go.
Dominic paused before he rang the doorbell.
‘Ros, I wish you’d stop insulting everyone who doesn’t share your political views.’
‘So what does he do, then? This Jonathon Soames.’
‘He works in Whitehall.’
‘There you go. A rabid Tory.’
He turned around and looked at her. ‘So my friends are a little more conventional than yours. We’ve lived shallow, sheltered lives of little meaning. But they are generally very nice, so don’t start badgering them to hand over the means of production to the proletariat, or whatever it was that Marx and Engels said. This is a dinner party. For my friend’s birthday. I’m just asking that you don’t turn things into a political debate.’
Ros smiled mischievously. ‘I thought that was what every good dinner party needed. Lively conversation.’
‘Not all-out war,’ grinned Dominic, finally pressing the bell.
The door swung open, spilling warm light and the chatter of conversation on to the street.
‘Blakey, old chap!’ cried the man in the blue shirt and tie who stood there. ‘So glad you could come.’ He pumped Dominic’s hand enthusiastically, then switched his gaze to Rosamund. ‘And who is this, may I ask?’
‘Jonathon Soames,’ said Dominic, ‘may I present Miss Rosamund Bailey?’
‘Good to meet you, finally,’ Jonathon smiled.
Rosamund felt a vague sense of triumphant excitement at being talked about. She didn’t want to put too much meaning into the fact that Dominic had mentioned her to his friends, but secretly it thrilled her. In the six weeks since their night at the Primrose Hill pub, they had seen each other a handful of times, although they’d spoken on the phone almost every day.
Their afternoon walking the streets of London on Rosamund’s blue plaque tour had been magical. They had lost interest in plaque-spotting sometime after John Logie Baird, and instead had got lost in a six-hour conversation that had covered their views on love and life.
At one point, Dominic had held her hand to cross the street, but instead of keeping hold of him, she had let go to scratch her leg, not because it was particularly itchy but because she had been so nervous and afraid that he would let go first. Looking back, as Rosamund had done many times since, she suspected it had been a turning point in their fledgling relationship. Were it not for that fateful scratch, the night could, she dared to dream, have concluded in a kiss in some dark, sultry corner of London. Instead they had settled into a comfortable, combative friendship that made Ros think of what it must be like to have a particularly clever and confident brother. She tried to ignore the giddiness she felt whenever the phone rang at the Primrose Hill house, or the way her heart sometimes flipped when he smiled at her. But she was self-aware enough to know that Dominic Blake was out of her league, and that even if a drunken night out did lead to something romantic, it would be a fleeting involvement, a diversion before he moved on to a more exotic and beautiful woman, that wouldn’t be worth the heartbreaking consequences. No, it was better this way. They were better as friends.
‘No one’s wearing a cocktail dress,’ she whispered from the hallway, as she glanced into the house.
‘I’ve got one under my jacket,’ said Dom distractedly as he accepted a glass of champagne from a butler.
‘I’m not joking. I feel overdressed,’ she hissed, wishing she was wearing something plainer than Sam’s Hardy Amies gown.
He turned his full attention back towards her.
‘You look beautiful.’
He rested his hand on the small of her back and led her into a wide, stylish living space, where a dozen or so people were standing around drinking wine and talking loudly. There was modern jazz playing on the record player in the corner, and the butler circulated with a bottle of Pol Roger held in a crisp white linen napkin, topping up glasses.
‘Everyone,’ called Jonathon over the
Dominic paused before he rang the doorbell.
‘Ros, I wish you’d stop insulting everyone who doesn’t share your political views.’
‘So what does he do, then? This Jonathon Soames.’
‘He works in Whitehall.’
‘There you go. A rabid Tory.’
He turned around and looked at her. ‘So my friends are a little more conventional than yours. We’ve lived shallow, sheltered lives of little meaning. But they are generally very nice, so don’t start badgering them to hand over the means of production to the proletariat, or whatever it was that Marx and Engels said. This is a dinner party. For my friend’s birthday. I’m just asking that you don’t turn things into a political debate.’
Ros smiled mischievously. ‘I thought that was what every good dinner party needed. Lively conversation.’
‘Not all-out war,’ grinned Dominic, finally pressing the bell.
The door swung open, spilling warm light and the chatter of conversation on to the street.
‘Blakey, old chap!’ cried the man in the blue shirt and tie who stood there. ‘So glad you could come.’ He pumped Dominic’s hand enthusiastically, then switched his gaze to Rosamund. ‘And who is this, may I ask?’
‘Jonathon Soames,’ said Dominic, ‘may I present Miss Rosamund Bailey?’
‘Good to meet you, finally,’ Jonathon smiled.
Rosamund felt a vague sense of triumphant excitement at being talked about. She didn’t want to put too much meaning into the fact that Dominic had mentioned her to his friends, but secretly it thrilled her. In the six weeks since their night at the Primrose Hill pub, they had seen each other a handful of times, although they’d spoken on the phone almost every day.
Their afternoon walking the streets of London on Rosamund’s blue plaque tour had been magical. They had lost interest in plaque-spotting sometime after John Logie Baird, and instead had got lost in a six-hour conversation that had covered their views on love and life.
At one point, Dominic had held her hand to cross the street, but instead of keeping hold of him, she had let go to scratch her leg, not because it was particularly itchy but because she had been so nervous and afraid that he would let go first. Looking back, as Rosamund had done many times since, she suspected it had been a turning point in their fledgling relationship. Were it not for that fateful scratch, the night could, she dared to dream, have concluded in a kiss in some dark, sultry corner of London. Instead they had settled into a comfortable, combative friendship that made Ros think of what it must be like to have a particularly clever and confident brother. She tried to ignore the giddiness she felt whenever the phone rang at the Primrose Hill house, or the way her heart sometimes flipped when he smiled at her. But she was self-aware enough to know that Dominic Blake was out of her league, and that even if a drunken night out did lead to something romantic, it would be a fleeting involvement, a diversion before he moved on to a more exotic and beautiful woman, that wouldn’t be worth the heartbreaking consequences. No, it was better this way. They were better as friends.
‘No one’s wearing a cocktail dress,’ she whispered from the hallway, as she glanced into the house.
‘I’ve got one under my jacket,’ said Dom distractedly as he accepted a glass of champagne from a butler.
‘I’m not joking. I feel overdressed,’ she hissed, wishing she was wearing something plainer than Sam’s Hardy Amies gown.
He turned his full attention back towards her.
‘You look beautiful.’
He rested his hand on the small of her back and led her into a wide, stylish living space, where a dozen or so people were standing around drinking wine and talking loudly. There was modern jazz playing on the record player in the corner, and the butler circulated with a bottle of Pol Roger held in a crisp white linen napkin, topping up glasses.
‘Everyone,’ called Jonathon over the
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