Roxanne sipped from her glass, feeling quite desolate now after having her dancing and her boyfriend criticised, virtually in a single breath. Kate was waving from the dance floor, trying to coax her to join them. However, Roxanne wasn’t really registering her.
‘I thought everyone knew about them,’ Marsha added.
‘Everyone apart from me, obviously,’ Tina exclaimed with a high-pitched laugh. ‘Always last with the gossip. God, though – Sean and Roxanne Cartwright? That’s hysterical …’
Roxanne stood for a moment, clutching her glass which she might once have termed half-full but was now most definitely half-empty. She turned away and placed it on a windowsill. However, being made from uneven bricks, the windowsill was too wonky a surface for the glass to rest on without toppling. Topple it did, landing with a smash on the concrete floor, causing a momentary hush as Roxanne turned and ran out of the room.
Normally, Roxanne wouldn’t have dreamed of making a ‘French’ exit, as a hasty departure from a social event was known in her circles. She would do the rounds, saying all her goodbyes; although it could easily add an extra half-hour to the night, to duck out of an event would seem rude. Tonight, though, she had just run out and was now clattering rather unsteadily down the concrete stairs and across the cobbled courtyard, pulling her phone from her bag only when she was safely out in the street.
She scrolled for Sean’s number, reassuring herself that he’d be fine, all his friends were there, and he’d understand why she had left abruptly. Anyone would. Even aside from overhearing Marsha and Tina, how could she be expected to endure one more second of a party at which pretty much everyone felt sorry for her?
At the sound of his voicemail, she cleared her throat. ‘Hi, darling, s’me. Look, I’m sorry but I’m going home early. You’ve probably realised. It was a lovely party but I’m just not in the right frame of mind and I don’t want to be a wet, um … a wet blanket or a wet leek or whatever it is, so I think it’s best …’
She glanced left and right, hoping to spy the yellow light of a taxi, but there was nothing.
‘The other thing is, did you invite Marsha and Tina Court tonight? Oh, I know it’s none of my business and it sounds horribly petty and maybe you didn’t ask them and they just thought they’d come along anyway. But if you did, couldn’t you have warned me, honey? I heard the two of them … blabbing on about us, about our thing, our relationship – can you believe their bloody cheek?’
Roxanne broke off and rubbed at an eye, past caring that she might be smudging her make-up. ‘Anyway,’ she charged on, ‘you know I’ve been feeling a bit wobbly about work and, well, I just couldn’t face them tonight – is that ridiculous of me? A bit silly? It probably is and maybe I just need a break. I really want to see Della, hang out in the bookshop … d’you fancy that – coming to Yorkshire with me? Oh, I know I’ve gone on about that! Anyway, enjoy the rest of your party, darling. The seafood was amazing – actually I didn’t have any but it looked amazing, all those gnarly little creatures all piled up. I had that puffed rice, that was good! And the little cones it was served in. So cute. Anyway, I’m going now. Happy birthday darling, I love y—’ With that, his voicemail cut off.
Roxanne exhaled forcefully and shoved her phone back into her bag. She’d have preferred to speak to Sean, rather than Sean’s voicemail, but, on the plus side, at least she hadn’t left a rambling message. Less happily, it had started to rain. She had somehow managed to leave the party without her jacket, and her left shoe was rubbing at her heel. On closer inspection, the heel appeared to have acquired a nasty abrasion and was all sticky and raw. A dancing injury – at her age! She was a fashion director, for goodness’ sake. She should be capable of putting together an outfit that wouldn’t injure her. Wincing now, and still glancing around for a cab, she started to limp towards Islington. She would find this funny one day, she tried to reassure herself. How the girls at work would chuckle over the time she ran out of Sean’s party and hobbled home with a bleeding heel.
Halfway up Pentonville Road, she stopped and looked to see whether Sean had called to check on her welfare and she hadn’t heard it ringing. No missed calls. But there was a text, from Serena: Kate thinks you’ve gone home, are you ok?
She replied: Fine thanks just bit tired xx.
Yearning for a friendly voice now – and since it was only 10.45 p.m. – she called Della.
‘Rox, are you okay?’ She sounded startled.
‘Er, yes. Sorry. You weren’t in bed, were you?’
‘No, don’t worry. So, um, how’re things? What’ve you been up to tonight?’
‘I’ve just been at Sean’s fiftieth actually …’
‘Oh! Was that fun?’
‘Kind of,’ she muttered.
‘So, where are you now?’
‘Um, I’m just going home,’ Roxanne replied in her best sober voice. ‘I’ve had quite a week and I need to go to bed.’
‘Right. So, er … how are you getting home?’
Roxanne coughed and considered fibbing but wasn’t sure she could pull it off. ‘I’m walking but it’s fine, I’m nearly there now.’
‘You’re walking home at this time, on your own?’ Della gasped.
‘Yes, but I told you, I’m nearly—’
‘Rox, for God’s sake, you’re in London!’
‘Yes, handily, because that’s where I live.’ Roxanne was striding along now, head bent against the rain. She was regretting calling Della because, of course, her sister was under the impression that you only had to pop out for milk in London and you were likely to be stabbed.
‘Could you get a taxi, please?’
‘Yes, I will – but listen, your party invitation’s beautiful …’
‘Thanks. Sophie drew it for me.’
‘I thought she might have. How’s art college going?’
‘Loving it, as far as she tells me anything. So, d’you think you’ll be able to come to the party?’
‘Hope so,’ Roxanne replied, ‘but there’s stuff going on, I have this new boss—’
‘Oh, yes, you mentioned her. How’s that working out?’
Roxanne pushed her damp hair from her face. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How’s the lovely Frank?’
Della laughed at this reference to the man she’d been seeing for the past eighteen months. Secretly, Roxanne had never been terribly fond of her sister’s ex-husband, Mark – a podiatrist who had refused to even treat his wife’s feet, for crying out loud – even before it had come to light that he’d been having an affair with a patient, for whom he had left Della. In contrast, Frank really was lovely: an architect whose daughter, Becca, was at art college with Sophie in Leeds. It was their daughters’ friendship that had brought them together. ‘He’s great,’ Della replied. ‘He sends his love. Look – please get a taxi, would you?’
‘I told you, I’m nearly—’
‘I don’t like the idea of you tottering home drunk, all by yourself …’
‘I’m not drunk.