Page 86 of Forsaking All Others

“You saved me. I saved you. We’re even.”

“You’ll admit it one day,” she laughs quietly.

A loud knock on the door stalls my steps, and we all turn as a Zurich twin stalks in, throws an envelope onto the floor, spins on her heels and stalks out.

“What the? How rude!” Valérie frowns, moving to pick it up immediately.

It bears the bachelor’s handwriting on the front, and we all stand frozen while we wait for her to read out whatever the envelope contains.

“Ugh, it’s cursive, I can’t.”

She hands the note to Sona, who scans it quickly before reading out loud.

‘Ladies, tomorrow night we are having a ball.

Catriona,

Would you do me the honour of the first dance?

Jaguar’

I gasp and bite my lip as the others stare at me.

‘Why? Why continue to put a fucking target on me like this? Does he want me dead?’

“A ball! Thorun squeaks. “I’ve never been to a ball. Oooh, do you think it’ll be a masked ball?”

“I guess I should be thankful we aren’t having another contest straight away,” I grumble.

“Masks? I do love a mask,” Sona grins. “You know I once knew a man who would only have sex if I wore a particular mask that made me look like a particular woman.”

“Who was it?” Thorun asks before I can stop her. “Someone famous?”

“His mother.”

“Ugh!” I shake my head at her in disgust.

Meanwhile, Valérie looks up from the letter and stares at me accusingly.

“He lets you call him Jaguar?” she whines. “How long has he let you call him that? Why hasn’t he let me call him that? Why is he toying with my emotions like this? Why, oh why doesn’t he just…”

I turn, shaking my head, and walk into the bathroom.

Her whining and subsequent hysterical sobbing continue for some time, audible even above the sound of the extraction fan and the water.

At least it’s distracting enough to stop me from over-analysing the bachelor’s dance request from every angle.

62

I pretend interest while listening to the French contestant as she goes on and on about her dance career, the highs and lows, her feet, her routines, her gruelling practice schedules.

We’ve dined in an air-conditioned, exclusive restaurant in Danang, and now we’re sitting on a candle-lit, specially-constructed setting at the end of a small pier, drinking champagne like it’s water.

I watch as a small bead of sweat runs from her neckline down her cleavage, mesmerised by its speed, another following close behind.

“Of course, I fit it all in with my deep-sea diving,” she says softly, shrugging.

I raise my eyes to hers as she catches my attention.