The eyes of the impossibly dashing actor glistened as the corners of his mouth lifted. ‘Well, it’s good to meet you, Alison.’
Max held his gaze, a mass of nerves inside but a vision of calm on the outside. He was drunk. But still, was one of the most famous men in the world flirting with her? Max wondered if she was about to have a heart attack. It felt like a drummer on acid had crept inside her chest. Oh God, maybe he was looking at something on her face. Did she have lipstick on her teeth?
Max could picture the amazing six-pack from the poster beside her desk at work. It was hiding under that dinner suit and it was just a few feet from her. Those fabulous bronze thighs that had glistened with sweat when he played a gladiator in Land of the Strong were so close she could touch them.
Stay cool, she told herself, smiling and widening her eyes.
‘Fucking journalists,’ Kirk sneered at Max. ‘Blood-sucking parasites the lot of them.’
Oh shit, who’s told him, Max thought. Was he about to have her seized and dragged outside?
Kirk Kelner drained his champagne flute and burped. ‘Oops, excuse me.’ Looking Max straight in the eye, he said: ‘You know what? My bodyguard says one hack has just been thrown out trying to get in here. Doesn’t matter, she’ll just make up some bullshit anyway. Those bastards give vultures a bad name. If I had my way –’
Having been introduced to Kirk by his mother, it seemed as though Max had been ‘vouched for’ by the Mafia boss. Kirk was not holding back.
‘Kirky, wash your mouth out. There is no need for that sort of language – and in front of this beautiful girl. What must she think of you?’
For a second Kirk looked like a little boy who’d been smacked. ‘Yeah, sorry, ladies. I’ve just had a hard time from the gutter press these last few months. And I’ve had a few drinks. I hit a bar while you watched the film. I’ve seen it so many times…’
Composing himself, Kirk straightened up to his full six foot two inches, flashing that all-American dazzling smile.
Was this actually the Kirk Kelner who had made it on to her laminated list? The mental list Max had compiled of her three chosen men, whose names she had written down on a card and laminated so she couldn’t change it. If she got married, she would tell her husband she would always be faithful… unless the opportunity arose with any of the three stars she had chosen.
Max had finalized her dream team during a drinking game with her best pal, Suzie, and settled on Nicholas Cage (not your typical hottie but there was something deeply sexy about him), fellow Scot Ewan McGregor and Kirk Kelner. Because he was perfect.
Suzie, a school pal from home and the only girl Max knew who could drink her under the table, had opted for Colin Farrell on account of his looks and Irish accent, Brad Pitt and Kirk Kelner too.
And here he was. Undeniably sexy. And so charismatic. Even now, slightly the worse for wear, he made every other man in the room look unremarkable, dull. His skin was smooth, flawless and tanned. Not a wrinkle in sight and yet no sign of the frozen Botox look.
Kirk brushed a subtly manicured hand through his dark blond hair. ‘So, Alison, what is it you do?’
Oh God. What to say? Max was normally honest about her job but sensed this was no time for the truth. ‘Oh I’m one of those parasite hacks who have followed your every move since you split from your wife’ probably wasn’t what he wanted to hear. And who was Max to spoil Kirk Kelner’s big night?
Maybe he would like to hear about her laminated list. Oh God, maybe she’d actually shag him. She’d never seriously thought she’d meet any of her Top Three. Max was certain he’d be well hung. No one that sexy could be packing a chipolata.
‘Me? I’m a writer.’ She felt his gaze beating down on her. Quick, be convincing. ‘Of… children’s books.’
The smile was back. ‘Oh yeah? Cool.’ Just then they were joined by a short beer-bellied man with a red face, whom Kirk introduced as his attorney.
Keep calm, Max told herself, you can’t go to work in the morning and tell the boss you actually chatted to Kirk Kelner without getting a kick-ass story. You’re here to work. And anyway, his type was the blonde, huge-breasted variety.
While he was undeniably beautiful, Max couldn’t help but be a little disappointed at meeting Kirk. Seeing him drunk made him human, as annoying as any guy who’d had too much. He was arrogant too, his jaw a little rigid, making Max wonder if he’d taken coke. How disappointing to find the god that was Kirk Kelner wasn’t quite what he seemed on the cover of GQ and billboards promoting his movies. But he was beautiful. And, of course, she still absolutely would.
