Page 121 of Jessica Beam is a Hot Mess
‘What’s this?’ he says, his eyes twinkling with surprise.
‘You’re not the only one who can bring gifts to a date, y’know.’
Bemused, Leo tears open the navy giftwrap and opens the lid of the oblong box, peering inside.
He laughs out loud. ‘A paintbrush!’
‘It’s a good one. The website says it’s fine-pointed and the tip is made of Kolinsky sable,’ I mumble, embarrassed to find that I feel suddenly shy. Why did I bloody get him a paintbrush? It seemed like a cool, funny idea last week. Now, at a fancy ball, and him having just given me a diamond brooch, it feels all kinds of meaningful and romantic. I cough. ‘I just thought you could, you know, paint some stuff.’ I shrug casually. ‘Do some art . . . things.’
Leo stares at the brush for a second, fingering the tip of it before pressing it to his chest. ‘Thank you, Luce,’ he says quietly, looking at me in an intense, serious sort of way that tickles my skin. Then he tucks the box into his inside pocket and leads me towards our table. As we make our way through the bustle, I notice that everyone’s eyes are on me. Not in the way they were the night atThe Beekeeperlaunch, like I was a subject for ridicule, but with interest, envy, lust, wonder. It’s a weird sensation, and not an entirely pleasant one, either. I feel a bit like I’m on show, like I’m a doll to be admired. Like . . .Felicity.
But still, I’m here to do a job, so I do it; I smile and simper graciously as guest after guest says hello to Leo, congratulating him on his nomination, predicting that he’s a shoe-in to win it, how they just looooove his Drive Alive ad . . .
Despite Leo making every genuine effort to include me in the conversations, it occurs to me that apart from an appreciative or envious glance or polite hello, no one is paying any real attention to me. No one asks me any questions about myself. I am, quite simply, arm candy.
We eventually make it past all the advertising suck-ups and reach our table. Leo introduces me to the people already sitting down.
‘Lucille, this is Martin, our copy man. Martin has the most amazing Ferrari you’ve ever seen. I’ll have to take you out for a ride in her soon. She runs like a dream.’
‘Of course!’ Martin says cheerfully.
I frown slightly as I get a flashback of Leo making a sexist comment at the fair, talking about giving someone curvy a ride before Martin took her home. Was he talking about acar? Man alive, I really have got the wrong end of the wrong stick about Leo Frost. I was so quick to judge him . . .
He introduces me to two more people from the senior team at Woolf Frost and their partners, who all seem nice and friendly, if a little formal. Then he reintroduces me to the fourth table-dweller − bloody Rufus Frost, the world’s douchiest douchebag − who calls me Lucy and kisses my hand again with his gross old cigar-stinking mouth. Spew.
‘Wait – where are your friends?’ Leo asks. ‘Are they still coming?’
I peer over towards the bar and spot Peach and Gavin deep in conversation. The tequila shot must have worked! Peach is laughing at something he’s saying, her hand rubbing his forearm. Ha! I might just leave those too alone a little longer – they’re clearly managing just fine without me.
‘They’re here – they must be in the crowd somewhere!’ I say innocently. ‘I’m sure they’ll catch up with us later.’
We take our seats and Leo pops open one of the many bottles of vintage champagne that are sitting in huge buckets on each table. He pours everyone a glass and clears his throat to make a toast. But before he can get a word out, his dad interrupts, his exceedingly plummy tones blasting across the table like a foghorn.
‘Here’s to a win for Woolf Frost,’ Rufus drawls, holding his glass up to the centre of the table.
‘And Leo,’ I add, before I can stop myself.
Oops. I didn’t mean to blurt that. But something about his dad just winds me up big-time. Especially now I know how he betrayed his own son. Rufus Frost sneers a little and reluctantly agrees with my correction in a bored voice. ‘Yes, of course . . . And to Leo.’
Leo gives me a pleased wink. ‘Cheers, guys!’
‘Cheers!’
I drink my champagne, the sweet buoyant bubbles lightly dancing on my tongue. To my surprise I don’t entirely dislike the taste of it tonight.
I take another sip.
Am I . . . Am I starting to get a taste for vintage champagne? Shit, am I now part of the champagne conspiracy?
God, what is happening to me?
* * *
Perhaps I shouldn’t have advised Peach that a tequila shot to loosen her and Postman Gavin up was a good idea. Because they clearly haven’t limited themselves to just the one. Our table is having a very sensible conversation about the work of all the other nominees,when Peach finally leaves the bar, dragging Gavin over by the arm. I can tell just by looking at her that she’s pissed – she can barely walk in a straight line and her blinks are lasting longer than usual. Shit.
‘LUCILLE!’ she calls with a totally hammy wink. ‘There you are. And this must be Leeeeeooooo. Luscious Leo.’
Oh, Jesus. How many shots has she had? Gavin’s cheeks are flushed and shiny, his bowtie already undone and hanging limply round his neck. They can’t have had that many, surely? We’ve only been here for fifty minutes.
