The brief tightening of Derek’s hand on her shoulder alerted Jemimah he was ready to move on from the current conversation, and she looked up at him in readiness.

“Looks like it’s time.” He nodded towards the French doors, and she turned to see Michael and Sonja walking toward the centre of the ballroom.

Jemimah found it hard to breathe.

Michael Turnbull was the image of an ideal man; handsome, strong and mature - yet so like a stranger tonight. He paused to hand two empty champagne flutes to a waiter and pass a fresh glass to Sonja, who positively sparkled at him as she smiled her thanks. She was breath-takingly beautiful; her strapless gown so luxuriant and regal that Jemimah thought she would not look out of place at a royal reception. The embellished bodice was boned and fitted to just below her waist then swirled down from her hips into a full and elegant skirt, its colour perfectly matching the bronze accents of Michael’s waistcoat and his gold flecked eyes.

She wore her thick, glossy hair swept into a sophisticated up-do, her eyes were dark and smoky with hints of sparkling gold on her eyelids and her lips glistened with deep burgundy. She walked with confidence and ease, her hand tucked into Michael’s arm as they crossed the floor. Sonja was the genuine article - the beautiful, sophisticated woman that Jemimah had longed to be.

And all she’d achieved by attempting it was to make Michael despise her.

Derek stepped forward and Jemimah saw the exact moment Michael and Sonja noticed them. Sonja’s face opened up in delight, but Michael’s expression hardened as his eyes met Jemimah’s. She was trapped in his glare and, for several silent seconds, she teetered on the dark edge of an abyss of misery. Fighting an overwhelming desire to crumple up and cry she straightened her spine and moved closer to Derek, pathetically grateful for the reassurance of his hand at her back.

“Everyone here, do you think?” Sonja asked.

“Everyone who matters, anyway,” Derek replied. “You might want to make some time for Katarina Schmidt during the evening--”

“Do you think they are going ahead with the merger?”

“They’re the signs I’m reading. And I caught up with--”

“Sebastian? He mentioned he had something of interest to share with you. Anything else I should know about?”

“Something’s up between the Wilsons and Perettis.”

“Perhaps some smoothing of troubled waters might be appropriate?”

“I’ll leave that to you. Craig is firing on all cylinders tonight - it should be fun. Dinner in order?”

“The Maître d’ has just assured me everything is going perfectly.”

Derek glanced at his watch. “Timing is perfect, too.”

Jemimah let their conversation flow past without attempting to follow. Her concentration was consumed by trying to maintain a pleasant expression while being engulfed by Michael's glacial disapproval. Earlier, she’d assumed her appearance must have crossed some line the older Turnbull’s had been too polite - or embarrassed - to alert her to, but after nearly an hour in the ballroom she knew how she looked was perfectly appropriate for the occasion. What had she done to make him so angry with her?

“Are you going to join me?” Derek gently squeezed Jemimah’s shoulder to get her attention, and she quickly turned to him, the sudden movement of her head swinging her hair into her eyes again. She forced herself not to touch the curls - when she’d done that earlier Derek had reached out to stroke them aside and she wouldn’t risk him taking that liberty again.

“I’m sorry,” she said, embarrassed she’d been too distracted to know what he was talking about, “What do you mean?”

“Sonja and I will be opening the ball shortly. I assume you’re coming up with us?” He nodded toward the stage where Craig Copeland was leafing through a clipboard and making notes, a half empty tumbler in his hand.

Her horror must have shown on her face, because Derek laughed softly. “You don’t have to. I’ve just met very few people who aren’t desperate for the limelight.”

“Oh, no - thank you,” she whispered, shaking her head and setting her curls dancing across her eyes again. She tried to ignore them. Even now Derek was looking at her with an intensity that made her want to escape.

“If I may excuse myself then.” She quickly nodded to Sonja and Michael to include them in her apology and took a small sideways step to disengage herself from Derek’s arm, but as she turned to leave her caught her free hand.

She looked back in surprise. He had turned his back to the others and was smiling at her as though she were the only other person in the room.

“Jemimah.” He pronounced the syllables like a caress. “You have no idea how refreshing you are.”

