‘Correct. Listen, Camilla. We have a special job for you.’ He picked up a high-edged teak serving tray from a shelf and handed it to her. On the plush navy-blue velvet lining sat three cut-glass tumblers, an unlabelled squat and square decanter of alcohol, and an ornate silver ice bucket. ‘Please deliver this to the VIP in the Club Room.’

23

23 Petra hurried out of the kitchen, the low, heavy objects on the tray securely balanced. Maybe Metamuse had read her CV, assigned her this role because of her three years’ honourable service at Bread and Brewski. She was gratified to see the LED on the door flicking to green as she approached, and the door swung open smoothly as she pushed this time.

She cast around for a discreet place to leave the tray before heading up the stairs to get a good look at the audience, but she couldn’t see a table near her. The crowd had thickened. Herded together now and plied with drinks, the guests’ quiet nervousness had been replaced by a vibrant buzz. The volume of laughter and lively conversation had been rising subtly, along with the volume of jazzy swing. At last, she spotted an arched recess in the wall with a ledge. She made her way to it, scanning the faces of the people she passed. She set the tray on the ledge and turned – ramming straight into Rashida.

‘Careful, now. Don’t want to create a scene, do we?’ Rashida’s unwavering plastic smile was unnerving. She nodded to the tray. ‘Our VIP is waiting. Don’t you want to meet her? It’s a wonderful opportunity for you. You won’t get very far otherwise.’

Unable to muster a response, Petra nodded deferentially, picked up the tray again, and scurried on. There was something scary about that woman. As Petra dodged through the crowd, she thought she felt eyes drilling into her from all around; she imagined her course being monitored from above, her own private arc being charted as she moved. She doubted Ellis was right that they wouldn’t be interested in micromanaging her movements – he’d said it himself, hadn’t he, that she’d been targeted. She felt singled out for special attention, and anyone here could be Metamuse plants, watching to see if she completed her task, waiting to divert or block her. Finding Vincent was all she was here for, she reminded herself – but sticking to the script for now was probably the best way to do it unchallenged.

Grasping the tray in front of her, she pushed her way through the gathered guests. A guy in a white jacket and puffing at a cigar tried to grab the decanter from the tray as she passed.

‘Uh-uh, not for you,’ Petra said, swinging away.

‘Cheeky cow,’ the man said to her back.

‘Dave, for God’s sake,’ his partner hissed.