‘Hey, Al, this young lady writes children’s books. What do you think? Maybe she could write one for my wife – she’s a big fucking baby, isn’t she, Al?’ His slurring had increased. ‘A big baby who’s throwing all her toys out of the pram to get her hands on my millions – that I worked for. So I slept with the nanny. Who doesn’t?’
Bingo! Oh yes, yes, yes, thank you, Kirk Kelner. Not only had he saved the planet in Man of Steel 4: The Final Frontier, he’d also landed himself on the front page of the Daily News.
Less than two minutes later Max was dialling her news desk. She had excused herself, telling Kirk she had to make a quick call to make sure her friend who had just split from her fiancé had arrived at the party – lies tripped off the tongue in this job – and found a quiet place beside the canvas wall.
‘Hello, is that the night news editor?
‘Yes, Max?’
‘Hi, James, I’ve got a corker for you on Kirk Kelner.’
‘Go ahead, I’ll take it down myself. If it’s worth it, I can get it in the late edition.’
‘OK, ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘ “EXCLUSIVE by Maxine Summers: KIRK CHEATED WITH NANNY. We can today reveal the real reason for Hollywood heart-throb Kirk Kelner’s divorce… he cheated on his supermodel wife, Alanna, with their nanny. Now the thirty-nine-year-old star of Man of Steel 4 faces a bitter court battle over his £500-million fortune.” ’
‘Fuck me, Max, that’s brilliant. That’ll be the front-page splash. Does anyone else have a sniff of it?’
‘No, I was the only journalist talking to him. It’s all ours, definitely an exclusive.’
It might have been Max’s story but James, as night news editor, would get the kudos of calling the paper’s editor at home and telling them a great story had come in and he’d like to put it on the front page.
Closing the porn site he’d been surfing, his voice was full of cheer. ‘Well done. Carry on, I want every juicy detail.’
EXCLUSIVE: BEAUTIES GO TO WAR
‘Lucy, darling, you look wonderful,’ Clarissa gushed, stepping away from her guest and taking in her Chanel lemon-linen dress. Lucy did look wonderful, as always. Like her sister Max, she took pride in her appearance at all times even though their individual styles were very different.
She had been flattered by Clarissa’s invitation to join her and her fiancé, Clive, in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. Clarissa was one of London’s most prominent socialites, her little black book reading like a who’s who of the capital’s aristocracy.
Lucy’s boss had stared in wonderment when the invitation landed on her desk, her beady eyes settling on ‘Clarissa Appleton-Smythe’. Through gritted teeth Genevieve said, ‘Oh lucky you. I hadn’t realized you knew Clarissa so well.’
In truth, Lucy didn’t really know her. And of course she was aware of the reason for the socialite’s sudden interest in her. It had little to do with Lucy herself and everything to do with her new boyfriend. For Lucy had recently started dating Hartley Balmyle, the fifth Earl of Balmyle – pronounced Bal-mile – and one of the most eligible bachelors in the UK.
In the three weeks since they had met, she had been on half a dozen dates with Hartley. Naturally, she had been welcomed into Team Clarissa with open arms when Clarissa met her a week after she’d stepped out with Hartley to a charity luncheon. Their picture had appeared
in some magazine and Clarissa recognized Lucy at a fashion show in Mayfair. The Appleton-Smythe set laughed loudly at Lucy’s jokes, even when she said something she didn’t think particularly funny, such was their desire to meet Lucy’s new beau. At the end of the fashion show Clarissa had asked Lucy to join her at Ascot. She looked crestfallen when Lucy explained Hartley wouldn’t be able to make it and that she would be coming on her own. Lucy didn’t mind one bit, though. Clarissa’s warmth was contagious and, anyway, knowing her could only be useful for work.
Clarissa was well versed about the Balmyles. The fifth Earl of Balmyle was Scottish. His family had a huge estate on the outskirts of Edinburgh. This was the famous Balmyle Hall, surrounded by thousands of acres of land which was rich for farming. The Queen Mother had often visited the family on the estate when staying at Glamis Castle during the summer. It had been passed down the generations and was now run by Hartley, his father having died five years ago. The family had also kept a considerable property portfolio in the city, which had grown vastly in value with the opening of the Scottish Parliament in the capital. The Sunday Times had put the family at the top of their Rich List for Scotland. They were in the Top Twenty Rich List for the UK.
