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‘Etta, this is Piers. Piers this is Etta.’

Etta surveys Piers and I’m waiting for the insults to start flying. It’s the first time she’s come into the gallery since she dumped this party on me and Blythe – not that that’s stopped her from texting instructions constantly. It’s been such good fun...
not
.

‘Hi,’ she drawls, after looking him up and down, and that’s it. No snarky remarks or pointed looks –
nothing
.

Piers is looking much brighter, plus he’s kept his facial hair a bit beardy which makes him look more attractive than normal.

‘Nice to meet you, Etta,’ he replies, his eyes crinkling up because his smile is warm and genuine.

He doesn’t add the “I’ve heard so much about you” line, which is an excellent thing because that would have set Etta off. She’s not stupid. She’ll know that any anecdotes or observations I may have shared with Piers about her won’t have been the most dazzling ones. And they haven’t.

‘Love’s young dream, huh? How’s married life?’ she asks, in a completely out of character way. Clearly my husband’s smile is that good.

‘Oh, it’s had its ups and downs,’ Piers says, causing Etta to cackle away like Piers is Michael McIntyre or whatever kooky comedian makes her laugh. Seriously
though
?
That wasn’t funny.

I force myself to laugh along with them, but I want to cry. I’m exhausted, and I can’t even relax tomorrow after this is all over because it’s Ob’s wedding. Yes,
that’s
still happening.

‘Looking forward to tonight?’ I ask, placing my hand on Piers’ arm possessively.

Etta nods, cool and disinterested now that I’m talking to her, and she starts looking around the gallery as if she’d rather be standing anywhere else than here with me. I feel a stab of anger at her behaviour. Never again am I organising anything for her.

Not much has changed decoration-wise, though we’ve had to erect large exhibition boards in front of the more pricey artwork. A graffiti artist has decorated the boards by spraying jazz singers of the past on them.

In the centre of the room, on the floor, he’s sprayed Etta in a lifelike, albeit slightly creepy, pose. Bulky black headphones sit on her head whilst she seductively croons into a tall old-fashioned silver microphone. She looks more vicious than seductive. The spray is supposed to vanish within 48 hours, but I worry that we’ll come into the gallery next week and she will still be there, staring up at us. I stamp hard on Etta’s face each time I walk over her.

‘Matt’s coming, right?’

She nods again.

‘With Sophie, was it?’ I deliberately call her by her first name rather than Rose because I don’t want to set Etta off.

‘Yep,’ she says with a bit more warmth.

‘How about you?’ I ask. ‘Anyone special coming along?’

Etta’s face turns dark. ‘I need to take
her
off the guest list,’ she spits at me. She disappears before either of us can ask who the “her” is, though I have a pretty good idea.

I turn to Piers and he raises his left eyebrow at me, clearly amused by her behaviour. He won’t be so amused when she’s screaming at him for organising exactly what she asked for, which is what happened yesterday. I called Etta to tell her that her glass drinking skulls had arrived – she wanted her guests to enjoy sickening red punch in them. We had ordered one hundred of these gross “glasses” and then she denied all knowledge of them. In her next breath she snidely remarked that if I can waste money on renting a shop that we can’t use – through no fault of my own, I painfully reminded her – she can have her skulls.
Yeah
. Those skulls she knew nothing about the minute before.

‘What was that supposed to mean?’ I ask Piers when Etta is safely out of earshot. ‘It’s had its ups and downs. Were you serious? Is that what you think of our marriage?’ I try and keep my tone light, but I can hear the hurt in my voice. We’ve been married two minutes and already he’s dissatisfied?

‘I meant with my illness and everything,’ he says with a shrug, like he’s not said anything wrong. ‘I’d rather have married you feeling like a well man.’

Irgh, maybe he’s not said anything wrong – is this me, him or us? I’d say Etta’s moodiness is catching but I’ve felt crabby since I woke up.

‘Good morning, Piers. Good morning, Arielle.’

I turn around to see Blythe wheeling towards us.

‘Hi, Blythe,’ Piers says.

‘Hi,’ I mutter.

‘Oh dear,’ she says with a tut. ‘Have you been on the receiving end of Etta’s mood? I think her ex-girlfriend is seeing someone else,’ Blythe says in a stage whisper. ‘Still, that shouldn’t stop us having a jolly good time tonight, should it?’

That gossip might explain a few things, and I almost feel sorry for Etta until I hear a scream. Narrowing my eyes I see Etta chewing out someone from the record label, arms flailing and her body completely invading the poor girl’s personal space.

‘Better go and rescue her,’ Blythe remarks, completely unfazed by Etta who has just kicked one of our priceless statues. OK, it’s not ours because I learnt that most of what we have in here is merely exhibited. We do get a pretty nice commission if something sells though.

