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Back Night Music Save as PDF
Chapters (48)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1.
  4. 2.
  5. 3.
  6. 4.
  7. 5.
  8. 6.
  9. 7.
  10. 8.
  11. 9.
  12. 10.
  13. 11.
  14. 12.
  15. 13.
  16. 14.
  17. 15.
  18. 16.
  19. 17.
  20. 18.
  21. 19.
  22. 20.
  23. 21.
  24. 22.
  25. 23.
  26. 24.
  27. 25.
  28. 26.
  29. 27.
  30. 28.
  31. 29.
  32. 30.
  33. 31.
  34. 32.
  35. 33.
  36. 34.
  37. 35.
  38. 36.
  39. 37.
  40. 38.
  41. 39.
  42. 40.
  43. 41.
  44. 42.
  45. 43.
  46. Acknowledgments
  47. About the Author
  48. What’s next onyour reading list?

“No, I don’t.” Her voice sharpened. “I pay as much as I can. Just because our rent is cheap doesn’t mean it’s free and . . .” She heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, I’m on my period and I don’t feel like talking about my financial future.” She kicked my loafer. “Much more fun to talk about yours!”

I laughed weakly, my stomach twisting. Why even bring up money? I had no idea what I was talking about. Again.

But Jules seemed perkier as she faced me, playing with my hair. “Some people are born to be socialites and some to be shop girls, and contentment lies in accepting which one you are. You’re a celebutante-in-training for Christ’s sake. You should go work for Vogue. I’ll be your PA.”

“You would definitely have to dress me.”

“Already do.” She reached out a finger to twirl my dress.

I grinned a good-bye as she raced up the steps to her house. And in my head, I crossed “fashion” off my list of possible paths to glory.

That future belonged to Jules.

17.

i texted Nora before Oscar, since she’d been the first to invite me. She wrote back, Brilliant, Ruby, BRILLIANT! which did make me feel brilliant for all of six minutes.

I was making too much of this. It was a party. In a world I knew. A chance to try out the other side, get dressed up, eat tiny food, report back on it to Jules.

Nobody would whisper behind their hands about my non-debut or my Amberley audition. Or my mom. Or my date.

It would be fine.

I’d planned to tell Oscar I was up for the party in person, but our paths didn’t cross all day. On Saturday morning, after Dad left for the airport, I texted: Hey do you still want me to come to that donor event? I bought a dress.

I hit send before I could double-guess it. Then I read it back—and buried my head under a pillow. I bought a dress?

My phone beeped with a reply. But it was Alice.

Free for brunch?

I should have expected the text. Alice always invited me for one-on-one time when Dad traveled so she could reassure herself that I was alive and well. In the past year, it had become a revolving date.

Dad jetted off at least once a month for quick engagements—but this trip was longer than usual, and I’d forgotten to ask him why. It was a long flight. Maybe he wanted some time to decompress on either side of his gig at Royal Albert Hall. He was getting older, after all.