Jemimah had no idea what he was talking about, but he released her hand and she made her way toward the sanctuary of the ladies room, longing for quietness and a chance to regain her composure.

It was only as she neared the doorway, that she recognised the problem of the champagne flute in her hand. It didn’t seem right to carry it in with her, but she wasn’t sure where to put it. Warnings from high school Health classes echoed in her mind about the dangers of leaving one’s glass unattended and being drugged and helpless ...

Jemimah caught herself and took a deep breath. How ridiculous - she wouldn’t be drinking the wretched champagne anyway! It was just her imagination growing darker as her anxiety increased.

Still, she felt awkward about the glass and turned from the door. As she scanned the room for other options she saw the Hart family, apparently the only people who had taken their seats so far, and their table appeared like an oasis in the wilderness. Somehow Mr and Mrs Hart had found the elusive balance of dressing up and yet looking utterly, wonderfully themselves.

She started toward them, then remembered Jack’s joke about the church ladies dropping dead at the sight of Angie’s dress. She hesitated, suddenly sick with dread. What if Mr and Mrs Hart looked at her the way Michael had?

For a moment she vacillated, wondering if she could escape before they noticed her.

It was too late - Mrs Hart was already beckoning her over.

“Look at you, beautiful girl,” she crowed as Jemimah reached her. “Don’t you look so grown up!”

Mrs Hart patted the empty chair beside her, just as though she were presiding over the dining table at Hart’s Desire. From the other side of the table Mr Hart nodded his welcome with a friendly smile. Weak legged with relief, Jemimah sunk into Prima Hart’s place.

“The boys said you were all dressed up like a movie star, and they weren’t exaggerating. You look lovely, Jemimah.”

Jemimah shook her head, unceremoniously flicking the errant curls behind her ear. “It was all Sonja - I only volunteered to help out on the committee - I didn’t expect any of this.”

“Ah, that’s just like Derek and Sonja taking you under their wing like that,” Mrs Hart said, then frowned at the sound of a loud and unconvincing cough behind her.

“Excuse me,” Jack said, plomping into the chair beside Jemimah and make a show of thumping his chest. “Just something I couldn’t quite swallow.”

He picked up the full champagne glass from in front of Jemimah. “Another one? Did you know she was drinking, Ma?”

Jemimah rolled her eyes at him. “It’s the same glass I’ve been holding the whole time.”

Jack stuck his pinkie finger into her champagne and waggled it round, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Jack Hart!” Mrs Hart was mortified. “Anyone would think you’d never been taught any manners!”

Unfazed by his mother’s censure, Jack inclined his head thoughtfully towards Jemimah. “It is lukewarm. You could be telling the truth.”

“Why, thank you.” Jemimah did not take the offered glass back but patted him on the shoulder as she stood up. “I was looking for someone to mind it for me.” She kissed Mrs Hart on the cheek as she excused herself and then headed again towards the ladies room.

She heard voices as soon as she opened the outer door, but it was only when she stopped by the mirror to wait for one of the two occupied stalls to become vacant that she realised the two women inside were talking about her.

“... it’s certainly working - Derek hasn’t taken his eyes off her all evening!”

“I know! I’ve never seen him so taken with anyone.” The woman speaking groaned with exaggerated frustration, “So how did she get her claws into him before I’d even heard he and Yolanda had broken up?”

“I don’t know - but she’s obviously playing hard for the main prize. Devious little witch.”

“You’re right about that! I’d never have guessed it from looking at her when she turned up on the committee last month. All that sweetness and innocence act. Makes me gag.”

The sound of one of the toilets flushing broke Jemimah out of her trance and she turned hurriedly, desperate to escape before either woman emerged.

“So, do you take her down or do I?” The women’s laughter followed her to the doorway, abruptly silenced as Jemimah closed the door behind her.

The ballroom seemed even louder and more crowded than it had been moments earlier, but Jemimah pushed herself into the throng. Her skin burned hot with humiliation, and she was desperate not to be recognised by the women who’d been gossiping about her, or by anyone at all.

