Page 44 of The Unraveling

“You look gorgeous!” says Arabella. “Remember, focus on Clementine. Ballet is her thing. She’s obsessed with it and goes all the time. And she loves New York, so talk about New York with her, too.”

Cynthia says nothing but “Good luck.”

“Uh—yeah, thank you,” I say, then wave and leave.

As Mary promised, there is a car waiting for me. A glossy black car with completely opaque windows.

The driver gets out and comes to the back passenger side. “For the Cavendish dinner?” he asks, his accent very posh English. He sounds like Batman’s butler.

“Yes, Jocelyn Banks.”

“Right this way, miss.”

He opens the back door and my jaw drops. It’s a nice, nice, nice car. Every surface gleams; the leather seats are as soft as butter.

The driver gets in his seat and says, “Ready, miss?”

“Um—yes! Thanks. Yeah.”

I’m a nervous wreck.

He glances at me before saying, “There are champagne splits in the middle console, miss.”

I look where he indicates, and then open the narrow door to see six small bottles of Moët & Chandon. On a ribbon on the neck, there is a tiny gold cone I know is for putting in the top of the bottle so you can drink straight out of it without it backing up and exploding all over.

“Thank you,” I say.

I’m not sure if it’s the smartest thing to have champagne from the car they sent to pick me up—what if it’s some kind of test?

But I could do with some liquid courage and I always get about twenty-five percent more charming after a drink or two.

I think it before I remember that it’s something my mom used to say about herself.

I pop open the bottle. I deserve it.

It tastes incredible. I can’t help but smile as I look out the window at the night lights of London from this absolutely over-the-top car. Where I’m drinking one of my favorite champagnes.

A wave of nerves comes over me again as I remember that I have to go impress two complete strangers. Two complete, powerful strangers.

I’m just starting to think maybe the champagne was a test when the car slows in front of a gorgeous, grand building that looks like a hotel, but which has no sign out front.

“Here we are, miss.”

—

I’m taken to the top floor of the building in a tiny, gold elevator by a man in white gloves and a perfectly pressed, perfectly clean uniform.

The elevator opens on a glamorous, very modern, very beautiful restaurant. A woman with crossed hands is waiting for me as the doors open. She is in an all-cream linen outfit.

“Ms.Banks?” she asks.

“Uh—yeah, yes. Sorry.”

A man, also in cream linen, appears and hands the woman a small glass of something pale and pink.

She in turn offers it to me. “This is an aperitif that we recommend to those of our guests who will be imbibing alcohol with their meal.”

I take it, my heart pounding. This place is so soothing and relaxed, and yet I feel nothing but my nerves.

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