Chapter 20

20

A quick Google search tells us that there’s only one dance event on at the Shard this evening—a silent disco in an event space called The View. A silent disco! I’ve never heard of such a thing. As we step into the lift, Frida presses a hand to her chest.

“Here I am at last! In the world-famous Shard.”

When we reach level seventy-two, the lift opens with a quiet swoosh.

Frida starts to shimmy her shoulders in anticipation as we walk towards a set of glass doors through which we can see at least a hundred people dancing in a room lit up in purple and pink. Everyone is wearing headphones. Aha! They do listen to music but, I assume, it’s the music of their own choosing. What a good idea! Not that I’ve been to any discos recently, but I like the idea of having my own personal soundtrack for such an occasion.

In front of the glass door there’s a tall, wide woman wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard. Behind her is a sign that requests all visitors “please have their tickets ready.” We don’t have tickets. Damn. Maybe if I explain to the woman that we only want to dip in and out to find someone she’ll just…let us in? But judging from the irritated curl of her mouth I am doubtful of her inclination to relax any kind of rule. The woman shakes her head furiously as we approach. She runs her eyes over my little dress and then up towards Frida’s flower crown.

“You’re late!” she hisses.

“Excuse me?”

“You better not bail early like the last guy. So unprofessional. Left me up shit creek without a paddle. That’s the last time I’m hiring from Maurice Alabaster.” She huffs. “Though I’m glad he sent two of you, at least.”

What is she on about? Who is Maurice Alabaster? Who does this woman think we are?

I open my mouth to ask all of these questions, but Frida darts in front of me. “Yes, he sent two of us,” she echoes, chin lifted, as the woman opens the glass doors and leads us into the event space. I immediately scan the room for signs of Jonah. Nothing yet but it won’t take long for me to spot someone so tall and magnetic in this crowd.

“The pair of you are on that one.” The woman points to an uplit pink podium on the left side of the room. In each corner of the space there is a podium, on top of which are dancers. Professional dancers. Professional dancers dancing. And then I realise that each dancer is wearing a flower crown exactly like Frida’s. This woman thinks we’re here to dance?

“Where’s your headdress?” the woman asks me, her massive eye roll indicating that she’s edging close to the end of her tether.

“It was stolen!” Frida reveals as I stand there agog at what is unfolding right now. “On the street, yes. Someone pinched it off her head. A wizened old man, in fact. He had long silver hair and one wayward eye looking to the east. But Delphie is the most beautiful dancer in London. Nobody will care that she isn’t wearing the head flowers.”

I side-eye Frida. How is she this good at lying? The stern woman looks me up and down. “Fine,” she tuts. “But I will be making a complaint to Maurice. I expect performers to arrive in costume.”

“So sorry,” Frida singsongs as the woman stalks away back towards the glass doors. “Come on then!” she says to me, pointing at the podium. “She’s still watching us.” I follow Frida’s gaze to see the stern woman—now outside of the room—peering at us through the glass doors.

“I’m not getting up on a podium!”

“It’s the only way we’re allowed in here without tickets.”

“But I…I don’t dance.”

“Everybody dances!”

“There’s no music!”

Frida takes my hand and places it on my chest. “The music, it’s in here.”

I snatch my hand away. “How are the other dancers dancing without any music—none of them are wearing headphones!”

“The headphones would crush their flower crowns,” Frida returns, as if this is obvious and I am thick. “Come on. From the podium you’ll see far and wide across the room—it’s much better for locating Jonah.”

That’s true—I’ll be able to see everything from up there. I glance back towards the stern woman. She’s gesturing madly through the glass that we should get a move on.

Fuck.

Following Frida—who seems oddly keen to get going—I climb atop the podium as elegantly as I can and peer out across the sea of bodies dancing before me, eyes peeled for Jonah’s soft shiny bronze mane. I’m momentarily distracted by the evening view out of the huge windowed wall. I can see the curves of the Thames, Tower Bridge looking like an expensive golden bracelet, the lights of a thousand buildings all twinkling, showing off like they know someone is watching. As the sun lazily bows out, the sky is a rich crocus purple, streaked with pink. God, it all looks so serene from up here. So simple.

I think about what Jonah said about London being magical. I’d immediately discounted it at the time, but I have to admit…from this angle it looks pretty damn special.