‘Darling, what scent is that? Is it the new Jo Malone? Oh it’s delicious, Lucy. Quite the trend setter.’
Clarissa was thirty-two, a generous size 14 and on such days out she seemed always to wear garish pink or purple taffeta skirt suits, topped off with a similarly outlandish hat. Lucy wondered if her attire was a calculated attempt to stand out in the society photos that graced the back of her magazine. Or perhaps it was just a sign of her eccentricity.
Without coming up for breath, she whispered conspiratorially in Lucy’s ear: ‘Straight ahead, twelve o’clock, powder blue, Lady Chalmers. You know the one, the American heiress. She’s had at least three glasses of Cristal since she got here an hour ago.’
Following Clarissa’s directions Lucy noted the pretty blonde who seemed to be enjoying herself, throwing back her head in laughter with her friends.
Lucy couldn’t help but giggle at Clarissa’s army-like precision when it came to spotting the rich and famous. Lucy was preparing to compliment Clarissa’s outfit – well, it would be rude not to make the hostess feel special – but she was cut off.
‘Lucy, darling. What bad luck Hartley couldn’t make it. I was just saying to Clive that we simply must have you over for one of our Friday suppers. You’ll love it. Jasper Whitaker – you know the jockey who hangs out with the royals – and Philippa Bonner of the Bonner publishing empire are regulars.’
Clarissa suddenly took a sharp intake of breath and her face flushed.
‘Oh no, I think Philippa knows Hartley’s ex.’ Looking over her shoulder, she lowered her voice almost to a whisper. ‘God, I hear she’s an utter b-i-t-c-h. Have you met her?’
Lucy shook her head. Thankfully she never had encountered Lady Bridget Beames but had seen her splashed across the society pages of the glossy magazines, looking so perfectly put together but severe and skinny.
And she had heard plenty about her. As soon as the girls at work had discovered she was dating Hartley, they relished telling Lucy the numerous dreadful stories they had heard about how rude she was.
Lucy smiled back at Clarissa. ‘Don’t worry if one of your guests knows her. It’s no big deal. I’ll survive.’
‘You’ll do more than survive, darling,’ Clarissa laughed, squeezing Lucy’s hand. ‘Your debut at my Friday-night supper will be the talk of parties for months to come.’
Lucy warmed to the theme, putting on her poshest voice. ‘Yah. London’s finest will be begging for an invitation to one of your gatherings but you shall have to turn them away, such will be the demand to attend.’
Clarissa clasped her hands in delight. ‘Exactly. And Bridget will hear of your mesmerizing beauty and impeccable manners and choke on her carrot stick.’
Lucy looked relieved. Yes, Clarissa had ruthless ambition but, unlike so many other girls, she was upfront about it. There was something undeniably likeable about Miss Appleton-Smythe. She thrived on making friends, fussing over them and gossiping at her Friday suppers.
As far as Lucy knew, Clarissa didn’t have a job, no doubt being provided for by rich parents and her fiancé, and so arranging her social calendar had become something of a career, at which she excelled.
She had become known within certain London sets as a bit of a fixer. ‘Oh you want to go to the March Ball? Let me give you Clarissa Appleton-Smythe’s number.’ ‘You want a minor royal to attend your charity auction? You really should talk to Clarissa.’
She was still talking. ‘So I’m planning a supper in three weeks and I won’t accept no for an answer, Lucy. I’m giving you plenty of notice; please say you’ll both come.’ Noting a slight panicked look, Clarissa squeezed Lucy’s hand. ‘Darling, I know I’m an utter pain in the whatsit, but it’s how I get my own way. I promise I’ll be utterly lovable when you get to know me.’
Lucy found herself laughing and nodding her assurances to her new friend, not knowing what else to do. Somehow Lucy wanted to please Clarissa, to allow her the thrill of telling her set Hartley was the guest of honour at her Friday supper. It was like giving a small child the key to the gingerbread house where everything inside was delicious and edible.
