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‘Thank you, I like yours too,’ she lied. Rose was still in her work clothes, which consisted of the usual mix of a loose-fitting shirt over a short denim skirt and black boots. There was nothing special about her outfit.

‘It’s so interesting,’ the woman added.

‘It’s what?’

‘You just look so cool,’ she quipped, smiling sweetly.

‘Thank you.’

Rose didn’t understand the compliment, and was fairly certain it was an insult coming from someone dressed like Harrods had thrown up over her, but the brief interjection was enough to stabilise the situation. Rose would go back into the party and tell Clara she was going home; she couldn’t afford to piss her off by pulling a French exit.

She waded through the crowd, which had grown so significantly it was now impossible to get through it without her arms bumping into others. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she kept muttering with every bash of flesh, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the floor in case one of those arms belonged to Milo.

Finally, she could hear Clara and looked up to see her gesticulating at someone. But by the time he’d come into her field of vision, it was too late.

‘Milo, you know Rose. From Firehouse?’ Clara said, smiling as the man now standing inches away from Rose turned around to face her.

‘Hello, Rose from Firehouse,’ he said, smiling.

She stared back at him silently, searching his face for recognition. But there was none. Just those pale eyes looking into hers like they were doing her a favour. Rose said nothing and continued to watch his expression, waiting for it to do something to signal her existence. But after a few seconds, she couldn’t really see his face any more. The picture had gone blurry, like she’d taken out her contact lenses. It was just that familiar series of shapes again, something that might have resembled a nose but instead had become an oblong weapon pointing directly at her. It was next to a spherical object, the curvature of which was now grazing against her cheek, pushing into it harder and harder.

‘Rose, get in. My followers will lose their minds,’ Clara’s voice said in slo-mo.

‘Of course,’ said Milo, his laugh morphing into a grumbled roar that filled the room. And then his hand was on her back, warm and damp through her shirt, pulling her in next to him. She could smell his sweat. Someone somewhere shouted ‘Smile!’ And then all she saw were the rough outlines of bodies, circling around her, looking, shouting, vying to be coloured in.

Rose knew what was about to happen. She could feel her balance tipping over. He was standing right next to her. No. No. No.

The last thing she remembered was the camera flash piercing behind her eyes.

When Rose woke up, she was outside a hotel room, slumped against the wall and next to a pool of vomit that could only have been her own.

‘Are you all right?’ an unfamiliar male voice asked.

Rose turned her head as much as she could, her vision blurred by tears. When she saw it wasn’t Milo, she turned back towards the pool of vomit and, feeling a pang in her throat, leaned over further as yellow bile spilled out in front of her.

‘Oh, God, poor you,’ the voice continued. ‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll call someone to clean it up. Do you want me to order you a taxi home?’

Rose’s stomach twisted; she had been sick so rarely in her life that it wasn’t a feeling she’d ever been able to get used to. The fact that it was happening now, in what looked like a very expensive hotel and in front of a stranger that may or may not be friends with Milo Jax, was a lot. She could vaguely remember Clara saying something about going to another afterparty nearby hosted by someone called Robbie or Bobby. Judging from the booming sounds of ‘Despacito’ trilling from behind her, Rose assumed this was that party. And Clara had somehow managed to get her here. Given the circumstances, it was looking likely that she’d lasted a few minutes before trying to take herself home and winding up in the corridor. At least they weren’t playing Milo’s music.

Rose needed to go home. But as the raw physical pain of vomiting started to ease in between purges, a different impulse fought through. Milo had seen her and said her name, even if he acted like it was the first time he’d ever heard it. She had not imagined that night and she certainly had not imagined seeing him just now. He knew her. It happened. And Milo wasn’t going to get away with pretending that it hadn’t.

But Milo was not the one outside the hotel room with her, checking to see if she was all right after she’d presumably fainted and started spontaneously being sick. This man had. Perhaps he was Robbie or Bobby. It felt rude to ask.

If Rose went home now, it would only send the message to Milo that he had had an effect on her. That he had the power to hurt her. Rose could not allow that to happen.

‘No, I don’t want a taxi. I just drank too much but it’s all gone now. Thank you,’ she finally replied once she was sure there was no vomit left to expel.

‘All right then. You want to come back inside? Someone called Clara was flapping around earlier, asking if Rose had gone home. I’m guessing that’s you.’

‘Yes. That is me. I think,’ said Rose, picking herself up off the floor and standing to face Robbie or Bobby.