Blythe is far too chipper for someone who is having some pretty painful-sounding surgery next week. She’s also far too calm for someone who can see Etta booting that statue, over and over, with her chunky Doctor Martens. I want to storm over there and tell her to grow up, but I won’t.

As Blythe and Piers walk away to deal with the diva, I hear them chatting about the last-minute changes for Etta’s party. After today the gallery will be left in Piers’ capable hands.

As for me, arranging a pop-up here is my next task. I’m not going to delay my fashion dreams any longer, plus it gives me an excuse to work with my new husband... even if
he
thinks our marriage has got off to a rocky start.

As the day progresses, it becomes pretty obvious to everyone that comes into contact with Etta that she is no longer on the straight and narrow. I know it’s partially Jessica’s “betrayal” that’s removed whatever willpower she had to stay clean, but I don’t think Etta needs much of an excuse to reach for a “boost” as I found out when she cornered me in the gallery’s small kitchen. Ranting at me about fickle women being worse than men, she casually cut up a line of white powder in front of me as if she was just making a cup of coffee. Somehow I felt responsible, even though I have more chance of controlling the rain than I have of controlling Etta Millhouse.

Whether Jessica broke up with her because she caved, or she caved because Jessica broke up with her, I’m not sure. All I know is that ten minutes after the kitchen run-in,
this
Etta Millhouse is an utter delight, but it’s scary how volatile she is.

‘Arielle... ARIELLE.’

I turn around. Etta is walking towards me with a big grin on her face. It’s the polar opposite of how she treated me this morning. I have a very bad feeling about tonight.

‘What’s up?’

‘You like my song, right?’

‘It’s awesome,’ I tell her truthfully.

When her song – the second one off the album – came on Radio One this afternoon, the screams that drowned out the first thirty seconds were ear-splitting but, I have to admit, Etta’s take on it was something else. She has quite the voice, even for a poppy cover version of an irritating song.

“Butterfly” by Kandi K was a Top-10 hit about five years ago, and whilst it was a catchy song if you were twelve years old, Etta’s version has mass grown-up appeal. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gets a Top-10 hit with it.

She smirks smugly at me as the record label interns rush around prepping her album display. A big bear of a man, her manager, Don, supervises them. He’s almost as wide as he is tall, and he has zero fashion sense – Goldie Lookin Chain called, Don, and they want their bling back.

‘We make a good team.’

This is not a compliment. By a good team Etta means I make a good lackey because all I have done since I returned from my honeymoon is follow her barked orders.

I don’t have the energy to fight her on anything today, so I’ve just followed her instructions. In her buoyed-up state it seems the safest option: what goes up, must come down.

I smile at her though, as warmly as I can.

‘Maybe Felicity was right about you,’ she mutters.

I laugh. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

Her mood turns in an instant. ‘What the fuck is that supposed to be mean?’ she snarls.

‘Nothing.’ I throw up my hands in the air in apology. ‘It was a joke.’

‘Because that’s what I am to you,’ Etta sneers. ‘A big joke? You stand there, all judgemental. Yeah,’ she challenges, ‘I know what you’re thinking, but a little coke won’t kill me. You’d love it if it did though, wouldn’t you? Then you’d finally get your hands on all of Flick’s money.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t,’ I protest.

She turns around and clocks everyone staring at her. ‘Do you all think I’m a–’

‘Come on,’ Don gruffly says, the first time he’s spoken in my earshot because, of course, Etta didn’t think to introduce us. ‘Time to get ready for your party.’ He grabs hold of her arm roughly, but it doesn’t even register on her face because she’s too busy glaring at me.

‘I’m having a conversation–’ Etta begins, but Don interrupts her again. He looks livid. If he was looking at me like he’s looking at Etta, I would be scared. Etta’s too out of it to even notice – or even care.

‘We’re going, or all this is going,’ he says chillingly, and she meekly lets him lead her away, his tone of voice somehow registering in that coked-up brain of hers. Thank goodness she’ll listen to
someone
.

He must realise after that speech she’s using again, and I hope he’s doing something about it. Etta is a liability, and that’s good for no one – especially not Etta.

‘Are you OK?’ Piers asks coming over to join me as the interns go back to arranging their display. The gallery is nearly ready for the party tonight, and the caterers have just arrived to start prepping the canapés.

‘She’s not much of a delight now, is she?’ I ask, thinking of Piers’ earlier statement when he first met her and his subsequent remark that I had over-exaggerated her vileness.

‘I–’

‘Forget it. I’m going home to get changed.’

I leave the gallery without a backwards glance or a kiss goodbye for Piers.

‘I’m sorry,’ Piers shouts at me since the music is blaring out of the makeshift DJ booth set up by the crew from Vital Records. I’ve asked them to turn it down repeatedly but they’ve ignored me. Why should they? They think I’m just some hired loser because they’ve seen me run around like a fool doing everything Etta demands. As far as they are concerned, this is
Etta’s
gallery and she can do what she likes in it.

