‘You have a conservatory?’ asked Abby.
‘Posh greenhouse stuck to the back of the kitchen, that’s all. There’s a DJ in there sweating under the potted palms. I think we should go and support him.’
‘Well I’m up for a boogie if I can get rid of these shoes somewhere,’ laughed Suze.
Abby danced with Suze and Will until her head began to spin. She saw Elliot standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching her. Grinning and giddy from the alcohol and music, she went over to talk to him.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked, still holding her gaze.
She nodded. ‘Lost my shoes ages ago, though.’
The corner of his mouth curled upwards, and she felt a prickle of something between them. If she was less drunk, it might have unnerved her, but she was just happy to be relaxed and enjoying the party.
They were interrupted by a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a sharply tailored suit.
‘Elliot. What’s the chance of you getting out that bottle of fifty-year-old Talisker I know you’ve got hidden in the basement?’
‘Dad, that was a present. From you. You know it’s a special release. I’m keeping it as an investment.’
‘Go on, crack it open,’ the older man chided.
‘Sorry, no.’
Andrew Shah snorted with disapproval.
‘Abby, meet my father. Dad, this is my friend Abby Gordon.’
‘Hello,’ said Shah, looking her up and down.
She took a moment to observe him. He looked more like an ageing matinee idol than one of her friend’s dads.
‘They make Talisker down the road from where I grew up,’ she said nervously.
‘Skye?’
She nodded, glad to have found some common ground with the wealthy, intimidating man.
‘It’s why it has such a smoky taste. The ground around Skye is very peaty.’
‘I like this one,’ said Shah with a wink. ‘A girl who knows her whisky.’
He turned his attention to his son.
‘Nice piece about the RCI exhibition, by the way. I never knew Rosamund Bailey had such an interesting past.’
‘Abby works at the RCI. She found the Last Goodbye image in the archive.’
‘You get even better.’
‘So you know Rosamund?’ asked Abby.
‘Know her?’ huffed Shah, his dark eyes narrowing. ‘Bloody woman made my life a misery for the best part of a decade. That column of hers, that left-wing soapbox, well, I was her favourite whipping boy just because I’d made some money and acquired a voice. She tried to trash me. I needed a stable of my own newspapers just to keep my reputation intact.’
Abby knew all about Lord Shah, enough to know that his wasn’t exactly a rags-to-riches story. His father had owned a successful advertising company in the 1950s, and although Andrew had started off at the bottom of the Fleet Street pole – obits, quizzes, researching, fact-checking – he’d been able to buy a small chain of local newspapers when his father died and bequeathed him a large windfall.
Family money had given Andrew Shah that first break, but ruthless business smarts helped him convert his initial media portfolio into an empire. When the ailing Chronicle came up for sale in the early 1970s, he quickly bought it, turning it around and launching its tabloid sister paper The Post five years later.
‘Right-wing buffoon, capitalist pig,’ said Shah, still muttering to himself. ‘They were just some of the things she called me. One week, I’ll never forget, she said I’d done more damage to democracy in this country than Mussolini in thirties Italy.’