‘Oh, well, she has been talking very highly of you,’ he replied, looking at Rose in the way she wished Milo had.

‘Yeah, well, she’s probably very high.’

He laughed. ‘Come on, I’ve already called housekeeping to sort out this mess. Let’s go back inside.’

There must have been forty people in the room, which soon turned out to be a suite comprising three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a capacious living space. The traditional Regency decor that lined the walls jarred with the scene that was taking place within it. Cliques of three or four people were dotted around, some smoking out of windows, others sitting snug on mid-century sofas, touching, kissing and entertaining whoever was looking.

Clara was thrilled when she saw Rose. ‘If I’d known you were such a lightweight I wouldn’t have given you a drop!’ she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around her tightly. ‘Oh,’ she said pulling away, her nose wrinkling. ‘You smell a little bit like vomit, my love.’

Rose lifted up the bottom of her shirt, which she had only just seen was now stained with smudges of orange and brown.

‘Right, come here,’ said Clara, ushering Rose into one of the bathrooms and promptly spraying her with various fragrances that were lining a sunken tub that had a TV screen embedded into the wall next to it. Clara’s nose was covered with white specks. Rose flicked them off as Clara scrubbed at her shirt with damp toilet roll that was flaking onto the floor. Unfortunately, the stains were not removable. So, without asking, Clara tugged Rose’s shirt off, leaving her exposed in the grey and white Calvin Klein sports bra she’d bought three years ago.

‘Right, remind me to take you lingerie shopping,’ said Clara, throwing the shirt in the bin and giving her the white blazer she’d been wearing earlier in the night. ‘Don’t you dare vomit on this,’ she said, sliding Rose’s arms through it. ‘It’s Dolce.’

Rose nodded. ‘Did you buy it?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she replied. ‘There,’ she added, buttoning up the blazer and stepping back to admire her work. ‘Oh, yes. Now we’re ready.’

At art college, one of the things painters are taught about at length is triptychs. Comprising three pieces or panels, a triptych forms one larger painting. Sometimes each of the panels is created so they can stand alone; then the others are viewed as complementary pieces. Occasionally, though, the panels rely heavily on one another to create one comprehensive narrative. There are other forms, such as diptychs and quadriptychs, where there are two or four panels, respectively. But the triptych, Rose was taught, was at the upper echelons of multi-faceted artwork because of how it pertains to the power of three. There is a clear beginning, middle and end, with each new painting bringing depth to its predecessor and allowing it to be seen in an entirely new light. Some of Francis Bacon’s most famous paintings are triptychs. The most horrifying is generally considered to be Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion. Set against a harsh orange background, the work features three anthropomorphic creatures, each more tortured than the next. In the first, the creature is severely distorted; you can just about make out its snarl. In the second, you can see a mouth baring its teeth aggressively towards the viewer, like an animal identifying its prey. The third creature is the most violent, its mouth open beyond the constraints of human capability, teeth visible alongside a single ear. Look long enough and you’ll hear its scream.

There had been many interpretations of the piece since it was first exhibited in 1945. Some scholars linked it to the Holocaust, while others claimed it illustrated the fear of nuclear weapons. But Bacon himself said the creatures represented the Furies from Greek mythology, Goddesses of vengeance that punished men who disrupted the natural order. It was Rose’s favourite painting.

Spending time with Clara was like looking at a triptych: she was someone whose self had been splintered into three parts. In the first panel, you’d see her Instagram profile. The identity anyone could see if they looked her up online. Rose would use swathes of gorgeous yellow shades to represent this. Something you’d look at and find it hard to tear yourself away from because of how attractive it was. In the second, you’d see something similar but with a bit of bite, brushstrokes of darker colours edging closely to the light. This was the side of Clara that Rose had seen over breakfast. Someone who was struggling to maintain the flawless facade she’d spent years creating. In this panel, Rose thought, you’d also see a mouth, somehow, like Bacon’s anamorphic creature. If you looked from far away, the expression would appear as a smile. When you got closer, it would turn into a snarl.

Then the final panel. This was a side Rose would never see, she reasoned, because of how deep within Clara it resided. In this painting, Rose would use every colour available to her. But she would blend them all together, flagrantly and messily, so that they merged into some sort of dark brown sludgy shade that appeared almost black. The only part of the painting that would appear light would be the mouth, which, like Bacon’s, would be stretched open.

Are sens

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