was in the state of controlled ferment that Bella recognised from her student years. She slotted in with the ease of long practice. The only thing that surprised her was that her steward’s jacket turned out to be quite sexy, white with black piping, nipped in at the waist and rather low-cut.
‘Not ideal. White shows every mark and people will spill things,’ said the organiser briskly. ‘But the laundry didn’t get our black uniforms back in time. So we’re down to our summer yacht club rig. Oh, well, at least the presence of Royalty should stop a food fight breaking out.’
It was a huge party, nearly a thousand guests, Bella calculated. It spilled over five galleries and two floors and out on to a heated terrace. She was run off her feet, carrying large silver trays of canapés to the furthest corners of the room, fending off hungry guests until she got to her appointed station. As she expected, she did not get so much as a sniff of the Royal party.
‘You’re good,’ said the organiser, impressed. ‘Take this through to the Woodley Gallery. It’s for the directors’ party. Make sure the ravening hordes don’t strip it bare before you get there.’
‘That means it’s the hypoallergenic tray for the Big Wigs,’ one of the other waitresses told her, looking harassed. ‘Sir Brian Woodley is the guy who gave the money for this new gallery, and he can’t eat eggs, dairy, nuts … God knows what else. All that worrying over his billions, I guess. Who’d be rich? Good luck!’
Bella got the tray through the crowds and was directed to the official party. The speeches were over and they were standing in front of a picture of a cliff overlooking a stormy sea. She moved quietly among them, concentrating on keeping the big tray level and trying to identify the food-challenged benefactor, when she heard a strangled sound to her left.
Looking round, she saw Richard staring at her.
Staring? Glaring, more like, completely ignoring the VIP who was talking to him, and narrowing his eyes at her as if she and her canapés would poison him.
She recoiled. Her tray tilted dangerously.
‘Whoops,’ said one of the VIPs, restoring it to the horizontal.
‘I’m so sorry,’ murmured Bella, tearing her eyes away from Richard.
He looked furious. She had never thought of that and was completely taken aback. So she concentrated so hard on what she was doing that it hurt.
Nobody else seemed to notice or to blame her for the near accident. Indeed, she got a kind word from the director and a nod of appreciation from the egg-allergic benefactor. But Bella could only be thankful when the tray was cleared and she could race back to the kitchen.
Only, as she approached the staircase – ‘One moment,’ said a voice behind her.
She turned. It was Richard, still furious, she could see, but hiding it well under a layer of courtesy as he shed his attendant VIP with smiling charm and strode over to her, through the crowd. She flattened herself against the wall, in the hopes that he wanted to get past her. But no such luck.
‘Can you get me another of those anchovy pastries?’ he said loudly.
‘Y-y-yes, of course.’
‘Sir.’
‘Wh-what?’
He said under his breath, ‘You call me “Sir”. Or people will notice.’ But for once his eyes weren’t smiling when he said it.
What was wrong?
‘Of course, Sir,’ said Bella, confused.
‘Well, jump to it then.’
She jumped.
The kitchen was impressed. ‘Hey, His Royalness likes our anchovy straws,’ said the organiser. ‘Nibbles by Royal Appointment, no less.’
The chef put a fresh batch into the oven and Bella took a smaller tray on a quick circuit of the nearest room, to be back as soon as the anchovy straws were cooked.
Fifteen minutes later, she was weaving her way through the guests on the big staircase again, this time carrying a small basket of warm savoury pastries, looking for Richard. When she finally saw him, he was standing firmly in front of a set of three paintings, listening to a guide, or it might even be the artist, hold forth to the director’s party.
Bella hesitated. As if he could feel her eyes on him, Richard looked up and made one of their hand signals, acknowledging her and pointing towards the far end of the screen. It was so fleeting that nobody could have been certain that he did it, or not unless they were watching him closely.
He was a born conspirator, thought Bella, somewhat reassured. She must remember to tell