A light was shining on the top of Amy’s head and she was beginning to feel hot.
‘It’s a new show,’ she explained, taking a sip of water. ‘With original music and dance. It’s about the birth of tango.’
‘Tango?’ said Stephen Lyons with an amused half-smile. ‘That’s rather racy, isn’t it?’
She saw Daniel’s mother flash her husband a warning look.
Amy willed herself to keep calm and not to buckle. She had to make a good impression – these people were potentially family – and besides, the tango was one of her favourite dances and she felt honour-bound to defend it.
‘Done properly, tango is elegant, it’s beautiful, passionate,’ she explained.
‘Tango is about sex,’ said Vivienne Lyons matter-of-factly. ‘It originated in the slums of Argentina, Uruguay. It was music for the bordellos. Every aspect of it is underpinned by sexuality, eroticism. Leading, following.’
She paused and smiled, although the gesture didn’t reach her eyes. ‘Still, at least you must be on the mend if you’re auditioning.’
Amy reached for the champagne this time, her good mood completely gone. Vivienne Lyons was such a snob. It was tempting to tell her exactly how she had broken the toe that had almost put an end to her career, let alone out of action for the last six months. If anything was about sex, it was that mini-break she’d had with Daniel back in June. The only time they’d got out of their four-poster bed was to go for a cycle down to the river, when she had fallen off her bike and crushed her foot with the wheel. She doubted that her boyfriend would volunteer those details at the dinner table.
The thought of it made her toe throb inside the confines of her Topshop shoe, but she was distracted by the arrival of the starter, which looked like a cactus sitting on a bone-china plate.
She picked u
p her knife and fork, careful to choose the smaller set on the outside of the arrangement – Daniel had shown her that on their second date. ‘If in doubt, always work from the outside in,’ he had said.
Which was all fine, but Amy had no idea where to start. At the same time, however, she knew Vivienne was watching her, and not wanting to seem inexperienced, she clamped the artichoke between fork and knife and attempted to slice off one of the sticky-up leaves. The ball-shaped vegetable immediately flipped over, clattering against the plate and knocking the small dish of what looked like nacho cheese dip on to the tablecloth.
‘Shit,’ said Amy, trying to retrieve the vegetable.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Vivienne, her eyes wide.
‘Slipped,’ said Amy quickly, ‘I said I slipped.’
Daniel leant forward to his own artichoke and calmly pulled off one of the outer leaves, dipped it into the sauce, then put it between his teeth, scraping off the goop. Damn, thought Amy, that’s how you do it.
Flushing red, she set about copying Daniel, her eyes fixed on the plate, not daring to look up, wishing the ground would swallow her. She sat in silence through the rest of the meal, listening as the Lyonses made bland small talk, nodding in the right places, making sure she watched which item of cutlery everyone else was using before she even attempted to begin. By the time the dessert had been cleared away, she was quite tipsy on the champagne she had drunk to occupy herself and was looking forward to going home – even if someone had to carry her out on a stretcher.
‘I think it’s about time for a toast,’ said Stephen Lyons, clearing his throat and turning his full attention towards Daniel. ‘I am extremely pleased and proud to report that our son has only scored himself a rather plum posting to Washington.’
A murmur of approval went round the table like a Mexican wave as Daniel raised his hand to object.
‘Dad, please. It hasn’t officially been announced yet.’
‘Nonsense, a pal in Whitehall rang me this morning to congratulate me. To Daniel,’ he said, raising his flute of champagne.
Amy shot a glance at her boyfriend. She knew that a promotion had been on the cards for months. She had shared his excitement, voiced her support and encouraged him, even though it had sometimes been with a heavy heart. She had always known that as a Foreign and Commonwealth Office employee on the fast track to the diplomatic corps an overseas posting wasn’t just likely – it was inevitable. In fact before Daniel and Amy had met, he had just returned from a spell in Brussels, although as he had often pointed out, if he was sent back there again, it would only be like commuting from Liverpool to London.
‘Washington,’ laughed Amy nervously, deciding that this might be even more preferable to a European post. She reached for her coffee, but as her hand stretched across the table her fingers clipped a wine glass, knocking it over, the contents spilling across the tablecloth and into her lap.
For a moment, all was chaos, with Vivienne shouting for a waiter, Daniel jumping up to grab the glass and Stephen bending forward, dabbing at Amy with his napkin.
‘Here, my dear, let me help,’ he said. ‘You must be soaked.’
‘No, no, I’ll be fine . . .’ said Amy before she realised that the older man’s hands were lingering. She felt his fingers brush across her bare leg and looked up in shock. Their eyes met for a split second.
‘Sorry, I . . . I think I’d better go to the restroom,’ she muttered.
‘I think they’re just about to start the speeches,’ said Nigel, resting his hand on her knee for her to stay.
She nodded quickly and sat still as a middle-aged man came to the podium, eulogising for over twenty minutes about a superb year and the magic of London 2012, whilst Amy squirmed in her seat, the wine soaking the back of her thighs and dribbling towards her knickers.