‘Thank you.’
‘On one condition.’
‘Yes?’
‘How big was his dick?’
‘Why is everyone so obsessed with asking that question?’
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What?’
‘I said I don’t know.’
‘But you slept with him?’
‘Tessa, please.’
‘It’s a simple question.’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘What do you mean, you think so?’ Tessa laughed. ‘It either goes in or it doesn’t.’
‘I was drunk.’
‘They do say drunk sex is the best sex.’
‘I don’t think anyone says that.’
‘Some of the best sex I’ve had I can’t even remember.’
‘That makes no sense.’
Tessa laughed again. ‘How many people have you slept with, Rose?’
‘Not many.’
‘No shit. You just need to sleep with someone else and you’ll feel better. A sexual palette cleanser. I’m sure one of the butlers would fuck you.’
‘I’m going to go back inside now.’
‘I actually just can’t believe you fucked Milo Jax. I’ve never known anyone who has slept with a celebrity. They should put that on your gravestone or something. Aren’t you going to reply to him?’
‘No, I’m not.’ And with that, Rose put her phone in her pocket and stormed out of the conservatory.
There was half a bottle of vodka waiting on the kitchen island alongside soda and lime cordial. She fixed herself a drink. It was 10.27 p.m. She only had to put up with this for another hour and a half until she could sneak off to bed. Midnight was generally the earliest acceptable bedtime at things like this.
Rose sat silently, vaguely listening while Pippa and Grace spoke about the complexities of planning a wedding. Grace had got married last year to a wealthy financier, so their weddings would be of a similar calibre, financially speaking, which Rose discovered quickly when she caught snippets of the conversation.
Grace’s flowers had cost £8,000 because they were transported from a special garden in Spain. The invitations had cost £3,500 because they were hand-painted by an artist she’d found on Instagram. And the bespoke tablecloths that had been embroidered with their initials cost £4,500.
‘Oh, I must have those!’ said Pippa, taking down the name of the embroiderer.
It was easy enough to nod and smile every now and then to make them think Rose was listening.
Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped.
‘Whoa, easy girl,’ said Johnny, towering over her.
‘Why did you do that?’ Rose snapped.
‘I was saying your name and you didn’t hear me, so I touched you on the shoulder. Relax.’
‘I am relaxed.’
‘Do you want to come and have a drink with me?’
Pippa and Grace hadn’t turned around.
‘No, thank you, I’m fine here.’
‘Oh, come on, you’re running empty,’ he said, gesturing to her now nearly empty glass. She did want another drink, so she got up and followed Johnny into the empty kitchen.
Rose guessed that half the group were on the balcony smoking, a spot that felt less sacred now so many others had discovered it. And another half had piled into one of the bathrooms to do drugs. Rose never understood why people who did drugs always insisted on doing it in bathrooms. Even in a house like this, where the party was private and no one was going to kick you out for doing a few lines in the cubicle, why bother to sequester yourself away?