Without Derek guiding her it was not easy to move through the crowd, and she felt awkward and vulnerable. Every smile of apology seemed to be taken as an invitation to interact, and she didn’t have Derek’s knack of smoothly disengaging herself without appearing rude. She heard snatches of conversations that sounded like they were referring to her but told herself she was being paranoid. She looked toward her table, heart sinking to see Michael already seated there. She couldn’t face him alone.

If she were braver, she’d ask him what she’d done wrong. Somehow resolve whatever the problem was. Before tonight she’d felt safe to talk to Michael about almost anything - safer than with anyone she knew. Now he acted as they weren’t even friends, and that hurt more than she could have imagined.

The second time she was offered and declined a glass of champagne, Jemimah realised it wasn’t just Derek she was missing to help her navigate the ballroom and, with a sense of relief, cut through the crowd to the Harts’ table. All the family were seated there now, along with a few vaguely familiar local folk who were engaging Mr and Mrs Hart in conversation. Jamie was pouring himself a drink from one of the jugs on the table, the sound of the cold liquid flowing into his long glass making Jemimah painfully aware of her own parched throat. More than anything she wished she could forget both Michael and Derek, drop into Seconda Hart’s empty seat between the Hart boys and stay there for the evening. But she had a commitment to fulfil tonight, and no matter how hard things were, by God’s grace she would see it through.

She glanced again at the top table, noting that a silver haired man had now taken his place between her seat and Michael’s. Neither of them was looking her way, the older man exchanging his empty glass with a passing waiter for a full one and Michael was pouring himself a drink from one of the jugs on their table, its glass frosted with the sheen of condensation from the icy liquid.

Her throat ached, from thirst or fear - or perhaps both. She must return to take her seat.

Jack seemed fully engaged in his parents’ conversation, but when Jemimah reached down to retrieve her trusty champagne glass he stood up between her and the table.

“If you’re not drinking it Sparky, just leave it here.”

Was he being kind or just testing her again? The thought that with Jack it could be either brought a smile to her face. All was still right with the world.

“Oh, no thanks - I can’t do without it,” she said, and reached past him to pick it up. “The waiters will leave me alone now and,” she took a step back from him and raised it in front of her like a shield, “it stops anyone getting too close.”

He chuckled then looked down at her seriously. “Anyone gets too close - you tell me, okay?”

She was touched but tried not to let it show and instead replied in the resigned tone his niece and nephews used when being told not to touch something. “Yes, Uncle Jack.”

He shook his head, smiling. “Off with you then. And behave yourself.”

Thank you, Lord, for the Harts, she murmured as she made her way towards her table, glad for the reminder she was not completely on her own. It was easier progress across the ballroom floor now, both with the help of her glass and because more guests were beginning to make their way to their tables.

There were still only Michael and the silver haired gentleman seated at their table. As she approached her seat Michael looked up at her. His brow was pinched and his expression so intense she could not bear to meet his eyes. She ducked her head just as the silver haired man looked over his shoulder and met her eyes with a warm smile. He rose to his feet and pulled out her chair with a practiced flourish.

Having written and placed the name cards, Jemimah knew exactly who he was - the media mogul Magnus Stockton. In any other circumstance she would never have considered approaching him, let alone dared to speak to him, but right now his friendly face invited her like a glowing hearth in a cold room.

She nervously smiled her thanks as she took her seat beside him, mentally hearing Angie admonishing her “... all of the Winslows’ friends are very important people ...” and remembered her own resolution to treat everyone as equally important. And equally human, she added. No matter how famous and powerful Mr Stockton might be, beneath it all he was still a flesh and blood person like herself and, no matter how daunted she felt, he deserved the same consideration and respect she would have given a local farm labourer if she’d been seated with them.

Jemimah reached out her hand and introduced herself, grateful the older man’s bulk obscured her view of Michael.

“Ah, yes, I saw you with Derek earlier and thought what a lucky young man he is.” He winked at her, leaning closer. “How long have you been in his sights?”

She took in a slow breath. She might be able to carry off her part with Derek playing the leading man and smoothly answering for her... but without him beside her she had nothing but her own self and the unembellished truth.

“I haven’t known him long at all. My friend from church is on the ball committee and she asked me along to help at the last meeting. I met Sonja and Derek and ... and Derek asked me to be his partner for the ball.”

