I get out of the car and Oliver lets his eyes roam greedily over my body. I am wearing a long, black, halterneck fitted dress with a slit on one side. ‘You look fabulous,’ he compliments. ‘But then you always were a bewitching little fox.’

‘Thank you,’ I say quietly.

‘How did your dress fitting go today?’ Oliver asks as we arrive at the iconic Pavilion of the Tower of London. The historic walls of the tower are lit up, and I pull my gaze away from the impressive sight and let it focus on Oliver.

Oliver has the quintessential aristocratic face. His father is a Marquis and he is a Lord by birth. His family have a vast estate with one of the most beautiful stately homes in Britain. I have been to Moreland Abbey. It is truly magnificent, but the family lives in a small section of the house because the rest of it is crumbling, leaking, and too expensive to heat. Marrying me means they will be able to refurbish their ancestral home and bring it back to its former glory.

I plaster on a smile. Fake, of course. ‘Good. The dress is very beautiful,’ I reply as I cross the threshold of the venue and into the reception area. The guests are already milling about in groups holding drinks in their hands.

He winks at me. ‘Did you ask her to leave a secret opening for me?’

My stomach churns and I struggle to swallow the hot acid rising in my throat. I look at the bar longingly. I need a drink. Tonight is going to be a long night. I bring my gaze back to his leering face and smile apologetically. ‘No, it was not really an option. It’s got a big skirt.’

‘Right. One of those mafia virgin bride jobs, is it?’

My smile drops. This is not the first time that Oliver has made this kind of remark. They are supposed to pass off as jokes, but in actuality, subtly or overtly, let me know my genealogy is less illustrious than his.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say stiffly.

His leer loses some of its shine. ‘Does it have one of those big skirts that I can just flip over your back and fuck that beautiful ass of yours?’

I feel the color drain from my face. ‘It has a big skirt, yes,’ I say quietly.

‘Good. We’re in business then.’

We reach the cloakroom and I check my coat in.

A woman in a tight black dress and an impressive butt comes to stand next to us and Oliver’s eyes openly linger on her buttocks. She turns and looks first at him then at me.

I pretend not to notice. The girl behind the counter gives me my ticket and I turn towards Oliver. He brings his gaze back to me. ‘I’m going away to New York for a week.’

‘When?’ I ask softly.

‘Next Thursday. It’s business. Your father will be there too.’

I knew that my father was going to New York, but I did not know that it was with Oliver. ‘Who else is going?’

‘Just Elizabeth.’

‘I see,’ I say. Elizabeth is Oliver’s secretary and his lover. Elizabeth doesn’t even bother to hide the fact. Twice I have met her, and both times she has made it patently obvious that she is giving him what I am not. I want to look her in the eye and tell her that she is not so special after all, she is not the only one. He has others too.

Once, when we were out at a restaurant, a woman passed our table. She gave him a funny look. Less than a minute later he excused himself to go to the toilet. I waited a few minutes before I followed him and saw them in the corridor leading to the toilets. Her breasts were pressed into his chest and his hand was rubbing her ass. I walked back to the table and never said a word. I understood that it would be the pattern of our lives together. He will always cheat on me. Possibly it cannot even be called cheating because he is so open about it.

Oliver leads me towards the white, minimalist bar. On the way we meet people he knows and he stops to chat, his hand hooked loosely around my waist. ‘Have you met my fiancée, Tasha Evanoff,’ he introduces proudly.

Everybody is polite, but everybody is always polite to your face at these occasions. Behind my back there are always whispers about how my father’s great wealth was acquired. They are more correct than they realize.

When we finally get to the bar I would love to order a shot of Vodka, but I don’t. I do the civilized English thing and get a vodka and soda. Other people come to join us, and it is a relief because it means I don’t have to talk, I can just stand there nodding and flashing a polite smile at appropriate moments.

Finally, it is time to go through the double door into the massive, regal dining area. Gorgeous sapphire-blue lights lend a romantic, glamorous hue to everything they touch. The green carpets look sea blue, and the canopy ceiling is full of little light reflections that create the stunning effect of stars glittering in a summer night sky. The tall candelabras on every table hold aloft orangey red cups of light.

Our table is close to the stage and midway between the entrance and the dance area. We take our seats and the Queen caviar is brought to the table on dry ice. I throw back the Vodka and let the salty bubbles explode on my tongue as we listen to the speeches from the patron of the charity thanking the sponsors of the evening.

My father didn’t come, but he is one of them, and since I am his representative, I smile and nod when his name is mentioned and the camera pans on me. After a slideshow depicting the different projects the charity has undertaken to help the disadvantaged children of Russia, it is time for the highlight of the evening.

