Sharon Griffiths - The Lost Guide to Life and Love

As the night wore on, the music grew louder (great DJ), the atmosphere looser. Even the beautiful people looked not quite as beautiful now and not quite so bored. I wanted to keep dancing, but Jake was standing by the bar, watching people over the top of his bottle of Asaki.

‘Come on, Jake, let’s dance,’ I said, putting my glass back on the bar and taking his hand, trying to encourage him onto the dance floor. I wanted to make the most of this.

‘Yeah, OK, Tilly,’ he said, kissing the top of my head, a rare show of affection these days. I glanced up happily to meet the warmth of his gaze, but instead I could see he was watching someone on the other side of the room. I turned to see a couple of middle-aged men in expensive suits coming in and going round to one of the booths. I recognised one of them—Simeon Maynard, a billionaire businessman who had come from nowhere to buy Shadwell, the premiership football club that Clayton Silver played for. Presumably that’s who he was drinking with. A few minutes later a waitress went over with ice buckets of champagne.

Of course this was why we were here. For weeks Jake had been researching some big story. Not quite sure what it was about—he didn’t talk about work so much to me these days and we were increasingly like ships that passed in the night—but it was hard not to notice all the newspaper cuttings about Maynard piling up in the flat.

I danced close to Jake, my arms round his neck, but he didn’t bend into me, the way he usually did. Somehow it felt as though he wasn’t there with me at all. Or didn’t want to be. After a while I gave up, stood back from him, let my arms drop to my side. At the same time, the two actresses who’d been drinking with the footballers and Maynard were coming out of one of the private booths and heading rather unsteadily across the floor.

Now Jake took my arm and whispered in my ear, ‘Try and listen in to their conversation. See if they say anything interesting.’

Excuse me? He was definitely beginning to lose it. I looked at him and shook my head, and then followed the actresses downstairs to the Ladies. At least I’d get a sit-down. My strippy-strappy shoes were beginning to give me strippy-strappy blisters; there’s a limit to what party feet gel insoles can achieve.

In the Ladies, there was a whole different party going on. Small groups of girls giggled round the washbasins. I didn’t look too closely at what they were doing, but I don’t think they were sharing their holiday snaps. A girl with a face straight from a Pre-Raphaelite painting lay slumped across an armchair, her eyes shut, her minuscule handbag dropped on the floor. She groaned slightly. I must have looked alarmed because a blonde with the sort of tan you only get from sunbathing on the deck of mega-yachts said dismissively, ‘Leave her. She’s always the same after too much of the house hooch…’ she paused…‘on top of everything else.’

Other girls in their tiny dresses, as leggy as storks, leant forward into the mirrors, pouting provocatively at their own reflections as they brushed back manes of expertly highlighted hair.

The actresses I had followed had already emerged from the cubicles, swaying, laughing loudly. They joined the girls at the mirror.

‘Not sure about this lip gloss. Too red, I think. What do you think?’ said the dark one, peering at her image.

The fair one looked at her through the mirror and concentrated hard. ‘No, you’re probably more of a reddish pink. Me, I always prefer a pink. My colour consultant told me it brings out the warmth of my skin tones.’

‘Yeah. I can see that.’

Riveting stuff. They snapped their handbags shut and tottered off. This was what I was supposed to be listening to? What had got into Jake? What had it to do with any story he was working on? Of course, if he talked to me more about what he was doing, then I might have more of an idea.

Suddenly the room emptied, instantly, magically. ‘The princes?’ one girl breathily asked another. ‘ Both of them? Oh, yes please. Such good fun. And I just so adore the bodyguards.’

Out they all swarmed, a mass attack that would strike terror into even a prince. All except the girl slumped in the armchair, who was now at least sitting up and looking less green.

I was about to follow them. A chance to dance with a prince—well, within a few yards of one, at least—was too good to miss. I was just drying my hands on one of the neatly rolled little towels when the door suddenly burst open.

The girl who charged in wore a short sparkly dress that was definitely not a chain-store knock-off, but she could have worn a bin liner and looked stunning. Six feet tall with red hair piled on top of her head, she had the sort of cheekbones that make the rest of us just want to give up hope. She glanced quickly around the cloakroom, gave me the briefest of nods and raised her eyes to examine the high windows. Then, while I watched with my jaw dropping, she took off her shoes, stepped up onto the marble surround of the washbasins, reached up to push open the narrow window, then pulled herself up, wriggled through it and dropped out into the night.

I pulled a chair over and jumped up, twisting my head to peer down through the window. The girl was loping easily down the back street, past a surprised security guard, towards a taxi rank. Her hair had come loose and my lasting image was of her in the light of the streetlamps, her copper-coloured hair streaming out behind her, shining, dazzling.

‘So, Tilly, did you get to dance with a prince?’ asked Bill, my godfather, the next day when I called in to his bistro. He and his kitchen staff were prepping up for lunch and I stood by the door of the kitchen, out of their way. While Bill talked to me, he was still keeping an eye on the chopping, slicing, searing, stirring going on all around him. I always loved watching him, cooking with him, tasting, experimenting. His restaurant kitchens had been a second home to me, and it was all down to him, really, that I was working for The Foodie magazine.

‘A prince? Sadly, no,’ I laughed, helping myself to a deliciously sweet cherry tomato. ‘It was impossible to get near them—and seriously uncool to try. So I don’t think I’ll be the next princess.’

‘Shame,’ said Bill, kissing the top of my head as he came past me with a tray of prawns. ‘You’d be a perfect princess. And it would be good for business too. The princess’s godfather! Everyone would want to come and eat here.’ He grinned at me. ‘Coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Actually, I’ve come to ask a favour.’

‘Ask away.’

‘Jake and I are going up north for a sort of holiday.’

‘ Sort of holiday?’

‘Well, yes, he’s got some project he’s working on. And I thought I could do some stories up there too, so we’re renting a cottage for a couple of weeks. I’ve got the names of some really interesting food producers—cheese-makers, chocolatiers, and a monk who makes cider from the monastery apples, but if you know of any more, it would be really good. And as long as I keep sending them plenty of articles, the magazine’s OK about me being away.’

‘Sure,’ said Bill, ‘I can give you some contacts. If you’re staying for lunch, we can sort it out then.’

‘Sorry. Can’t. I’m lunching with Mum.’

‘Ah,’ said Bill with a sigh, ‘your mother. How is she?’

‘Don’t you know? Haven’t you seen her recently?’

‘No. She has, she says , been far too busy. Too busy for anyone as frivolous as me.’

Bill looked sad for a moment and I felt sad for him. He’d loved my mother for years. Hopelessly and helplessly. There was a small silence. I helped myself to another tomato.