Please.
And then, because she could no longer watch her own words watching her, she deleted the conversation. The next thing Rose did was open Safari and type: ‘how to report a rape’ into the search bar, her body electrified by what she was about to do.
The information that came up was too garbled to navigate through. Some websites suggested going to your local police station. Others advised calling 101 if it wasn’t an emergency. But this felt like one. Rose called 999.
‘999, which service do you need?’
‘Hello. Hi.’
‘Police, fire or ambulance?’
‘I’m … I’m not sure.’
‘Why are you calling us tonight, ma’am?’
‘I think I was raped.’
‘Sorry, you’re cutting out. Could you repeat that?’
‘I said I think I was raped. By Milo Jax.’
‘Milo, who?’
‘Milo Jax. The singer.’
‘Sorry – you’re cracking out …’
The voice on the other end of the phone was crackling but it didn’t matter. Rose couldn’t help herself.
‘MILO JAX. I WAS RAPED BY MILO JAX. THE SINGER. I HAD SEX WITH HIM AND THEN HE RAPED ME AND I BLED AND I CANNOT GET HOLD OF HIM.’
Rose felt her throat straining with agony as she realised she was screaming.
‘Putting you through to the fire service now.’
Rose hung up and threw her phone across the bedroom, bringing the duvet up to her face so she could scream and scream and scream.
THREE
The hairdresser’s smelt like burnt rubber. A fan of Firehouse magazines had been spread out in front of Rose, some of them more than three years old with pages that had curled up at the corners. She decided to flick through a MODE magazine from December 2015.
Minnie had booked blow-dries for the entire team ahead of the launch that evening. It would be taking place at the Serpentine Gallery, a location Liz had somehow secured just one week previously. It was hot, possibly the hottest day of the year so far. Rose was fanning herself with the magazine as she winced at her hair being tugged and twisted from behind.
The morning after Rose had sent those messages to Milo, there had been a split second of bliss before she’d remembered what she’d done. The shame smothered her. As for Lola, Rose had apologised for calling so many times and said it was an accident. She’d been ignoring her mother’s calls ever since. It was too much to handle before such a big work event. Luce, meanwhile, had been avoiding her.
When Rose arrived at the Serpentine, her coiffed hair already starting to frizz from the humidity, she felt prepared. She was grateful to have been given a StandFirst T-shirt to wear instead of a dress and had paired it with a short black skirt and black pointed stilettos that pinched her toes. Liz had said the uniform would make it easier for guests to identify the staff, which she suspected was code for: ‘So you don’t all get distracted and start flirting with the celebrities and vice versa.’
On the tip sheet, which would be handed out to photographers on arrival, was a mix of up-and-coming actors, musicians, models and influencers. There were more names Rose recognised than usual, mostly because everyone on it was under thirty. There was the girl band who had won a popular talent show last year. The American child star who’d just been cast to play a superhero in a Marvel film. And a YouTuber with more than 100,000 subscribers who made videos about shopping on ASOS.
A nervous fizz filled the air as guests started to arrive. Joss had confirmed that Milo would perform two days ago. Rose had simply forwarded the email to Minnie and Annabelle; they could deal with the logistics. She had already identified a spot where a potential confrontation could take place; Milo had his own dressing room backstage that he’d be waiting in before his performance later. Given she was looking after him tonight, it would be completely reasonable for her to be in his dressing room before the performance, checking if he needed anything. She just had to get rid of Annabelle somehow. But that shouldn’t be too difficult; she could just put her in front of another famous person.
‘How will we know he’s about to arrive?’ Annabelle asked Rose.
‘He will probably call me,’ she said.
‘Wow, okay. So do you have his number?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, of course he calls on No Caller ID. Okay. Yes, okay. That makes sense.’
With every Firehouse event, it was always the least important people that arrived first. This bought everyone a little time before the real work began. Rose and Annabelle smiled and said hello to each of the guests, checking their pieces of paper that had everyone’s names and faces on them so they could alert the photographers to anyone they wanted to get in their coverage the next day. Rose hadn’t told the team anything about what was going on with Clara. She figured she just wouldn’t show up. Rose had been calling her every day since that night at the bagel shop – but she hadn’t picked up once.
It was oppressively warm. While everyone was delighted to have clear skies, it meant there wasn’t even the slightest bit of a breeze.
Given that the party was outside, it was significantly easier for people to sneak in. Thankfully, this was not Rose’s job to monitor. The freelancers Liz had hired had been assigned this particularly taxing role. It had only happened a few times – and it was always the same people. One man called Phil who worked in tech and usually came along with his wife, Babs, and one or two friends. Another woman in her mid-fifties with purple hair called Jill who always insisted she was on the list. Minnie would send around photographs of them ahead of every event.
So far, though, it was all invitees they’d expected aside from one woman who arrived in a see-through black dress. Rose and Annabelle watched as she stormed off, indignant that the freelancer on the door would not let her in.
The freelancer was nervously speaking into her walkie-talkie.
‘No. Don’t let her in,’ said Liz’s voice, firmly.
‘Okay, but she seems really set on coming in. I think she will come back.’
‘Let her. If she gives you any more trouble I’ll come and help.’ Liz was like a Rottweiler in these scenarios, a trained defender of Firehouse’s cloistered, invite-only quarters.
Rose spotted Clara the second she arrived. The paparazzi crowded her car as she stepped out, getting as close to her as they physically could with their cameras. Dressed head to toe in a white feathered strapless gown, her clavicles protruding, she looked impeccable. Her hair had been styled in loose, glossy curls that resembled that classic Hollywood style. Her lips were bright red and puckered. Her skin bright and firm, like it had been massaged by one of those machines that says it will give you an instant face lift. She looked the best Rose had ever seen her. Rose waved as she tried to catch her eye. But Clara was still looking across the swarm of photographers, duly posing for all of them, taking her phone out and getting a selfie before walking over to Annabelle and Rose.
