The Island

one. diana and her companions

"This party is tragic, darling." I watch my friend, Millie, as she leans against the sleek bodywork of a Jaguar D-Type and attempts to light a cigarette.

We are stood on the gravel drive which leads up to an old English manner house, owned by our friend Charles. In the distance, the sound of chattering and live music can be heard, glasses clinking and heels clicking against the background sound of the fountain which gushes at the top of the drive.

"I should never have come," I sigh, glancing up at the twilight sky. It is just beginning to turn inky, melting into darkness. It's late June, boarding school is already a distant memory and many of our friends have jetted off on their exotic gap yahs.

"You never come to parties," Millie complains, choking on her cigarette as she takes a drag. I take a step away from the smoke and brush off my vintage Valentino dress.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Physically, yes. But in your mind all you're thinking about is the Astor Art Foundation." She holds out her cigarette to me but I shake my head and she shrugs.

"Is it really such a crime to want to be successful?"

"Harriet, your parents are filthy rich. You went to one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the country and your father owns one of the greatest art collections on this planet. Your life is a whole collection of superlatives; you're already successful, we all are." Millie stares wistfully in the direction of the manner house, releasing a contemplative breath of smoke into the pleasant summer air as a figure approaches down the drive.

I can tell even from a distance that it's Charles. In his hands he clutches a glass of champagne and his unsteady gait gives away that it is not his first. As he draws nearer, I notice that the top few buttons of his shirt are undone, and his bow tie hangs unfastened around his neck.

"Ladies," Charles greets us, sidling up to the Jag. He runs a hand along the glossy bonnet and offers us an award winning smile. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

Millie nods appreciatively, offering her cigarette to Charles. He takes it and balances it between his lips. "Can we take her for a ride?"

I immediately feel myself tense. None of us are in a fit state to drive, least of all Charles, yet the smile that comes to his face confirms my worst fear.

"Sure," he agrees amiably, setting his glass of champagne down on the ground. "Just after this." From the pocket of his suit trousers he produces a small, clear plastic bag. He opens it and pours a heap of white powder onto the black bonnet of the Jag, separating it into lines. "Want one?"

The question is clearly directed at Millie but still I answer, "No."

Millie nods enthusiastically despite my warning glare and Charles hands her a rolled up fifty pound note. I take a deep sip of champagne as she snorts one of the lines, then another two as Charles follows suit.

"You can't drive like this, Hugo," I tell him but he laughs.

"Haven't you heard, Hattie? We're invincible."

I walk away and all I can think about is how close to the sun Icarus flew before his wings melted.

**

I meet my father in central London the following afternoon. The portion of his collection which does not sit in galleries around the world resides here, in a heavily guarded and temperature controlled building near St Paul's.

To be admitted past security, I first must show my passport, then my bag and body are scanned for potentially dangerous or damaging objects. This process is an inconvenience, and I huff impatiently as I wait for their approval. The thought that I of all people might be the one to damage my father's collection is ludicrous.