The line was long. It stretched from one corner of the Testino book to the other, right from Kate Moss’s eyebrow to her lower lip. Rose watched in silence as Clara giggled, squatting down on the floor and inhaling the entire white powdered substance in less than three seconds.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman do a fat line like that before,’ said the man standing behind Rose.
‘Neither have I,’ she replied, still staring at Clara.
When Clara flicked her hair upwards, her eyes met Rose’s. Beads of sweat speckled down her smooth forehead. Her lips were glossed and full, her cheekbones protruding more noticeably. Her pupils were enormous.
‘Want one?’ she asked Rose, waving the bag of powder in front of her face. Rose had done coke once before at Glastonbury Festival with Luce, who had assured her it was ‘just like taking a really strong espresso’. It kept her awake all night. Rose had spent two hours hyperventilating in her tent alone, freezing cold and with Luce’s sleeping bag on top of hers. Luce crawled back to the tent at 10.30 a.m. after having fallen asleep at Stone Circle. With all this in mind, there were many reasons for Rose to turn down the drugs. She ran through all of them as she bent her body forward, placed one finger over her left nostril, and breathed in as hard and fast as she could.
It was 2.43 a.m. when Rose finally checked her phone. There were too many notifications to scroll through; a lot of messages that might have been from Luce. But all she could focus on was that none of them were from Milo, so she turned it off and put it back in her jacket pocket. The night had faded into a series of indistinguishable monologues from strangers, bathroom whisper sessions with new friendships formed over nothing in particular, and more visits to the Testino book. Rose’s heart had never pulsated so fiercely; it was angry with her. She dulled the guilt with whisky because it was the only alcohol she could find. She’d been pretending to like it for so many hours now the way it singed the back of her throat had become almost enjoyable.
Clara had barely come up for air. She had been stationed in one of the bedrooms for most of the night, reclined on a king-size bed with her legs propped up against its plush pink velvet headboard, entertaining any and all who visited her. Rose had overheard her speaking to a director about a film based on her life. Clara would play herself, she suggested, because she had once played Tallulah in Bugsy Malone at school. This was enough to convince the director, who immediately broke into a wobbly rendition of ‘My Name is Tallulah’. Rose had not heard her mention Mark once, and whenever someone at the party asked if Clara had a boyfriend, she’d quickly assure them that she was single and ask if they had any single men for her.
Rose had long ago given up trying to talk to her about StandFirst. But she had not given up on looking for Milo, even though it was far easier to keep looking for more cocaine. ‘Very fat lines!’ as the man racking them up kept announcing each time, like he was introducing a lion tamer. She didn’t know for certain if Milo was even here, which was probably the point. With the sheer volume of people squashed into this hotel suite, and all its various dimly lit rooms and corners, it was the perfect place for hide-and-seek. Rose figured it was a good time to play.
Milo wasn’t in any of the bedrooms. After discovering two women having sex in one of the bathrooms, Rose headed to the second, shushing the sound of her heartbeat. Her fingertips fizzed at the prospect of finding him. She felt more energised than ever: armed with enough substances to fight whatever battle was waiting for her.
Rose could hear muffled men’s voices inside as she approached the door of the bathroom, and swiftly pushed it open with such force she fell forward.
‘F-fuck,’ she stuttered, suddenly feeling the effect of all that she’d consumed. She steadied herself, hands pressed firmly against a cold marble floor.
‘Rose?’ asked a man’s voice.
It took her a couple of seconds to realise she’d won whatever game she’d set out to play. She looked up, body on all fours, her face so close to his it was tempting to try and bite some of it off.
There were two other men in the bathroom, both sitting in a sunken tub, passing a plump joint between them, the smell of weed suddenly entering Rose’s system, blending with everything else inside her.
‘Are you okay?’ asked one of the men in the bathtub.
‘I’m fine,’ said Rose, swatting his hand away and hoisting herself up. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she said, pointing at Milo, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor.
‘Right, sure. What’s up?’ he asked, smiling.
Rose shot a look at the two others. They took the hint and left.
‘Good luck, mate,’ one of them chirped as he shut the door behind him.
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Answer the fucking question.’
‘I said your name, didn’t I? Rose.’
She resisted the urge to stamp her foot.
‘Why have you been ignoring me?’ she said, feeling her throat clogging up.
‘What?’
‘On Instagram.’
‘I don’t remember seeing a message from you. It might have been someone on my team that opened it if you sent me one.’
‘Someone on your team?’ Rose held her hands up to mock quotation marks as she repeated his words.
‘Yes, Rose. Someone on my team,’ Milo parroted.
‘Stop calling me that.’
‘Isn’t it your name?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Are you okay? Do you need me to get you a car home?’
Rose made a sound that didn’t quite pass as anything capable of coming from human vocal cords; it was a cross between a wail and a howl.
Milo laughed. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, standing up with an air of finality and heading towards the door.
‘What happened that night?’ Rose heard herself ask.
He turned around, a flash of intrigue. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘There are parts that I can’t remember.’
‘I think they call that being drunk, Rose.’
