Gigi was not a somebody. She did not get invited to flashy parties or extravagant dinners, but her friends did. Gigi was only as important as the company she kept, but she was someone who’d grown addicted to the idea of seeming important. Which was how she’d ended up at this book party, in a butter yellow dress that had once belonged to her Ma, hanging desperately onto the tailcoats of her rich and powerful friends.
She smiled, tight-lipped and strained, as people brushed past her, teetering in her strappy sandals at the edge of the party. Gigi didn’t know if she was underdressed or overdressed for this kind of author event, only that she was lovely enough for people to assume she belonged.
Alas, she wished she had someone to talk to. Frankie was here somewhere, chattering animatedly to an author friend of hers, and Fliss was busy trying to coax Carmen into socialising. Her head spun this way and that, trying to appear disinterested as her eyes desperately combed over the party.
And then they found Griff.
Her heart leapt into her throat, torn between sudden glee at seeing a familiar face and absolute horror. She’d known he was back in New York (mutual friends and some light Instagram stalking had told her as much), but knowing and seeing were two utterly different things. She found she was struck with how nice it was to see him, eyes feeling slightly watery. She hadn’t quite realised how much she missed him.
Steeling herself, her feet carried her over to the place where he stood, her finger darting out to tap him on the shoulder before she could tell herself it was a bad idea.
“Of all the gin joints.” she heard herself say, high and teasing, a too-pleased smile plastered to her face. “Well, look who it is!”