“Dance, Delphie!” I’m brought back to the room by Frida elbowing me in the ribs. She’s circling her hips, arms waving about in a delicate way, the floaty sleeves of her dress getting a chance to shine.

For crying out loud. I tentatively start to wiggle my hips from side to side and do the one and only dance I seem able to remember under such enormous pressure, which to my surprise and mortification is the hand jive from Grease.

“Don’t panic,” I mutter to myself, bumping my fists above one another, then jerking my flattened palms this way and that.

I must be doing quite a good job because the stern woman nods her approval before marching off, probably to make that complaint to Maurice what’s-his-name. Shit, what if she finds out that we’ve not been sent by anyone? That we absolutely do not belong here? What if we get kicked out before I can even say hello to Jonah?

Hang about—some of the people in the crowd are turning to watch Frida and me, like we really are professional dancers, here to dance for them. I glance at Frida, who has also started to do the hand jive, perhaps in solidarity, or maybe because it just looks good? The attention makes my heart flip nervously, and every cell in my body is telling me to run away. But then I realise that the crowd staring at me is actually a very useful thing indeed—if I can see everyone’s faces, then I can more easily spot Jonah’s! I speed up my hand jive to make it look even more impressive—Frida’s eyes widen but she keeps up like a champ. It works, and more people turn around to watch, some of them even nudging each other with what I think is admiration. Within a minute or so pretty much every eye in the room is on us. I smile brightly at the crowd and continue my hand jive while scanning the room for Jonah’s face. But I don’t see him anywhere. Damn it. He must be here. Kat said he would be here—that he was working here. He has to fucking be here.

At a loss for what else to do, I clear my throat and call out across the event space. “I’m looking for Jonah Truman,” I say, my voice piercing in the otherwise silent room. “Jonah Truman!” I yell again, even louder. “Are you here? I need to speak with you! Jonah Truman?”

Frida stops dancing before taking a deep breath and yelling “Jonaaaaaaaaaah!” out into the room.

This is not the fun, flirty, casual vibe I was going for. But what other options do I have left? I cannot have schlepped all this way for nothing—time is running out!

Now that we’re no longer dancing, the crowd starts to turn away. I step down from the podium with a frustrated sigh. Where the hell is he? Kat definitely said the Shard!

My stomach twists at the thought that I’ll never find him. I cannot die again. I cannot end up in Evermore, or Nevermore, or bloody Clevermore. I’ve been given this one chance—how many people get that? I can’t blow it.

I’m helping Frida down from the podium so we can decide what to do next, when a pixie-haired woman wearing a dress covered in multi-coloured jewels approaches us.

“You know Jonah?” she says excitedly, looking between the two of us. Her accent is Northern, her voice slightly gravelly.

“Yes, yes I do,” I say. “Mm-hmm. Do you? Is he here? Where is he?”

The woman sighs. “I wish I knew him! He was here about half an hour ago, dancing right there where you were.” She points up at the podium.

Jonah was right there?

“I was on the balcony having a ciggy,” the woman continues, “and out he comes ‘for a breather,’ he says. We struck up a conversation, but five minutes later he got a call from the hospital he volunteers at. Someone hadn’t shown up so he had to fill in.”

Jonah volunteers at a hospital?

“Which hospital?” I say frantically. “Did he mention where?”

The woman shakes her head. “All he said was that he couldn’t let the children down!”

Not only does he volunteer at a hospital—but for children? God, Jonah is a far better human than I am. If Merritt wasn’t so convinced that he’s my soulmate, I’d say he was too good for me.

“And he definitely didn’t say which hospital? Or a specific area he had to get to?”

“Nope. Just took off into the night like a beautiful and noble superhero.”

“Excuse me, I am not paying you to chat to the guests.” I spin around to see Headset Woman scowling at us, her cheeks red with fury. She throws her hands up in the air. “I have never, ever dealt with such unprofessionalism in my life. You are fired. Please leave. And if Maurice Alabaster has any sense, he will remove you from his books without a second thought.”

My mouth drops open, pride oddly wounded at being fired from a job I don’t actually have.

Frida steps in front of me, arms folded across her chest. “You can’t fire us because guess what, lady? We QUIT.”

I goggle as Frida grabs my hand and yanks me towards the exit. “Come on, Delphie. Let’s blow this joint.”