When Louise was in eighth grade, her teacher had given her a survey to fill out called "What Would You Like to Be?" The border had been illustrated with astronauts and ballerinas, doctors and firemen. Mrs. Gladwell had given each student a red crayon, which fourteen-year-old Louise had found mildly condescending.

"Start with the first question," Mrs. Gladwell had explained. "If you could pick any dream career, what would it be?"

The other students had begun writing immediately, their crayons bobbing madly. Louise had tapped her chin. Sucked on her lip.

She'd leaned over to the desk beside her.

"Ella," she'd whispered. "What are you going to put?"

Ella — who'd already been doodling music notes and a violin — frowned. "You have to come up with your own answer, Lou."

Louise sighed. "Can't you pick for me?"

She shook her head. "Just write something."

It was easy for the other girls. Ella had scribbled down 'singer.' Their other friend, Sophia, had carefully written out 'actress/celebrity.' And their last friend Ophelia had doodled several books and written 'librarian.'

Louise stared at the blank sheet of paper.

Then she wrote down "professional partier."

It had been a joke. At least, that's what Louise said two weeks later, when she was sitting in the principal's office with Ella's mother, who had been acting as her de facto guardian. Mrs. Gladwell had sternly explained that nobody could become a "professional partier" and scolded Louise for not taking the activity seriously. Louise had apologized and promised to clean computer keyboards as punishment.

But truthfully, Louise had meant it.

Partying was the only thing she was good at. She loved the thrill of it, the ritual of doing her make-up and drinking cocktails with friends and someone inevitably changing out of a backless top because "I just can't be arsed with the boob tape." She loved the energy of a crowd. She loved the electric feeling of being in a cab at night, the neon city lights streaking by like watercolour paint, feeling like everything was possible.

Anyway, it turned out that Mrs. Gladwell was wrong because Louise had become a professional partier, in a sense. She worked as an events planner, and that was practically the same. She attended parties for a living.

Even if it was a lot less glamorous than she'd imagined.

Louise tapped away at the keyboard. The screen was full of seven web browsers, each showing the name of a different florist: Hansel and Petal; Bride and Bloom; Flower Puff Girls. She clicked through to the next page, running her teeth over her tongue. Red flowers stared back at her mockingly.

Louise sighed. Stupid, buggering, blood lilies.

This, Louise thought tiredly, was the part of wedding planning they never told you about: the strange requests. Celebrity appearances. An underwater venue. The dog that could hold a paintbrush in its mouth and draw pictures of the guests.

Sodding blood lilies.

Why did Arabella Cavendish want blood lilies?

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. Across the room, leather brogues scuffed the carpet. The footsteps paused.

"You alright?" a male voice asked.

She shook her head.

"The Cavendish wedding?" he guessed.

"I hate her," Louise said, voice muffled. "She wants blood lilies. Dozens of them. Do you know how rare those are?"

"The wedding's not for months, right?"

"It's in March," Louise said. "So seven months. But that's still not enough time."

Maybe she could just spray paint some cattail flowers, Louise thought hopefully. Nobody would notice. Or she could just start farming her own blood lilies. Yes. That seemed like the best option at this point.

A hand landed on her shoulder. "Can I help?"

She lifted her head, blinking. Her boss came into focus like a buffered picture: wavy blond hair; broad shoulders; horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing an expensive wristwatch that made him look much older than his twenty-nine years, although Sebastian always said that it was the only way clients ever took him — and Crawley Events — seriously.

"I don't know," Louise said. "Do you happen to know a florist with a niche interest in exotic flowers?"

Sebastian smiled. "Afraid not."

"Maybe I can talk Arabella round," Louise said. "Maybe I can convince her to go with roses instead. Or dahlias. Dahlias are lovely."

Sebastian gave her a dubious look. She didn't blame him; Arabella Cavendish was a formidable woman. The socialite had gotten engaged in South Africa last year, surrounded by the blood lilies, which meant that she wanted the flowers at her wedding. Even though the lilies didn't grow in England. Or anywhere else in the world, really.

Arabella wasn't a bad person, exactly. But she had asked all her bridesmaids to gain five pounds so that she looked better in comparison on her wedding day.

But it was Louise's job to make her happy. So here she was.

Trying.

"Go home," Sebastian said, stepping back. "You look exhausted."

Louise closed her notebook. "You flatter me, Seb."

"Anytime."

"And anyway," Louise said, rising from her chair, "I'm not going home."

Sebastian paused in arranging his pencils. "Hot date?"

"I'm going shopping." She gave him a look. "With my sister."

"Ah." Sebastian leaned back, draping an arm across the back of his chair. "What happened to the latest boy, then? The mechanical engineer?"

Louise hoisted her bag. Adam had started to call her "hun," which had given her the ick; she'd pied him off in an eight-word text message and then gone for fro-yo with Ophelia. Not, Louise thought, that she was about to admit that to her boss.

"Goodbye, Seb," she said pointedly.

Sebastian smirked. "He got too clingy, didn't he?"

"Can't hear you," she called.

Louise pushed out the door. London was a watercolor today; misty rain swirled in the gas lamps, and umbrellas exploded in bright fireworks of vermilion, buttercup yellow and cerulean. The late August air had a bite to it, crisp as the skin of an apple.

She met Millie at Harrods. Her sister was on the second floor of the department store, studying a pair of men's Gucci shoes. The white trainers had a pair of glittery red snakes curling around the toes, nesting in a bath of orange flames.

"There you are!" Millie held up the shoes. "What do you think?"

"That depends," Louise said dryly. "Is James having a mid-life crisis?"

