Page 23 of A Sky Painted Gold

“Oh, yes,” I sigh, unable to control my enthusiasm, even in front of him. “It’s wonderful, exactly how I imagined it. I’ve just been dancing my legs off and now I’m dying for a drink.”

“Let me get one for you,” he says, offering me his arm politely. I look at it suspiciously, but we seem to have called some kind of truce for now, so I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow and we make our way through the crowd to the long bar that has been set up against the wall. Behind it the barmen in white jackets are rattling and twirling silver cocktail shakers with a great amount of energy. I watch them for a while.

“You really are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” Robert says then, and I turn to find him looking at me.

“What do you mean?” I frown, wondering if it’s a trick question.

“Just that I can see it in your face. You look … happy.”

“That’s what Caitlin said,” I admit. “And I told her I didn’t understand how anyone could be unhappy when they are surrounded by all of this.” I gesture around me, Caitlin’s words seeming even stranger as I take it in with another frisson of excitement.

“Ah, and what did Caitlin say to that?” Robert asks, and his body seems suddenly very still, his eyes watchful.

“She said that people could be unhappy anywhere,” I reply, thinking of the tension in her voice as she said it. His jaw twitches, and his eyes look sad, just for a fleeting moment. I am surprised to feel an immediate, desperate need to cheer him up. There is more going on here than I am being told, that much is obvious.

“Maybe you don’t enjoy these things as much as I do because you’re just so old and stuffy?” I ask sweetly, widening my eyes and looking up at him.

“What manners.” He gives a put-upon sigh. “Twenty-three is hardly old.”

“Hmm.” I tip my head to one side, considering this. “Then I suppose you don’t have to be old to be stuffy after all.” I grin. “How interrresting.” I roll the word around my mouth in a good impression of his own drawling indifference.

Robert looks down at me from under raised eyebrows. “Brat,” he says, but there’s no sting in it.

I stick my tongue out at him as if we are a pair of squabbling children.

“What will it be?” the bartender asks us.

Robert looks at me. “Well?”

“Just a water, please,” I answer, drumming my fingers on top of the bar.

“A water, and a whisky, please,” he tells the bartender, who disappears to fetch the drinks.

“Are you going to dance?” I ask, turning and leaning back against the bar so that I can see all the couples who are currently hitting the dance floor. I wonder idly if he is a good dancer – he carries himself with a kind of grace that makes it seem likely.

“Why? Are you asking?” He looks at me as though he knows exactly what I was thinking. In fact, I think, he looks quite unnecessarily pleased with himself. I expect he’s used to girls falling all over themselves wanting to dance with him.

“Oh, no,” I say. “I’m sure a man with such a … serious nature doesn’t have much interest in these modern dances.”

“Modern dances?” Robert frowns. “You’re trying to make me sound old again.”

“I’m not trying to do anything.”

He snorts. “You’re not overly concerned with the social niceties, are you?” His gaze sharpens as it rests on my face.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say with great dignity.

“I know you’re the kind of girl who breaks into people’s houses and steals all their apples,” he says, taking our drinks from the bartender and handing me my glass.

I suppose I can’t argue, but I’d rather not dwell on that little detail. “I had something to drink when we came in,” I say, changing the subject. “It was so sweet it tasted like fruit juice.”

“A Mary Pickford.” Robert winces. “I warned Caitlin she shouldn’t have them circulating because everyone will be falling down drunk before midnight, but she says that’s half the fun.”

“I like her a lot,” I say.

“Who?” Robert asks. “Mary Pickford?”

“No, silly! Caitlin.”