying to drag me back to the party.

‘Kitty! There you are! Daddy is insisting you bring your new friend over to the table for a drink and stop being so unsociable already.’

She’s unsteady on her heels as she grabs my arm and tries to grab Charlie’s too, but stumbles into him instead.

‘He’s hot,’ she tries to whisper in my ear.

I look over her head at Charlie, who’s smirking.

The party is in full swing back over at the table. Maisie and Rupert are seemingly joined at the pelvis as cheesy pop songs – mostly from bands on James Pemberton’s label – blare out.

Laurelle is flitting among her three children, but seems most attached to Antoinette, the baby of the family at eighteen and enjoying her last summer at home before she heads off to university. Poor Antoinette is clearly trying to shake her mother off as Grut’s bandmates arrive.