“Yes, I see that was inevitable.” There was a great deal of suggestion behind his smile.

Flustered, Jemimah cleared her throat uncomfortably. “May I ask, please, would you mind pouring me a glass of the water?” She indicated the carafe nearest Mr Stockton, the one infused with thinly sliced strawberries and mint leaves.

He raised an eyebrow at her full glass of champagne, but Jemimah shook her head. “I don’t actually drink alcohol,” she admitted with a self-conscious smile. “I’ve been stuck with this since I arrived and I’m desperately thirsty.”

He filled the glass and handed it to her, gazing at her appraisingly as she drank.

“My mother was a tee-totaller, too,” he said after a minute. “And a great believer in church. Took us all to Sunday school when we were kids and never missed a Sunday herself until right near the end.”

There was a wistful tone in his voice and the slightest sheen misting his eyes. He laughed softly at himself. “That, my dear, was another of life’s inevitables, but it still hits me sometimes,” he said half-apologetically. “It was only late last year we lost her. Made it well into her nineties though, as indomitable as ever.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jemimah murmured, reflexively reaching out to touch his hand, “you must miss her.”

“Yes, that I do. Strong woman, though she wasn’t much bigger than you. But she wasn’t sad to go. My father had no time for religion. Reckoned it got in the way of the real business of life. But Mum always held by her belief in the Good Book and was certain she was going to a better place. I envy that sometimes.”

Jemimah nodded thoughtfully, giving him space and time while she prayed for wisdom to know how to reply. It seemed such a clear opportunity to share her hope in Christ, but she had no confidence she’d be able to say what he needed to hear. Her heart pounded with fear but after several moments more she said softly, “The offer is there for all of us.”

“Mmm?” He smiled and there was the hint of a twinkle in his eye. “Perhaps ... but only if one is prepared to accept the price. The good Lord himself said it’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than a rich man enter heaven.”

She felt her breath rush out of her lungs.

He knew.

He knew of the free offer of the gospel, but it didn’t seem like an attractive deal to him. Like the rich young ruler who came to Christ but went away sad because he loved the things of this world more than Jesus.

Jemimah stared at the white tablecloth in front of her, her eyes stinging and her mind completely empty until the words of a melancholy old hymn filled her thoughts.

Mr Stockton chuckled and brought his other hand over to pat hers, as though comforting her. “I know what you’re thinking: what doth it profit a man to gain the whole world and yet forfeit his very soul?”

Jemimah bit her lip as she met his eyes but didn’t say anything. He knew.

He shook his head slowly, smiling ruefully. “Who knows? One of these days I might reconsider.”

“I will pray for you,” Jemimah managed to whisper, then jumped as Craig Copeland’s voice filled the room.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would kindly take your seats ...”

Mr Stockton chuckled and gave her hand one final pat, “You do that, little one. I doubt there’s anyone left praying for me since Mum went, as much good as that did.” He picked up his glass and held it up in a toast toward the stage. Jemimah followed his gaze to see Derek, standing beside Craig and Sonia and looking directly at them.

“I wonder if young Derek still thinks he can have it all?” Mr Stockton murmured before drinking deeply from his glass, then settled back with the appearance of a man who had every intention of enjoying the evening’s pleasure to the full.

Michael’s breath hissed through clenched teeth as Jemimah finally turned her attention to the podium and Magnus Stockton, the very image of self-satisfaction, sat back in his chair and drained his champagne glass.

Stockton was old enough to be Jemimah’s grandfather, but his reputation assured that detail would not weigh with him. The way he’d fawned over her was disgusting. But the way Jemimah responded sickened him more. What was she thinking taking his hand like that? Did she not understand she was playing with fire?

Michael’s thoughts were a writhing, contradicting mess. Femme fatale or naive child who’d got hold of a box of matches? Or was the latter merely wishful thinking?

His gaze was drawn to the fine lines of Jemimah's jaw and neck as she looked up at the stage, her slender arm resting along the edge of the table. It was not hard to see what had caught Derek’s eye, but at what a cost.