‘It’s fine. Go.’

‘Pony?’

‘Just go. I’ll see you at home.’ I lean over and give Piers a quick peck on the cheek, and I walk off towards Blythe’s office before he can say anything else.

I’m in an even blacker mood than I was before. I’ve not been sleeping well since Ob came back from his stag do, and his declaration of love keeps playing on my mind. I think it’s a massive mistake this wedding, and maybe I’d feel better if I knew Jade – could see for myself that they are right for one another – but I’ve not had time. I’ve been too busy setting this party up. Now their wedding is
tomorrow
.

I can’t confide to Piers because, if I did, I’d have to tell him about Ob’s pronouncement – how twisted would that be. Ob was the one who let Piers know how I was when we split up; he was the one who encouraged me not to give up on Piers. Why did he torture himself that way?

I’m envious that Piers is going home, but I know it’s taken a lot for him to admit that he’s shattered. I wish I could head home with him, but this is my gallery, my responsibility.

I don’t trust Etta to lock up properly. I know we have security here – they can deal with my other worry of Etta trashing the art in her coked-up state; I’ve already told them to keep a close eye on her – but I’d feel better knowing that the gallery was left safe and sound. The only other person I trust to do that is Blythe, and she should have gone home hours ago.

As I walk into her office, I tell her this.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes! You’ve done more than enough. It was wonderful.’

Not that Etta has said so. We could have had this in some club for all Etta seems to care. I’m starting to suspect the only reason she wanted the party here was to make the gallery all about her – let her stake her claim, remind me that Felicity was
her
godmother. Our relationship now is worse than it was when Felicity was alive.

Blythe studies me carefully, sweeping her tired eyes up and down me with great precision. ‘Arielle?’

‘A-huh?’

‘I think
you
should be resting,’ she says kindly. ‘I’m happy to stay.’

‘Etta’s manager is organising cabs. I’ll be home before midnight. Honestly, go home.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Blythe, I’m sure, but thank you.’ I bend down and kiss her cheek. ‘Do you want me to get one of the guys to walk you back?’

Blythe lives five minutes away from the gallery, but I don’t want her heading home on her own at this time. OK, we’re in Mayfair, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Blythe could handle herself in a mobile state – as well as enjoying heli-skiing, she practices Krav Magna – but she’s vulnerable now. She must loathe that, I think, like Piers with his weakened body. I feel like a bitch for being so short with him. He would have hated admitting to me that he felt weak.

‘Thank you, Arielle.’

‘Not a problem,’ I say, ‘and remember to let us know as soon as you’re up for visitors. We’ll be right round.’

As she gathers up her things I dash off to find one of the security guards but bump into Matt at the door between the private and the public gallery space. Sounds of music and cheers drift through the door that separates the calm from the chaos.

‘Matt, perfect!’

‘What’s up?’ he says with a weak grin, though his eyes look desperately worried. I know Etta is on his mind.

I’ve seen the siblings exchanging heated words once or twice this evening – one of those times was immediately after Etta was “chatting” to Matt’s girlfriend. She stormed off in tears, and I’ve not seen her since.

‘Two things.’

‘Shoot.’

‘Will Etta go home?’ I ask. She will never listen to me, but maybe she’ll listen to Matt. ‘I know they’re arranging cabs for the club, but can you get her home?’

He shakes his head, a vein pulsating in his forehead. ‘I doubt it, but I’m going to try.’

‘What happened?’

‘Is that the second thing?’

‘No, the second thing is, can you walk Blythe home? She lives five minutes away, but I’d feel–’

‘No need to explain. Is she in the office?’

I nod.

‘What is it?’ he asks sensing I’m about to say something else.

‘Is Etta really OK?’

‘No,’ he says bluntly.

‘Oh.’

Is this because he thinks I shouldn’t be prying or because he’s worried about his sister?

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but she needs help right now, and I’m going to struggle to get her to help herself. I thought...’ his voice cracks, and I see all the strain etched on his face. How many times must he have gone through this with her?

I feel awful. Maybe I should have stopped Etta doing that line in the kitchen earlier, but would it have made a difference? She’d have only disappeared out of my sight to snort her coke.

‘Why did she–’

‘A few things.’ Matt runs his hand through his hair. He’s had it cut so it’s short at the back, but long at the front. It really suits him. ‘I should get Blythe home. Hopefully Etta, too. Take care of yourself,’ Matt adds gruffly, then heads towards the office without a backwards glance.

I stand for a moment, hand on the door, and take a deep breath before I push it open and head back into the gallery. It’s rapidly thinning out – Etta is nowhere to be seen – but a voice in my ear makes me jump and I forget all about her.

