dressed. A few weeks to go until Christmas and sequins and gold were everywhere. The only way she’d be able to compete might be by tipping her champagne down the designer-clad back of the competition, and that would only get her ejected from the premises before she could so much as speak. Deciding the only way to salvage the evening was to treat it as a serious scouting mission, she chose the least offensive of the eye-wateringly bright oilpaintings and picked her way through the crowd to stand on the edge of the group in front of it.
‘Fabulous brushwork. So
insistent
,’ one woman was saying to no one in particular. Her gold silk sheath dress screamed expensive. Not a hint of tasteless sparkle, more a subtle hint of
luxe
. It made Jen, in her boring man-made-fibre black, want to slink under the nearest rock.
She took a sip of champagne and gazed up at the picture. These people—honestly! Could they not see what was plain as day? To Jen it looked as if a toddler had run amok with a paintbrush.
Confidence shored up by the champagne, she leaned in towards the man standing next to her.
‘Not sure about it myself,’ she said.
Hah!
She’d made a comment. Not so hard, after all! She took another slug of the delicious champagne and glanced sideways at him to see if he was listening. Hmm. Sleek blond hair, haughty but attractive face. Her eyes dipped expertly to his suit. Definitely expensive tailoring.
He smiled and nodded at her. He took a sip from his own glass and his sleeve fell back to reveal his watch.
Cartier!
It was like a message from the gods. She gave him her full attention.
Her confidence was soaring on the back of three glasses of champagne, and she realisedwith a flash of inspiration that this was the answer to all her problems. Dutch courage! She grabbed a passing waiter by the arm before she missed out, and swapped her empty glass for another full one.
The rest of the group drifted away, but the blond man carried on looking appraisingly at the framed paint explosion in front of them.
‘Personally …’ Jen leaned in conspiratorially and, extending a finger from the hand encircling her champagne flute, jabbed it towards the picture ‘… I like what I like. It needs to speak to me on a sentimental level.’ She clasped her other hand to her chest to emphasise how heartfelt an opinion that was.
Oh, the champagne was marvellous. And she was just
so
witty and interesting.
‘Tell me, what do
you
think of it?’ She pasted an expression of interest on her face. Her high heels seemed strangely unsteady and she concentrated hard on not swaying.
The man began an extremely dull monologue on the inspirational brushwork, and she tried valiantly to listen and nod encouragingly when her will to live wanted to dash to the exit and throw itself under the nearest lorry. She glanced around for the wine waiter.
‘… name?’
She suddenly realised he’d stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly. The chatterin the rest of the room seemed to have degenerated into a humming background noise.
Name. Right—she’d prepared for this. Something that sounded as if she’d been born into money, because she’d read somewhere that was more respectable than
nouveau riche
.
‘Genevieve,’ she said. Her tongue felt strangely hard to control.
‘Genevieve?’ the man asked.
One of her heels suddenly dipped to the side, and she plummeted four inches before managing to right herself by grabbing his sleeve. Champagne slopped from her flute onto his lapel. As she managed to steady herself he pointedly disengaged himself from her grip and took a step backwards, wiping at his suit. People around them began to look over at the disturbance, and she smiled around at them reassuringly—just a little accident, nothing to worry about.
‘Genevieve?’
She glanced round at the voice behind her in confusion.
Next thing she knew she was being taken firmly by the elbow and Alex Hammond had control of the
‘Fabulous brushwork. So
insistent
,’ one woman was saying to no one in particular. Her gold silk sheath dress screamed expensive. Not a hint of tasteless sparkle, more a subtle hint of
luxe
. It made Jen, in her boring man-made-fibre black, want to slink under the nearest rock.
She took a sip of champagne and gazed up at the picture. These people—honestly! Could they not see what was plain as day? To Jen it looked as if a toddler had run amok with a paintbrush.
Confidence shored up by the champagne, she leaned in towards the man standing next to her.
‘Not sure about it myself,’ she said.
Hah!
She’d made a comment. Not so hard, after all! She took another slug of the delicious champagne and glanced sideways at him to see if he was listening. Hmm. Sleek blond hair, haughty but attractive face. Her eyes dipped expertly to his suit. Definitely expensive tailoring.
He smiled and nodded at her. He took a sip from his own glass and his sleeve fell back to reveal his watch.
Cartier!
It was like a message from the gods. She gave him her full attention.
Her confidence was soaring on the back of three glasses of champagne, and she realisedwith a flash of inspiration that this was the answer to all her problems. Dutch courage! She grabbed a passing waiter by the arm before she missed out, and swapped her empty glass for another full one.
The rest of the group drifted away, but the blond man carried on looking appraisingly at the framed paint explosion in front of them.
‘Personally …’ Jen leaned in conspiratorially and, extending a finger from the hand encircling her champagne flute, jabbed it towards the picture ‘… I like what I like. It needs to speak to me on a sentimental level.’ She clasped her other hand to her chest to emphasise how heartfelt an opinion that was.
Oh, the champagne was marvellous. And she was just
so
witty and interesting.
‘Tell me, what do
you
think of it?’ She pasted an expression of interest on her face. Her high heels seemed strangely unsteady and she concentrated hard on not swaying.
The man began an extremely dull monologue on the inspirational brushwork, and she tried valiantly to listen and nod encouragingly when her will to live wanted to dash to the exit and throw itself under the nearest lorry. She glanced around for the wine waiter.
‘… name?’
She suddenly realised he’d stopped talking and was looking at her expectantly. The chatterin the rest of the room seemed to have degenerated into a humming background noise.
Name. Right—she’d prepared for this. Something that sounded as if she’d been born into money, because she’d read somewhere that was more respectable than
nouveau riche
.
‘Genevieve,’ she said. Her tongue felt strangely hard to control.
‘Genevieve?’ the man asked.
One of her heels suddenly dipped to the side, and she plummeted four inches before managing to right herself by grabbing his sleeve. Champagne slopped from her flute onto his lapel. As she managed to steady herself he pointedly disengaged himself from her grip and took a step backwards, wiping at his suit. People around them began to look over at the disturbance, and she smiled around at them reassuringly—just a little accident, nothing to worry about.
‘Genevieve?’
She glanced round at the voice behind her in confusion.
Next thing she knew she was being taken firmly by the elbow and Alex Hammond had control of the
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