She hoped Hartley wouldn’t mind.
Clarissa was visibly excited and started a mental list of her best-connected friends. Oh and what to eat? Chateaubriand, perhaps. The seating plan – Hartley would have to sit next to her.
As her hostess thought dreamily of becoming the Earl of Balmyle’s new confidante, Lucy excused herself to the restroom.
She could never understand the ruthless determination of so many girls in London. None of her close friends were like them but working at the magazine had opened up a new world of women. Being in the company of the ‘right’ people at the most sought-after social events seemed to be somewhat of an obsession.
Most of these girls were cold and snooty. Clarissa, at least, was refreshing in her honesty and more than a little comical. She seemed less self-deprecating with others in her set of friends than she was with Lucy. Somehow, inexplicably, Lucy and Clarissa clicked.
Lucy had landed on her feet at Trend, a glossy fashion and celebrity magazine which counted Vogue as its main rival, and established a name for herself on the editorial team as a leading fashion writer, taking charge of styling fashion shoots as well as putting words to them. Despite what the outside world thought writers at the top-end glossies earned, she spent most of her salary on a mortgage for the two-bedroom flat she had bought a year ago with her sister. Victorian terraced flats did not come cheap in Kensington and when her half of the mortgage was paid she spent what was left on clothes, for which she had always had a passion, and her contribution to the monthly lease payments of the sports car she shared with Max, a nifty black Z4. It never failed to astound her how judgemental the girls in her office were when it came to wearing the right labels, living at the right postcode. No doubt her boss and other girls in the office thought she was dating Hartley because of his wealth and connections. That’s why they would date him.
But no, she could never be with someone she didn’t love. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Hartley yet, but she had been pleasantly surprised, impressed even, so far. He seemed so kind, funny and generous – all the things she really admired in a man. Hell, maybe she was sure but was too scared to admit it to herself; after all, it was such early days. She could remember how perfect John had been at the start and how broken she felt when she realized what the real man was like.
‘Oh my God.’
A high-pitched voice interrupted Lucy’s thoughts. A breathless Clarissa, so excited she could barely get the words out.
‘Lucy… darling… hurry. Lady Bridget Beames is here. Hartley’s ex.’
Lucy’s head was swimming.
‘Oh Lucy, come and look. She’s making a terrible scene outsi
de. Let’s find her, darling. She’ll be hopping mad when she sees you.’
LADY BRIDGET 0… LUCY SUMMERS 1
Lady Bridget was not amused. Some buffoon had spilled a glass of beer all over her new cream Burberry summer coat. It wasn’t even in the shops yet and she’d pulled every string to get one. Daddy had paid. And now this cretin, with a bulging belly and red face that screamed high blood pressure, had ruined it. She was so angry she had no control over a shrill shriek escaping her thin, scarlet-painted lips.
‘You idiot. You absolute imbecile.’
Lady Bridget’s raised tones had attracted the attention of several guests gathered in the Royal Enclosure. But not the one she wanted.
‘You,’ she spat as she thumped the unsuspecting man on his left shoulder. ‘Do you know what you’ve done? Do you know who I am? Do you know how much this cost?’
The bewildered man turned to see a woman staring down at him, pointing at a wet mark on her coat.
Focusing his beer-goggled eyes on her angular ivory face framed with a jet-black bob he stuttered an apology.
For the first time Bridget became aware she was causing a scene. People had stopped to listen. That wouldn’t do, she chided herself. Some diary writer would hear of it and dub her a diva in their newspaper.
‘Oh look at me, what a frightful bore. Who cares about a silly coat?’
Bridget smiled down at the man’s balding head, touching him lightly on his shoulder.
‘Do forgive me,’ she cooed.
‘Oh OK, sorry,’ said the man, not sure if he’d imagined the hostility he’d just witnessed.
‘Oh come, please, not a word of it.’
Mission accomplished, thought Bridget. I turned the situation round to look thoroughly ladylike, which I am.
The coat was gorgeous, knee length and pure cream silk, with a matching belt in velvet tied tightly, showing off her twenty-four-inch waist. Obviously it didn’t have a trace of that awful checked pattern turned into a badge of honour for wannabes and chavs.
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