Michael reached for his glass, the cold liquid surprisingly hard to swallow despite his dry mouth. Did Jemimah have any idea what she’d thrown away?

She’d been so ... so perfect the way she was. The quietly feminine way she’d always dressed and worn her hair had reflected - or so he had thought - a modest and godly character. Her make-up had only even been subtle, merely enhancing the delicate features of her face. Now that natural beauty was painted over with the same seductive mask worn by every other young woman at the ball, with kohl darkened eyes and glossy red kiss-me lipstick.

And he still could not believe she’d cut off her beautiful long hair.

He choked, oblivious to the sliver of lemon in his glass until it almost went down his throat. He reached for his serviette, but hesitated, not wanting to spoil the beautiful folds. He pulled out his handkerchief and discreetly removed the rind from his mouth, frowning at the unexpected bitterness.

Jemimah’s transformation was the embodiment of Grim’s little mermaid who cut out her tongue to obtain what she thought would bring her happiness. But it never did - not in the original dark fairy tale nor in life - and anyone who believed the Disney version would be sorely disappointed.

Michael stared across the table, and frowned. No, as much as he wished it were true, Jemimah was not some teenage school girl giddy with her new-found power over men and no understanding of the consequences. Every detail of her appearance was too deliberate, too precisely calculated to snare someone like Derek Winslow.

The cut of her hair, both revealing her bare neck and shoulders and concealing her eyes when she looked up coquettishly; scarlet nails that drew the eye but were not garishly long; the lack of ostentatious jewellery that kept the focus on her petite figure. And her dress - not the crude ploy for attention like Angie’s plunging neckline - but a deceptive appearance of modesty along with more than enough flawless, creamy skin to entice and entrap.

How could God have let this happen? Was there nothing that kept a young woman safe from the lure of a handsome, wealthy man?

Jemimah glanced his way and, feeling strangely ashamed, Michael snapped his head to the stage. Craig Copeland and Sonia and Derek Winslow had the crowd eating out of their hands, but the words that evoked laughter and applause from the other guests seemed incomprehensible to him. Desperate for any distraction from his thoughts, he focused instead on the table decorations in front of him.

Sonia had outdone herself this year. The Minningford Ball was always classy, but tonight every detail set a higher standard. The painstaking effort spent on every place setting, from the program booklet to the fancy serviettes was unmistakable. Michael reached for his name card and studied the perfect hand lettering. Sonia could master any challenge, but calligraphy wasn’t a skill he’d known she possessed nor something one could pick up overnight. The ornate style reflected an older, slower age of copperplate and ledgers rather than the modern world that Sonia was so at home in. Where did she find the time?

He was still holding the card when Derek returned to the table. Even without lifting his eyes Michael could not fail to notice the way Derek’s arm slithered across the back of Jemimah’s chair nor how he used the excuse of reaching to shake Magnus Stockton’s hand to almost wrap himself around her. After an unnecessarily long banter with Stockton, in which both men frequently seemed to refer to Jemimah, Derek finally straightened himself - only to pick up the place card in front of him.

“This is your handiwork, I hear.” He examined the embellished cardboard as though it were a piece of fine art then turned to Jemimah. “Sonia mentioned you were working on the table settings, but I had no idea how talented you are. It must have been a labour of love.”

He looked into Jemimah’s eyes, a smile on his lips, and leaned across to pick up the name card from Jemimah’s place. He gave it the same critical scrutiny for a few moments before slipping both cards into his breast pocket and theatrically pressing his hand against his heart. “I’ll treasure these.”

Michael’s stomach twisted and he dropped his place card as though it had ignited. Jemimah had done these? And all to impress Derek Winslow?

Yes, evidently so. She was looking coyly down at the white tablecloth but there was no missing the blush spreading across her face.

A light hand rested on Michael’s shoulder. He looked up into Sonia’s face and mechanically returned her smile. She was one of his oldest friends but tonight even she seemed on the other side of a wide gulf.

Was he the only one who could see what was happening around them?