"Louise!"

"Or a quarter-life one," Louise continued, examining a pair of Oxford brogues. "I guess he's only twenty-nine."

Millie sighed, setting down the shoes. She picked up a pair of Versace trainers next, not even bothering to glance at the price tag. But then again, Louise wasn't expecting her to; their family didn't exactly struggle for money.

A holiday home in the Alps. A family estate in Scotland. All three of them — Millie, Max and Louise — had even attended an expensive boarding school in Toronto for their teenage years, sporting designer clothes and Rolex watches.

Yes, Louise was blessed with a lot of material privileges, and she was grateful for it; the only thing she was missing was her parents.

At least she had Millie, Louise thought fondly, watching as her sister inspected a particularly ugly pair of feathered loafers. And Max, although her brother was away most of the year on tour with his band, The Patriots.

"What about these?" Millie called.

Louise drifted closer. Her sister was holding up a pair of black trainers with three small green frogs on them.

Louise arched an eyebrow. "Does James even like frogs?"

"Well, no," Millie admitted. "But I do."

This, Louise thought, was an understatement; her older sister had been obsessed with frogs for as long as she could remember. Growing up, Millie had insisted on frog bedsheets, and frog posters, and silver frog rings. When Louise asked her about it once, Millie had shrugged.

"Frogs always hop forward, never backward," she'd said. "I guess I like that idea."

Louise appreciated the sentiment, but still — poor James wouldn't want a pair of frog shoes for his birthday.

"You know what?" Louise took the shoes from Millie's hand. "Maybe you should just get him a video game."

After Millie safely secured the game, they walked the short distance to her townhouse in Belgravia, sheltering beneath one plastic umbrella. Millie chattered about the restaurant that she had booked tonight for James' birthday dinner — a Mexican-inspired eatery — and then they were climbing up the marble steps.

"Thanks again for babysitting." Millie brushed her dark fringe out of her eyes. "I know the kids can be a handful. But I'll be on my mobile, I swear."

"Oh, I've got it." Louise waved her off. "How bad can it be?"

It was very bad indeed.

Louise loved her niece and nephew. Truly, she did. But tonight was a prime example of exactly why she never, ever wanted children.

"I don't understand," Louise sighed. "Why can't you have the blue bowl, Vienna?"

Her niece glared up at her, her dark eyes shiny with tears. Vienna Langford was only three years old, but she had already mastered a look of disdainful resentment. Her brunette curls swung wildly as she shook her head.

"Pink!" Vienna howled. "I want the pink!"

This, Louise thought, was not news; Vienna had been demanding to have her ice cream in the pink plastic bowl for approximately 20 minutes now. She adjusted her jumper — frumpy, two sizes too big, and now stained with chocolate ice cream — and prayed for patience.

"But Hugh's using the pink bowl," Louise explained. "Aren't you, Hugh?"

Hugh nodded. One small hand was wrapped around his pink bowl to guard it from his younger sister, and the other was being used to shovel copious amounts of Rocky Road into his mouth. His cheek was stained with chocolate.

"No!" Vienna smashed her fist into the ice cream. "No, no, no!"

Louise watched, torn between horror and amusement, as chocolate ice cream flew across the room, spattering the pale cream walls. Poor Millie and James. Their house was beginning to look like a crime scene.

Louise shrugged. "Fine. No ice cream for you, then."

She scooped up Vienna's bowl, placing it back in the freezer. The small girl stared at her in astonishment, her lower lip trembling. Then she screwed up her face and began to wail.

"I!" Sob. "Want!" Sob. "Pink!"

Louise shrugged. "And I want to murder Arabella Cavendish, angel, but we can't always get what we want."

Vienna glowered. Then she launched off her chair, tackling her older brother. Hugh gave a yelp, raising his hands to defend himself, but it was too late; he flew backwards, landing in a crumpled heap.

"Vienna!" Louise's temper flared. "Apologize to Hugh, right now."

Vienna smirked, helping herself to ice cream.

Hugh clambered to his feet, his cheeks blazing red. "You s-s-s-stupid—"

He cut off, and Louise's heart plunged. Oh, poor Hugh. He rarely spoke, and when he did, he was always careful to control his words. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and his small hands were clenched into fists.

"Alright," Louise said. "Why don't we just take turns with the pink bowl?" She snatched up the bowl, ignoring Vienna's howl. "Hugh, you can go first."

An hour later, Louise had miraculously managed to wrangle both kids into their respective beds. She poured herself a glass of red wine, collapsing on the sofa. Good god. How on earth did Millie and James manage to do this on a daily basis? Did her sister regularly take Adderall or something?

As if on cue, her phone dinged. A text from Millie.

How are the kids?

Louise sighed, shifting her wine glass to text back. All fine here, enjoy dinner. xx

Millie's response was immediate.

You're such a liar, but I love you. Be home soon. xx

Louise smiled, setting her phone down. She glanced at the time. It was only nine o'clock — still early, for a Friday night. Should she phone the girls? But, no; Ella was in Toronto, so she'd be at the recording studio with the time change. Sophia and Ophelia were both in London, but they were seeing a film tonight.

Which left one option.

Louise pulled out her laptop, clicking on the Cavendish file. She'd find these blood lilies — even if it killed her.

She was about to continue her Google search for the elusive blood lilies when her mobile rang. Louise frowned; it was an unknown number. Probably a telemarketer. She set down her wine glass, picking it up.

"Hello?"

"Louise Bentley?"

"Speaking."

"This is Officer Wilson," the voice said. "I'm afraid there's been an accident. Are you sitting down?"