I faced myself in the mirror and frowned. Ignoring the habit of a lifetime, I deliberately looked into my eyes. The pain I always felt when I did this hit me, but this time it was different. Muted. More like the throb of recent trauma than the splitting pain of a gaping wound. I gazed at myself, unsure. The more I looked at my reflection, the more she looked back at me, waiting for me to explore deeper.
No!
I had a party to go to downstairs. A garish extravaganza in red and black, as it turned out. Black and red velvet sofas and plush floor cushions dotted the rooms. The red taffeta curtains were ruffled like flamenco dresses and there were large, gilded mirrors on the walls. I checked out the ceiling, half-expecting to see mirrors, and was slightly disappointed there weren’t any.
Vibrant and glitzy, the party had an overtone of sexual abandon. As well as chatting and drinking, couples were full-on making out and people shared joints or snorted lines of coke. I took a deep breath. Should I watch the X-rated or the class-A? Off to the left I found a smaller room with a dance floor, complete with neon lighting and glittering disco balls. The music was retro.
Sr Doria’s idea of a party was sex, drugs and disco dancing. I wanted to dance but I also wanted to find James. I smirked, picturing him dressed as John Travolta, strutting his sexy stuff or doing Michael Jackson’s “grab and pump” in tight leather.
I suspected Sr Doria came from a poor background like me, except I was the rags part of “rags to riches” and he’d made it to riches long ago. I didn’t have any ambitions to be rich but if I ever were I hoped I wouldn’t choose flamenco-meets-disco-porn for my home décor. I spotted Sr Doria chatting to an actress I recognised from my favourite Spanish soap. He had his arm around a busty brunette and was stroking her nipple through her dress. Looking at the beauty I no longer felt conservative; I felt downright frumpy.
My dress showed some skin but nothing like the amount of flesh on display. Walking around the party was like walking on a tightrope: keep your head level and don’t look down. The men were in black and the women in varying shades of red. The colour contrast, coupled with the acrid smell of weed, was giving me a headache.
Where was James?
Greg was on a corner sofa, sucking on Patricia’s face as if she was an ice-lolly, all tongue and loud slurping noises. No wonder he had the inside scoop on my job. He turned his head as I walked past and grabbed my arm, eyes heavy-lidded and red.#p#分页标题#e#
“James went back to Valencia,” he said. “Big emergency at the London office he had to deal with from the hotel.”
“Isn’t he coming back?” I exclaimed. “I mean, don’t we have work to do in the morning?”
Greg mimicked James’s formal tone. “You’re in charge of the final signings, Greg,” he sneered. “So big of James to allow me the grunt work.”
Patricia kissed him sloppily. Her red outfit looked like something a hooker would throw on the reject pile.
“Have fun tonight, Elizabeth,” she said brightly. “I see you’ve let your hair down so enjoy it. Plenty of men around, women too if that’s your fancy.”
I’m far from being a prude but all the same that was a little too open for me. Oh God, was I turning into my mother? No fudging way! An image of her running in and waving her rosary flashed in my mind, except it was my face on her body. I left Greg and Patricia, feeling more unsettled by the minute.
I’d never thought of myself as straight-laced or prissy. That was Caroline’s territory. You want to have sex in front of a bunch of people? I don’t want to watch but if it makes you happy... Twosome? Multiple choice? Whatever. Not my joyride but I won’t condemn consenting adults. Go for it, I say; just don’t forget the condoms.