The curtain draws open and the spotlight falls on Alexander Malenkov, the object of Lina’s unrequited lust. I have never heard him play, but the moment he touches the keys the entire audience falls so silent you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. He plays with great passion and true skill and I must admit I am awed by his performance. When he plays his last note and stands to take a bow, all of us spontaneously give him a standing ovation.

The curtains close on him and food is served. The food is delicious of course, but I find myself pushing the food around my plate and pretending to eat. I keep thinking that this is what my life is going to be after I marry Oliver. An endless string of the same type of empty functions with the kind of people I have nothing in common with. After I have play-acted consuming the dessert, the last event of the night begins.

The Precious Items Auction is where the guests take off their jewelry or personal items like watches and wallets, and give them up to be auctioned. The items are not collected beforehand, but donated on the spot together with the little receipts that have been left on each table describing the item in as much detail as possible for the auctioneer together with a suggested starting price.

One of the ladies at our table bequeaths her pearl necklace, another offers her rose-gold bracelet, and I take off my emerald and platinum earrings and place them on the platter.

The auction starts with Lady Schloss’s Cartier watch. On the screen behind the podium, a blown-up 360 image of the watch is shown. The starting price is £2,000.00. After a lively bidding it goes to her husband for £5,700.00.  The same process is more or less repeated for nearly every woman who gives up her jewelry for auction. Her husband or fiancé ends up winning it back for her. It is all good-natured fun and a bit of charity included.

Then it is my earrings.

‘Kindly donated by Miss Tasha Evanoff,’ the auctioneer announces. ‘A pair of perfectly cut, flawless Brazilian emeralds set in platinum. Each perfect emerald is 4.5 carats.’

He lifts his hand.

‘Let’s start the bidding of at £5,000. Do I hear any takers? Yes, we have. To the gentleman at the back. At the side here. £5,500. Do I hear £6,000. Yes, we have £6,000. £6,500. £7,000 to the gentleman at the back. £7,500 to the gentleman in the red tie over at the side. £8,000. We have £8,500. This is a rare opportunity to buy a truly exquisite pair of earrings. £9,000. £9,500. £10,000. £10,500. Come on ladies and gentlemen. This is all for a good cause. Well done, we have £11,000 in the front. Anymore bids?’

He looks around hopefully.

‘Going once. Going twice.’ He nods at Oliver who has just raised his hand. ‘Thank you, Sir. We have £11,500.’

I smile sweetly at Oliver. All eyes are on us and we are both playing the part of a couple deeply in love.

‘Any more bids for this rare and magnificent pair of earrings?’ The auctioneer raises his hammer. ‘Oh, looks like a new bidder has entered the fray. £12,000.’

Both Oliver and I turn around to look at the new bidder and I freeze. My stomach drops. I cannot believe my eyes. Noah is sitting at Alexander Malenkov’s table.

Sweet Jesus. He is the one who bought that last ticket this morning!

There must have been a reshuffling of the table seating. Someone on the table must have exchanged places with him. Our eyes meet. And I can’t tear my eyes away. Lost in his gaze I don’t even hear the rest of the world.

Then I see him lift one finger and I hear the harsh indrawn breath Oliver takes. I tear my eyes away from him and stare unseeing at the drama unfolding on the stage.

£13,500 becomes £15,000. £15,000 becomes £20,000. £20,000 becomes £25,000. I feel Oliver shifting with irritation beside me. He doesn’t want to lose face, but the price will soon become too high for him. With a tight smile he nods, and nods, until the auctioneer’s hammer hits the gravel at £75,000!

Noah has won the earrings.

Oliver pretends to smile graciously. He is actually shaking with fury. He turns to me and kisses me on the lips, slowly and leisurely. His mouth is cool and smells of the orange liqueur drizzled on his chocolate dessert. When he takes his mouth away my gaze flies helplessly towards Noah. His eyes are blazing and his jaw is clenched so tight there is a white line around his mouth.

I drop my eyes. Over on the stage, the next item is being described by the auctioneer. My stomach swims as I turn blindly towards the item being displayed.

After the auction, they give away awards to some people who seem very grateful to receive them, then the dance floor lights come on and the DJ introduces himself.

I quickly excuse myself to go to the Ladies. As I get to the corridor, I see Noah leaning against the wall. He is with a woman, a beautiful redhead. It makes me want to gag. I can’t. I can’t even look at them together. The thought of him doing to her all the things he did to me is unbearable. It’s like molten lava pouring in my gut. Oh God. I spun a spider’s web of lust for myself. Now I sit trapped like prey in its silken ropes. As I stand there burning, rooted to the spot, he sees me, excuses himself, and walks over to me. His stride is relaxed and prowling.

My knees are trembling.