The Next Best Thing by Sarah Long Page B

that had been deliberately frayed at the edges to look as though it was twenty years old. By comparison,
Jane felt like the suburban school girl she was, dressed up in her trendy weekend wear for a day up in town. In her short black skirt, she felt she should be passing round the canapes.
    ‘Hey, you look gorgeous,’ said Bella’s husband Ossian, sidling up for a better look. He’d always had a soft spot for Jane, and there had once been an embarrassing
incident when he had pressed himself up against her at a gallery opening. She hadn’t told Will about it: he might have thought her a prude, or else that she had been flirting. In any case, it
was all water under the bridge, and she was grateful for his attention tonight.
    ‘Let me introduce you.’ He put a hand in the small of her back and propelled her over to where a gouty-looking man and his effete companion were sitting on a Moroccan couch.
    ‘May I present the estimable linguist Jane Locksmith? This is Roland Edgeworth and Jeremy Markham.’
    It was the kind of party where everyone was introduced by their full names, so it was clear they were people of substance. There was none of that ‘James and Amanda, this is Phil and
Jenny’ stuff that you got at the sort of dinner parties Will hated.
    Jane had heard of Roland Edgeworth, he was rich and wrote erudite books on London’s history. Jeremy sat beside him, his thin legs in tight silver trousers crossed, lady-style, to one side.
He started to talk to Jane about champagne, while Roland puffed away at a cigarette, ill at ease so early in the evening and only three glasses to the wind.
    Jeremy leaned towards Jane, a confidential hand on her thigh. ‘I know everyone goes on about the Louis Roederer vintage being the bee’s knees,’ he said, ‘but do you know,
I actually prefer his wow-vintage.’
    ‘Interesting,’ said Jane. She smiled politely and tried to think of something clever to say, but her mind had gone blank.
    ‘Cheap to run,’ guffawed Roland, breaking his silence and topping up his glass.
    That’s me,’ said Jeremy. ‘Low-maintenance Larry. Actually, the only champagne I can’t stand is Moët.’ He pronounced it correctly, sounding the hard T at the
end. ‘I find there is something about it that just hits the back of the throat. Quite undrinkable.’ He shook his head at the impossibility of it all.
    ‘You’re a linguist, Jane, you’ll be able to help me,’ he went on. ‘What does blanc de hlanc actually mean? Blankety blank, blankety blank, what’s all
that about?’
    There was a silence as they waited for her answer. White of white, of course, but what did it mean? She dithered around until Roland took pity on her.
    ‘White wine from white grapes,’ he pronounced, coughing then extinguishing his cigarette, ‘whereas the best champagne is made from a mixture of red and white grapes. Pinot
Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, to be precise.’
    ‘Champagne made from red grapes,’ said Jeremy, ‘who’d have thought it? Shall we go through?’
    They moved across to join the others at the table. Will was well into his stride now, talking to a fat man with a twirly moustache and pointy beard, and a freakishly tall model like a child
distorted by the Hall of Mirrors. Jane tried to think of interesting topics. Would they be curious to hear about her recent trip to Ikea? She could talk about her work, if pushed, but it was
unlikely that the translation of a guide to French bridges would hold them for long.
    ‘You have to be Catholic if you’ve got children,’ Bella was saying, ‘only fools and Protestants pay school fees. I know that church is the ugliest building on Kensington
High Street, but come on, one hour on a Sunday morning to save twenty grand a year, you’d be stupid not to. Schmoozing the priest has been my most lucrative role ever!’
    Everybody laughed except Ossian, who had heard it all before.
    At the table, Will was enthralling the model with his tales of life