He lifted her hand from his trousers and placed it back on her own thigh. She was annoying, not arousing him.
‘If you’ll excuse me, this amateur has to go and check out the party,’ he said tartly.
He stalked downstairs to the basement, which had been turned into a low-lit opium den.
‘Problems, Milo?’ asked his friend Jonathon, catching Miles’ expression.
‘Nothing that won’t cure,’ he said, reaching for the hubbly-bubbly pipe Jonathon was holding and taking a puff. The smoke filled his lungs and sure enough his earlier irritation began to seem rather distant and unimportant.
‘Hey, you heard of the internet?’ asked Jonathon in a rather dreamy half-stoned voice.
Miles shook his head slowly as a mellow haze washed over him. ‘Should I have done?’
‘It’s the future, my friend. It’s knowledge, power. A guy called Assad, French guy at Magdalen, is looking to start up an internet café in Oxford. He needs investors. You interested?’
‘Is he good?’ asked Miles.
‘Apparently brilliant.’
‘Cool. Get me a meeting with him.’
Miles looked through heavy-lidded eyes at the bodies lying around on sofas and plump cushions, some half-naked. He had spent so long looking forward to this event but now he just wanted to lie here and for everyone else to just sod off home.
‘Miles! Miles!’
He didn’t stir, hoping it was a dream. It wasn’t until he got a sharp prod in the ribs that he looked up.
Jonathon bent over him and hauled him up by the lapels.
‘Get up, now!’ he said urgently, dragging him up the basement stairs. For a second Miles thought the shouts and screams he could hear were the sounds of carnal pleasure, but one look at the face of the angels and waitresses running towards the front door was enough to sober him up like a slap in the face: they were terrified.
He ran up the stairs to the mezzanine floor, where Tom Samson was standing like a policeman directing traffic, yelling for everyone to get out.
‘What the hell’s going on, Sam?’ yelled Miles, willing his brain to engage.
‘Don’t you know?’ asked Samson incredulously. ‘The fucking top bedroom is on fire! One of the candles got knocked over!’
Fire? Fuck! The fugginess in his head cleared instantly and Miles turned to Jonathon.
‘Get water. In buckets. Now.’
‘Where do I get a bucket from?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Champagne buckets, anything. Get some others to help.’ Spotting a bathroom, Miles ran in and soaked the biggest towels he could find. Sprinting back out, he threw one at Samson. ‘Come with me,’ he commanded.
Climbing to the second-floor landing, they could see thick acrid smoke pouring down the stairwell and Miles knew instantly that the time had passed for smothering flames with wet blankets. Already he could feel the heat and they were both choking.
‘Is anyone else up there?’ coughed Samson.
‘Fuck knows,’ hissed Miles. Sweat was beading from his temples and not just from the heat of the fire. He had no idea who was up there, but he wasn’t going to hang around to find out. It was too late to save the party. Too late, probably, to save Alan’s house. The least he could do now was save himself.
‘Call 999,’ he shouted to Samson. ‘Make sure everyone’s out.’ Samson put the towel over his mouth and began climbing the stairs.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Someone might be up there. One of the hookers.’
‘Fuck the hookers,’ spat Miles. ‘Let’s split.’