‘Hello, dear.’

My heart stops for a moment at the familiar term of endearment as I spin around, half-expecting to see Felicity standing in front of me. But, it’s not Felicity. Of course it’s not. It’s Eve, the lady I met in Gramercy. What is she doing
here
, of all places? Am I dreaming this?

‘Eve!’ I exclaim, wondering what the etiquette is between us. We’ve met a few times now, obviously, and she sorted out those beautiful flowers and a surprise wedding cake, but I don’t know her. She seems to pop up like a magic genie at the weirdest of times. I settle for giving her a small wave, which makes me feel like an awkward teenager.

‘What a small world,’ she says with a smile as her eyes look me up and down.

Eve is wearing a gorgeous, metallic-gold-and-black-striped floor-length dress – the sleeves are sheer and long – and that blingtastic owl-shaped brooch of hers is pinned on her chest, right by where the dress fastens with a bow. I’m starting to think she always wears that owl, and I stifle a giggle as I imagine her pinning it on her pyjamas. She looks far more glamorous than Etta’s guests in their low-cut dresses that barely cover their bums. Irgh, when did I get old enough to think that?

‘You look lovely, dear,’ she says with a nod that suggests that whilst she approves of my tasteful outfit, she also doesn’t think much of Etta’s rock star friends who are still milling around. I’m wearing a silk Diane von Furstenberg slip dress in a swirly browny-red and cream pattern.

‘Thank you, and I love your dress. It’s Chanel, right?’ I chance a guess.

Eve nods with a delighted smile.

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘I mean, it’s brilliant to see you...’ I pause because this is so strange. I never expected to see Eve again.

‘Did you get my note?’ I ask as Eve looks at me expectantly.

Since The Atrium wouldn’t give us Eve’s number or address, we left her a note to say thank you.

‘I did. It was very sweet of you.’

‘It was amazing that you did that for us,’ I gush, still trying to process why Eve, of all people, is here. ‘Thank you, once again. Those bonsai cherry blossom trees made The Atrium look amazing, and the lemon cake layer. Piers was delighted.’ I laugh.

‘Is your husband here?’ Blythe asks. ‘I’d like to meet him.’

‘He’s not,’ I say, apologetically, looking around the gallery as if I expect to see him when I know he’s left. ‘He is looking after the gallery at the moment,’ I explain, ‘but he’s at home right now.’

‘But he works in finance usually? Fund management?’

‘He does... did,’ I correct, ‘but not anymore. Sorry, how did you get in here and how did you know that?’

Now I’m getting over the surprise of seeing Eve, I’m starting to wonder why she is here. This is so random.

‘Oh, someone let me in on their way out. I’m sorry it’s so late but my plane only landed a few hours ago. I was hoping I’d catch you here.’

I bet she’s not referring to a British Airways flight landing at Heathrow either.

I look around the gallery and see to my alarm that it’s almost empty. If Eve can walk in here, what’s to stop anyone else from barging their way in? So much for the security team.

‘How did you know I was here?’ I ask carefully. I don’t want to sound like I’m accusing Eve of being a stalker, but my tone fully suggests that’s what I’m thinking. ‘And about Piers working in finance,’ I add. In for a penny, in for a pound.

‘I follow you on Twitter,’ Eve answers, sounding very matter-of-fact.

Eve is on Twitter
? That’s incredible, and it’s also incredibly scary when I stop and think about it. If Eve can track me down – of course she can; I tweeted that I was hosting a party at this gallery tonight –
anyone
can track me down. I’m not OK with that. What with this and the dodgy comments pervy men have left on my YouTube videos, I need a social media education.

‘And since I was heading to London,’ she continues, ‘I thought I’d come along and visit you. I never saw you again after the wedding.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I squeak, instantly feeling like Eve is calling me out for not thanking her properly. ‘We did ask at The Atrium where you lived, but they wouldn’t tell us. They told us to leave you a note. We left for the Hamptons the day after the wedding, and then came straight back to London. If I’d have seen you on Twitter–’

‘I use a nom de plume.’

‘Well, I would have thanked you,’ I hurriedly say. This is getting stranger and stranger.

‘I did see your tweets. That was very kind.’

I cringe thinking of the language I might have used to thank our mysterious benefactor in 140 characters. Ouch.

‘Now,’ Eve says as I blush furiously, ‘where’s the star of this party? My granddaughter is a big fan, and she would be most displeased if I didn’t get her an autograph.’

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at that. Etta would be thrilled to know she’s got fans in America already, if she cared about anything other than her next line. Why didn’t we frogmarch her straight to a clinic or rehab when we realised she was using again? I should have looked out for her more, and I suddenly have the irrational fear that it’s too late to help her. I really hope she’s okay.