CHAPTER TWO

      DOMINIC TEMPLETON-BURKE was sitting in the oak-panelled library of the Explorers’ Reading Room when his cellphone gave a discreet cough. It was so discreet it was almost inaudible, in fact. Even so, three assorted explorers looked up and glared.

      ‘Sorry,’ Dom mouthed.

      He went out into the corridor. Tall windows looked down onto a rustic garden, incongruous in the centre of London. He settled himself into a window seat and put the phone to his ear. Below him, late roses were golden in the September sun.

      ‘Yes, Jay?’

      ‘My staff tell me you were perfectly bloody.’ Jay Christopher sounded mildly amused.

      Dom shifted uncomfortably. Jay was an old friend. ‘Not my scene,’ he said excusingly.

      Jay was unsurprised. ‘I warned you. Why don’t you just take the book deal? That would sort out all the funding problems at a shot.’

      ‘I keep telling you. I’m a doer, not a writer.’

      Jay sighed. ‘Okay. Well, Molly has got an idea.’

      ‘What sort of idea?’ said Dom suspiciously.

      ‘Oh, some celebrity bash she thinks you should go to. It will get plenty of coverage. Not inspired. But it’s a start. She’ll call you. Do what she says, Dom,’ he ended warningly. ‘She knows what’s she’s doing.’

      Molly had obviously been waiting for Jay to finish the softening up process. She rang as soon as he’d put the phone down.

      ‘Hi, Dom. Party tonight. The Flamingo Pool,’ she said briskly. ‘Wear something tasty.’

      Dom blinked. ‘Tasty?’

      ‘Something that will get you noticed. We need those photographs in the papers tomorrow.’

      Dominic could not resist it. ‘You mean like a parka and goggles and no knickers?’

      Molly choked on a laugh in spite of herself. ‘You can be a real pain in the ass,’ she informed him. ‘But you’re worth it for the cabaret. Go and rent yourself some designer togs and have a session on the sunbed. We’re talking serious crumpet for the thinking woman, here.’

      Dominic’s heart sank. ‘Whose party?’ he said gloomily.

      ‘Pepper Calhoun. For her new business. Basically the fashion crowd,’ said Molly hardily. ‘I know it’s not your scene, but tough. Where there are frocks there are photographers. Where there are photographers there are celebrities. And where there are celebrities there are columnists. Write yourself two appealing sentences, learn them off by heart, then say them to everyone you meet.’

      ‘Sounds like a fun evening.’

      ‘Who said anything about fun? I thought this was your work!’

      Dominic laughed and capitulated. ‘You’ve got me there,’ he said ruefully. ‘Okay. Tell me where to go and I’ll do the pretty.’

      Molly gave him the club address. ‘Don’t get there before eleven-thirty,’ she said briskly. ‘And polish up your biceps for the cameras. Gotta go. See you tonight.’

      Dom went back to the library and submerged himself in the saving sanity of ice drift.

      ‘Somewhere I lost about three hours today,’ Izzy said, unpacking boxes from the back of the taxi while Molly di Peretti rang the bell in the Flamingo Pool’s ominously dark entrance. ‘We were supposed to go out for pizza. But then it took longer to clear up than I expected.

      ‘Publicity parties always take longer than you expect,’ said Molly absently. The intercom asked a question and she leant towards it. ‘Hi, Franco, it’s me. We’ve brought the stuff for the Out of the Attic party.’

      ‘Then Pepper put in an extra meeting,’ said Izzy, struggling with a couple of banners that, even folded, were as big as she was. ‘And Jemima booked me into her hairdresser’s. Somehow lunch just got lost.’

      The door swung open by remote control. Molly propped it open with her briefcase and came back to the taxi to help unload. Together she and Izzy carried boxes of balloons, decorations and party favours into the building.

      ‘Leave them there,’ said Molly with authority. ‘Josh can carry them upstairs and put them up. That’s what new recruits are for. You and I are management.’

      ‘Huh. Management doesn’t eat, apparently.’

      ‘Proves we’re serious,’ said Molly hardily. ‘And we’re running the coolest party of the season to prove it.’

      Izzy followed her up the stairs and onto the main dance floor. She stopped dead.

      ‘This is cool?’ she said incredulously.

      Izzy liked to dance, and she went to a lot of clubs. She was used to a driving beat and searing spotlights that blinked through the feverish dark. It was vibrant, exciting, dangerous. But the room she had entered was just depressing. In the light of a hundred-watt bulb, the floor was stained, the mirrors smeared and the bar had bits gouged out of it.

      ‘Are you sure?’

      Molly di Peretti chuckled. ‘This is what they all look like when the lights are on. The imagination doesn’t get going until the lights go down. It’s going to be great. A real party to remember. Trust me.’

      She was right, too. It was the same basic crowd as the morning. But this evening the women brought their partners. And Culp and Christopher’s list of celebrity guests had all turned up, agog. The clothes were stylish; the music was hot.

      Pepper, who did not normally go clubbing, began to look punch drunk by eleven o’clock. Her Steven, steady as a rock, put an