Sonia squeezed his shoulder then sat down beside him, immediately engaging the other guests at in conversation. He might sigh over her laissez-faire approach to Christianity, but what she lacked in spiritual depth she made up for in the abundance of her generosity and genuine desire to serve others. She was selfless when it came to making other people comfortable and her conversation was always intelligent and amusing but tonight all he heard were empty words, babbling over nothings. Vanity, all is vanity, Michael mentally quoted the old King James reference, a passing of the mist.

Against his will, his eyes turned again to Jemimah. He could not make out what she was saying, but Derek’s head leaned close enough to hers to catch every word. She appeared rapt in his lengthy replies and from the snatches Michael caught about vision and power and exponential growth it seemed he was still boasting about business successes and future goals. Derek soon joined the general conversation, sparking laughter and vigorous interaction from Sonia and the rest of the guests around the table. Michael contributed little, and Jemimah nothing apart from nodding or smiling when Derek or Magnus Stockton addressed something to her as though she were their special pet.

It was a relief when the entrees were served and Michael had something to occupy his attention, although he systematically cleared his plate without tasting a single bite of his food. More speeches followed the removal of the first course, then a renewed onslaught of vapid table conversation returned with the mains. He struggled his way through the marbled beef while wishing he could tune out the resoundingly empty noise around him. The words from Ecclesiastes 7 came to mind:

Never had the wisdom of the ancient book seemed so fitting as it did tonight. Here, in the house of feasting you ate and drank and laughed and were entertained and believed this was the epitome of human experience and that whatever the meaning of life was, you were living it wonderfully, and this was love and purpose and success. And the more you filled your life with nights like this and crowded out the fears and loneliness and the time ticking away and wondering what was the point of it all the less you had to face your own heart and the absolute vanity of all life under the sun.

Better a house of mourning indeed where, for a short time at least, you were brought face to face with your own mortality and the noise stopped long enough to hear the questions from your own conscience and perhaps listen to your fears about your own eternal future.

Michael laid his cutlery across his empty plate and winced at the sound of Angie’s laughter from a few tables away. He glanced over his shoulder, noticing diners from other tables had also turned to look. One guy at her table was telling a story that had everyone at their table in hysterics.

Michael shook his head, turning back just in time to thank the waiter removing his plate. Opposite, another waiter was taking Jemimah’s almost untouched plate. Was she too busy flirting with Derek to even eat?

Sonia and Derek had returned to the podium as one by one the winners of the silent auction and their massive bids were announced to loud cheers, and then the totals were read of the amounts raised for the charities supported by the ball. The causes were all worthy enough: the Flying Doctors and Rescue Helicopter services and the School of the Air amongst others - but the whole performance was the trumpet blowing of wealthy people congratulating themselves for their good works, satisfied to have received their reward in full.

What was he even doing here? Worldliness and pride celebrated as virtue - and here he was seated in the midst of it, nodding and smiling and giving full approval to one of the high feast days of Vanity Fair. How had he not seen it before? He’d been to a dozen or more of these events with Sonia over the years - not all of them as classy and restrained as the Minningford Ball - and had thought them more or less benign. But tonight the whole setting felt darkly malignant, a devouring beast wrapping its tentacles around the people he loved and dragging them into to the depths.

When the final oversized cheque had been presented to a tuxedo clad charity executive Sonia gracefully descended from the stage, completely at ease and utterly unselfconscious. She seemed to swim unsullied through the polluted seas of the world, confident she could contribute her sprinkle of salt and light without becoming bogged in its mire.

She caught Michael’s eyes and he instinctively returned her smile. Sonia truly believed she was doing good by living as a Christian in the heart of society and he’d always done what he could to support her in that - but now he felt complicit watching that society swallow its victims whole.

She reached the table just as the desserts arrived, commenting on her perfect timing as she smoothly swapped Michael’s fancy pastry for her own decadent chocolate cake as though he were doing her a favour.

“This will cheer you up, Mikey,” she said a moment later when a large mug of sweet, milky tea appeared at his elbow, quite at odds with the delicate china cups being served to the other guests. He opened his mouth to thank her, but she shook her head, smiling. “You don’t know how much I appreciate you being here.”

More conflicted than ever, Michael picked up the hot mug and gave in to the simple comfort of excessive sugar and an understanding old friend.