Once inside, she called Kristin, but it went to voice mail. “Kris? I’m at home. Uh, something happened in South Ken. Call me back, okay?”
She turned on the kitchen TV. A news anchor announced there had been a terrorist incident and viewers should stay tuned for updates. He repeated the phrase ‘Police and ambulances are on the scene’ several times as if to emphasise the gravity of the situation. Alice grabbed a bottle of wine and opened it. With a generous glass of Pinot Noir in one hand and the remote in the other, she watched the news. The presenter wore a sombre face but couldn't mask the frisson of excitement in his voice as he announced live footage from the scene.
Alice watched open-mouthed as the camera panned up Exhibition Street, focusing on a blue van. “Oh lort,” she said out loud. “Oh lort.” She took a long gulp of wine followed by a deep breath. Then her mobile rang as Kristin called her back.
“Alice? Alice? You okay?”
“Uh yes... I’m fine. I think.”
“Twitter’s gone mad with a terror attack in South Ken. Where we were, you know...”
“I know. I know. Could you come to mine?”
“Sure, but have you, like, seen it?”
Alice took a sip of the wine. “Seen what? TV?”
“No. Twitter. I think you’re trending.”
Alice laughed. “Me? Why?”
“You are @TVGirlAlice, right?”
Alice took a larger sip of the wine. “Uh, yeah...”
“Did you send a tweet about somebody spilling your champagne?”
“Yes. But it was true.” She put the glass on the counter. “I meant it as irony, in a, you know, tragicomic way.”
“That’s not the Twitter interpretation. You’ve got your own hashtag now.”
Alice brushed through her hair with her free hand. “What do you mean?”
“They’re calling you #champagneTVgirl. Saying you only care about champagne while people are dying.”
Alice blinked several times. “What? Why? I mean... I don’t understand.”
“I don't either. I’ll try for another cab. With luck I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.”
“But what should I do?”
“Wait. Give it a while. Look, Alice, um, some of that stuff isn’t nice. You know?”
“Like what? Tell me.”
“No. Wait until I get there. We’ll do it together.”
“Kris, hold up. Kris?” But the line was dead.
6
Ian Morgan joined the Friday evening exodus from the Lloyd’s building onto Lime Street and headed to the Lamb Tavern in Leadenhall Market. Already a large crowd drank outside, and it took several minutes to find Jo Page. She had her head down with her thumbs moving over her phone screen.
“Hey,” he said.
She looked up and smiled. “Hey yourself.” She put her phone away and squeezed his inside leg. “You’re late.”
“Work.” He pointed at her glass and raised an eyebrow
She nodded and he battled his way to the bar. Several minutes later he emerged from the crush holding a pint of Stella and a Monkey 47 gin with tonic. Jo took the gin from him. “Fever tree?”
“You have to ask?”
She shrugged. “How long have you got tonight?”
“Just this one drink. Alice got a new job. Producer of some new show. We’re meeting at the Provence later.”
“Oh.”
“You jealous?”
“Of what?”
“I don't know. Anything?”
Jo took a sip of her drink. “I know the rules. Don’t get caught. Always delete texts. But...”
“But what?”
“I never seem to get to set the agenda.”
“Want me to leave her?”
She laughed and almost spilled her drink. “No.”
“What then?”
“I want you this weekend. Come around mine. Bring a bottle. Or three.”
Ian’s phone rang. “Sorry.” He took it out, looked at it then put it back in his pocket while it still rang.
“That her?”
He nodded.
She stared into the distance. “Maybe you should, you know...”
He leaned in closer. “She can wait for a while.”
She giggled. “You want someone to see us?” She glanced around, slipped her hand in between his legs and rewarded him with a gentle tweak.
Ian shook his head. “I wish I could do that to you.”
“Then come see me over the weekend.”
“Temptress.” He smiled and nodded. “But it sounds good.”
7
Alice tugged on her lip with her teeth as she scrolled through her Twitter feed. Kristin hadn’t exaggerated. Several comments made her shiver. She considered replying but opted to wait. Perhaps the original tweet would lose itself among the deluge likely to result from South Kensington. She tried Ian again, leaving a message the third time. “Ian. Please call me. It’s important.”
She set her mobile down and picked up her wine. A large mouthful helped, and she took another. She upped the volume on the TV and watched Laura Bowfield show off her new hair colour and run through her range of facial expressions.
For a moment Alice felt as if their eyes connected, and Laura spoke only to Alice, one on one. Alice blinked and focused on the lipsticked words. Precise sentences, basted with a hint of affected plum, flowed through bleached teeth into her kitchen.
The TV cut to looped footage of the now familiar blue van. Several minutes passed with no new information, and then the screen returned to Laura. A young guy stood beside her, staring into the camera with cold eyes. Alice imagined a producer or runner waving at him, gesturing at him to look away. She smirked at the irritation it would cause Laura. Then they zoomed in on Laura, and when they pulled back, the guy was no longer staring out.
Alice narrowed her eyes and studied the guy in frame. She set down her glass and took
