Aurélie

Chapter Seven

Mayfair 1985

The kitchen's thrumming with music as culture club blare from the radio. People are spilling out into the living room and through the French windows onto the patio of the ground floor flat. The evening's mild for October and everyone's clinging onto the last of the summer magic.

I'm regretting bringing a jacket but shoulder pads are a must and it sets off my sweetheart neckline nicely, completing the look. I had my hair permed into neat curls earlier this afternoon in Marylebone, the heat is still radiating from my head, so many hours later. My patent black heels have just started to pinch but they are so damn sexy I don't care. Beauty is pain, as the Vogue mantra goes.

I spotted him walking in from the hallway. Tall, broad, an easy stride that oozes confidence but doesn't tip over into the swagger that often takes a man from attractive to arsehole. You could cut butter on his jawline. A shade of stubble just adds a come-to-bed shadow to his profile. Thick dark hair, almost black in this low-lit room, has been shoved back from his face, nearly needing a cut but not quite. A straight nose and beautiful deep-set blue eyes scan the room for a face he recognises, a bottle of red wine lingering in his hands like an extension of his jumper-clad arms. He's definitely rocking the Milk Tray Man look. I take a big gulp of Pinot Gris and spot the girls talking in the corner. By the look on Mel's face she's clocked Tall Dark Handsome too. I scoot out into the hallway and dash up the stairs to the loo. I need to freshen up before working the room a bit more.

The wine is going down a fair bit easier than it should, I can already feel the tingling spread down my shoulder blades to the tip of my spine, making my hips sway to the beat of the stereo. I always find it easier at parties to hold a glass of wine - what else is there to do with your hands at a party? Mind out of the gutter please. Ideally I'd have a fag in one hand and a glass in the other. The trouble with this is the constant glass to mouth action that happens in conversation lulls. And god is there a lot of those tonight. Keith has been in our group of friends for four years, an investment banker he's loud and always up for a laugh. It's his birthday party and he's invited some absolute morons from work. Super dull. Hence why my world is becoming warmer around the edges as my glass is emptied and refilled like a little social lifesaver. I've spotted T.D.H a few more times but he's talking to some of Keith's lot. Mustn't stare. God he's beautiful.

Midnight
In the loo and reapplying lippy for the umpteenth time. I'm going to make my move with T.D.H, the wine has made me feel floaty and sassy.

I almost collide with her when I come out on the landing. She's wearing the red dress she bought with me last weekend at Portobello market and black heels that I know she has to wedge with insoles because she couldn't let anyone else have those shoes and the shop assistant said they weren't made in half sizes. I can tell she's feeling merry too, her smile is slightly too wide and her eyes are half closed.

"Babe I'm gonna split, I've bagged Rory, an absolute fucking hottie. I'll call you tomorrow yeah?" She says, her voice like dark caramel, smooth and sultry.

"I'm staying, the party's just getting started!" I say, a slippery eel starting to writhe in my stomach. Shit. I hope I'm wrong.

I watch her from the hallway as she slings her leather jacket on, laughing over her shoulder at someone in doorway.

"Night Lena!" Lucille blows a bright red theatrical kiss at me.

The eel has fully uncoiled in my stomach and is doing somersaults as I see T.D.H bloody Rory wrap an arm around Lucille's waist and pull her out into the London night.