One by One(12)

She looks round at me, pressing her fingers to her temple, and I realize she’s talking about the music.

“One of the guests put it on,” I say, trying not to sound defensive, “but I’ll adjust the volume.”

“I’m thinking we need two approaches,” Miranda continues as I move away in search of the remote control for the speakers. “A plan A, which assumes a deliberate timed release, i.e., marketing, PR, social buzz, and so on. Basically all the stuff we’d already sketched out. But then a plan B in case of an early leak, in which case the question then is whether we bring forward aspects of the marketing campaign to support our narrative. It’s absolutely essential we control the conversation on social.”

They launch into technicalities as the discussion fades away into the background babble. I locate the remote underneath a dirty napkin, turn the volume down a notch, and then glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. It’s 6:55. They should be moving through shortly, but someone seems to be missing.

“Ah, about fucking time!” a man’s voice says over my shoulder, and I turn to see Topher standing behind me. “Bloke could die of thirst waiting for service around here.” He shakes his blond hair out of his eyes, then sweetens the rudeness with a grin that’s just the right side of charming.

“So sorry!” I hold out the tray, masking my irritation with a polite smile. “Bramble martini?” Topher takes one and knocks it back with alarming speed. I restrain the urge to tell him that they are about 50 percent gin. “Carl?” I hold out the tray to his colleague, who nods heavily and takes the last old-fashioned.

“Cheers. Though I don’t need any more booze if I’m being honest, it’s food I’m after. Any more of them cheesy puffs going around? I’m bloody starving.”

“Cheesy puffs!” Topher scoffs. “That’s not how you maintain a ski-ready physique, Carl my dude.”

He pats Carl’s ample midriff, straining beneath a plaid shirt.

“Carb-loading, mate,” Carl says, with a wink at me. “Essential part of my training regimen.”

“Danny’s circulating with the canapés; I’m sure he’ll be over in just a sec,” I say, though I can see over Carl’s shoulder that Danny has been cornered by Elliot, who is methodically picking off the Gouda profiteroles one by one and putting them into his mouth like they are crisps. I hope there are some more in the kitchen.

Topher has seen it too, and now he leans past me to grab Elliot’s shoulder.

“Elliot, my man. Stop hogging the server. Carl is carb-loading,” he says, and I take the opportunity to slip away and check on the rest of the room.

It’s 7:05 according to the clock above the fire, but when I count heads, only nine guests are present. Someone is late, and I’m not the only one who has noticed. Eva is tapping her foot and looking anxiously around.

“Where the fuck is Liz?” I hear her hiss at Inigo, who whispers something apologetic under his breath. Then his face brightens, and he touches Eva’s arm.

Eva looks up towards the gallery landing. I follow her gaze to see Liz there, standing at the top of the spiral staircase. She has her arms crossed around herself, and her awkwardness makes Elliot look almost at ease.

“Liz!” Eva calls, welcoming. “Come down, have a drink.”

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Liz descends the stairs. She’s wearing the lumpish, unflattering black dress that I saw when I encountered her in her room earlier, and my heart sinks for her. It’s cut all wrong for her shape, making her look like a bunch of potatoes in a sock, and you can tell from the way she’s holding herself, plucking at her VPL, that she knows it. At the foot of the stairs she pauses and flexes her finger joints, like a kind of nervous tic. It makes a crackle like wood popping on a hot fire, surprisingly unpleasant.

I am about to step forward with a drink, but to my surprise, Topher forestalls me. He grabs a bramble martini from my tray and rushes forward, holding it out towards Liz with a puppy-dog expression of eagerness on his face.

It is so out of character that I blink.

Who is this woman? Why are they so keen to keep her happy? It’s almost like… I frown, wondering. It’s almost like they’re afraid of her.

But that’s absurd.





LIZ


Snoop ID: ANON101

Listening to: Offline

Snoopers: 0

Snoopscribers: 0

They are all waiting, crowding around the bottom of the stairs as I reach the foyer—Eva, Topher, Inigo, Rik. Eva is wearing a long dress of white wool that I think is probably cashmere and which makes me feel like a frump. Topher is wearing jeans and an open-neck shirt. He is brandishing a martini glass in my face.

“Cocktail, Liz?” he says, flashing a smile.

“No, thanks,” I say.

“Come on,” Topher says. His voice is his very best cajoling charm. “It’s a special occasion—all the gang back together!”

I should smile, but I do not feel like smiling. My dress is too tight. I wore Spanx underwear to try to make it fit better, but it is pinching, and my stomach hurts. And the music is too loud.

“Thanks, but I’ve got a headache,” I say. I do not want to tell Topher the truth—that I do not drink alcohol anymore. He might wonder why—what has changed since I left Snoop.