question had nagged at her all day, her nerves growing by the hour.
‘Of course they will.’
‘But they might not.’ Lee could hear the ripple of panic in her own voice. Had she been too quick to judgement, shooting down Bart’s pleas to get a celebrity crowd in? She’d been so particular about the guest list, so certain the ‘wrong sort’ might undermine her message, that she risked an only half-full room even with a 100 per cent acceptance rate of those she had invited.
‘How could they not? It’s you, Lee Fitchett, Pulitzer-Prize-winning photographer. This is the first exhibition you’ve put on since you retired from war reporting. It’s your first public gig in Amsterdam. Tonight is a big deal. People will be dying to see what you’ve done.’
‘No they won’t. They don’t want to see what fists can do to a smaller body than theirs; they don’t want scenes of aerial bombings or children bleeding out. They want girls in bikinis with lip fillers, they want free champagne.’
Mila reached for her hand and held it in her own, feeling how it trembled. She squeezed it tighter. ‘You’re panicking. Just relax. Even if it’s just you, me, Liam, Noah and a teenage reporter from the Metro, you are going to knock it out of the park. I don’t think you realize the impact your images have on people. You’re a living legend, Lee.’ She smiled. ‘Although of course, to me, you’ll only ever be the person who made spaghetti Bolognese with lamb mince and who thinks tacos filled with French fries is a balanced meal.’
Lee chuckled, mollified somewhat.
They both stared out into the night, looking at the lights that usually reflected and glowed on the inky water, but the ever-thickening ice absorbed the reflections tonight so they were mere smudges of brightness.
‘Do you think it’s going to snow?’ Lee asked in a murmur, looking skywards.
‘Yeah. It can’t stay this cold and not snow, can it?’
Globes of light picked out the graceful arches of the small bridges, traced the roof lines into peaks, laced the canopies of trees in climbing whorls. Christmas trees were shimmering like grandes dames in the squares. Everywhere felt lit, special. Amber light glowed throughout the city, spilling from the facades of the tall narrow townhouses that stood shoulder to shoulder in elegant rows on the grand Old Town canals; and down the side streets, with the cobbles and straight avenues of trees and smaller canals, there was a toytown charm, as though they were all living in dolls’ houses; a living, breathing Lilliput.
The car slowed as the driver looked at the building numbers and Lee leaned forward to show him where to stop.
‘It’s just up there,’ she said, pointing to the gallery up ahead. ‘Right by the—’
‘Oh my God,’ Mila murmured, as the two women looked at each other in alarm, blue lights flashing.
‘Are we happy? Are we happy?’ Bart asked, his own eyes wide with excitement (and possibly something else) as he successfully pulled them through the crowd. It had been a battle just getting in through the door. They actually had security guards in place, police managing the crowds outside.
Lee wasn’t sure she was. Relieved? Yes, but crowds always made her edgy. She looked back at all the bodies still jostling to get in. ‘Are they sure they’re in the right place?’ she asked in disbelief. Surely they had to be mistaken. Perhaps they thought this was someone else’s party. Or someone had said there was a free bar.
‘Of course they are!’ Bart laughed with an energy that told her he was flying.
‘Bart, what have you done?’ she asked nervously, looking for the rent-a-crowd she had expressly forbidden. But there were no women with hair extensions or gel nails that she could see.
‘Lee! What a party, mate!’ Ricky Lazell hollered across to her, four people away and unable to get closer, a scrum of people clamouring to talk to him. He was the ‘new Ed Sheeran’. She had shot him a few weeks back.
‘Rick!’ she exclaimed in a voice that wasn’t her own. ‘Thank you for coming! I’ll find you in a bit!’ She looked back at Bart pointedly. What was he doing here?
‘I know, amazing, right? He’s mid-tour too; came back from Oslo to be here. Everyone was so keen to support you; they love you, Lee.’
‘Who? Who loves me?’ she asked, feeling panicky. ‘I categorically said no celebrities.’
‘No. You said no C-list celebrities and no management agencies. I’ve only asked the certified, Vanity