Necessary as Blood

ladies‘ loo and have to choose between duty and exposure. She shuddered. At least no one would have the nerve to use a camera in the sacred precincts of the Ivy — she was very careful not to be caught in photos with her father.
    He had picked the intermediate sitting, between the pre-theatre and post-theatre crush. Unusual for him, as he liked to see and be seen, but perhaps he‘d thought it was the only way he would get her to accept the invitation. He was looking quite pleased with himself, in fact. Although it was against the Ivy‘s policy to give favoured clients special tables, tonight they had got a table for four at the back of the room, perfectly positioned to observe the other diners.
    ‘Do sit still, darling, and stop picking at your dress,‘ her mother whispered. Her mum had bought the dress from a new designer she was patronizing in Knights-bridge, and her eye had been, as usual, sharp enough to guarantee a perfect fit. The dress was black, snug as a glove, with an off-the-shoulder plunging neckline that made Melody acutely uncomfortable. She‘d always been self-conscious about her broad shoulders and rather generous bust.
    ‘Nonsense,‘ her mother had told her that afternoon when she‘d dropped by Melody‘s flat, bearing her gift in a scented, tissue-stuffed, beribboned bag. ‘You really must learn to maximize your assets, darling.‘ She zipped Melody into the dress, then stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘Very fetching. And you do have legs. One would never know it with those dreadful off-the-peg trouser suits you wear.‘
    Melody had a runner‘s calves, a legacy of her public-school days and the jogs she still managed round Hyde Park when work allowed, but she thought the muscles just made her look chunkier and did her best to cover them up.
    ‘And for heaven‘s sake, do something with your hair,‘ her mother had added, kissing her on the cheek. ‘I‘m sure Bobby can squeeze you in.‘
    And so Melody had slunk into one of the smartest salons in Kensington on a Saturday afternoon, emerging an hour later freshly shorn, but feeling she‘d won a small victory by having refused even the most discreet of highlights. Her thick, glossy brown hair, kept in a chin-length bob, was one of her few vanities.
    Now, she gave another defiant tug at the neckline of her dress and scowled at her mother. But her mum merely twinkled back at her, and Melody felt her mouth relax into an unwilling smile. It was almost impossible to stay irritated with the Lady Athena Talbot, née Hobbs. Since childhood she had been known simply as Attie, and Melody doubted she‘d ever encountered anyone, male or female, who had not been instantly smitten.
    Willow-slender, Attie ‘Rilbot moved like a girl, and could still turn the heads of men half her age. The unfortunate Quentin was, in fact, ogling her, and Melody was tempted to kick him under the table.
    Her father, however, was as adept at reading signals as Melody. He reached over and patted her mother‘s hand, in the process flashing Quentin a smile with just a hint of shark beneath its avuncular surface.
    Quentin flushed and looked away. Point for the old man, Melody thought — territory duly marked, peon put in his place. Her father did subtlety very well.
    As a teenager, she‘d enjoyed the fantasy that her father had married her mother for her money, but even then she‘d known it for a lie, concocted to salve her own jealousy. You had only to see the way they looked at each other, still — stomach-turning, really. Her mother‘s money and title had simply been a bonus. Her father, a grammar-school boy from a Newcastle council estate, had possessed the intelligence, the drive and, above all, the ambition to succeed on his own merits.
    And succeed he had, the single thorn in his life being his uncooperative only daughter.
    ‘Melody‘s in police work,‘ he said now, having chosen the wine.
    ‘File clerk,‘ Melody countered hurriedly, manufacturing what she was sure was a ghastly smirk. ‘Toiling in the basement and all that.‘
    ‘Notting Hill,‘ her mother put in helpfully. ‘And of course you don‘t toil in the basement, darling. Don‘t be silly. She has quite a nice flat there,‘ she added for Quentin‘s benefit.
    ‘Really?‘ Quentin eyed her with a bit more interest. ‘Some nice clubs round there. I — um...‘ He seemed to realize that admitting to clubbing might not be the most appropriate way to impress the boss. ‘Pubs,‘ he