A clear cab run brought her to Sheri’s flat within ten minutes. She climbed the stairs to her flat as quickly as her Topshop platform ankle boots – hell, she couldn’t afford designer bloody everything – could carry her, and knocked on the door.
A breathless Sheri looked like hell again. With her lifeless eyes, skin as grey as that of a sixty-year-old smoker, lank hair with half the blonde extensions missing, she cut a tragic figure. No doubt she had been unrecognizable the night before when fully made-up.
‘Quick, come in, you’re gonna love this one.’
Max walked through to the sitting room and noted it wasn’t as neat as usual. There were unwashed wine glasses and coffee cups on the table, a square mirror on the sofa with the remnants of the white powder she was so partial to.
It was as if Sheri had read her mind: ‘Envy’s away on a shoot – I’ve been lettin’ me hair down a bit.’
Max smiled to reassure Sheri but couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. Beside the window hung a picture of Sheri aged seven or eight, dressed as a fairy. A beautiful, angelic, blonde little girl in wings and a tutu, with the world at her feet. So pretty, so happy. And now?
Everyone saw her as a fame-hungry user, which was true. But it was she who was being chewed up and spat out by the dark side of showbiz. Sure, every footballer she kissed and told on faced the wrath of his girlfriend for a few months. But the girlfriend’s anger subsided in direct correlation to the number of Cartier watches and Gucci bags he bought her. Even if she did dump him, he still had his fifty grand a week job doing the thing he loved and clubs full of girls desperate to be with him. Sheri? She had no money, a coke problem of biblical proportions and an addiction to the seedy world of celebrity she had briefly inhabited. Where would it take her? Looking at her – pale, ravaged and skinny in her pink Juicy tracksuit – Max shuddered to think.
‘So, what’s the big story?’
Sheri took a deep breath. ‘Max, last night I shagged Billy Brown.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I promise you, on me mum’s life.’
‘England captain Billy Brown?’
It was too good to be true. Arsenal and England captain, Billy, had the perfect marriage to Becci Brown, from girl group the Baby Dolls. She had just given birth to their second child, Sugar Plum, a sister for their two-year-old son, Tizer. They had been hailed as the new Posh and Becks, their marriage and fairy-tale life untouchable.
‘Max, I know what you’re finkin’. I’d do anyfing for a bit of cash now. You’re right, I would. That’s why I’ve been out the last three nights. Finally, thank fuck, I struck gold. I promise you. Couldn’t believe me luck. He was so drunk, he didn’t know what he was doin’. But I promise ya, Max, he was doin’ me by the end of the night.’
‘Do you have any proof?’
‘Semen stains still on me bed sheets – we came back ’ere. Get a DNA check?’
Max laughed in spite of herself. ‘Somehow I don’t think he’d agree to a sample, Sheri. I wouldn’t know where to start with that.’
‘Bloody get one of his hairs or saliva from a glass, I don’t care. I bloody need the cash.’
Max regarded Sheri. She was desperate. But Max knew Sheri well enough to know she was telling the truth. Maybe there was a way.
‘Do you have his phone number?’
‘Yeah,’ Sheri said, rummaging through her bag and fishing out her mobile. Max noticed she was starting to sweat, her hands were shaking. ‘I waited till he was out cold and called my phone from his phone so I ’ad the number. But then I passed out before I got a bloody picture of ’im beside me in bed. Max, I promise ya…’
‘OK, don’t worry. I have a plan. But we’ll have to wait a week or two.’
THAT’S WHY THE LADY IS A TRAMP
Bridget drummed her nails on the dashboard of her Range Rover. She was running late for lunch with her girlfriends Fifi and Dorcas at Shoreditch House, a darling members’ club with its own outdoor swimming pool, just like Soho House in New York. Daddy paid for her annual ‘all house’ membership, which gave her access to Soho House in NY and London, Shoreditch, the Electric Rooms and a few others. He also took care of her membership at Maddox, Annabel’s and the Ivy Club. Well, he wanted the best for his little girl and, God, it was hardly a fortune to Daddy.
She edited in her mind the story she would tell them. Bridget knew only too well the importance of getting it right. Whatever she said would have made its way through half their friends by that evening.
She would confide she had been spending most days with Hartley. What luck they had bumped into each other at the flower market. Fate, you might call it. Hartley had needed a shoulder to cry on and admitted he had made a frightful mistake and misjudged Lucy terribly. Of course, her friends would ask with wide eyes if there was a chance she would be getting back with Hartley. And Bridget would cover her face with her hands and tell them she shouldn’t really say anything. ‘What?’ they would squeal and eventually she would tell them they had a little drunken kiss the other night – ‘So who knows?’ Yes, Bridget resolved, they must be left in no doubt that it was highly likely they would resume where they had left off. They must also see the new soft and sympathetic Bridget.
She smiled as the traffic lights for Tower Bridge turned green and she shifted into gear. Was the truth really that different? Hartley had not said a bad word about Lucy, only that he didn’t know what to think.
Every fibre of Bridget wanted to scream at him: ‘Think the worst, you buffoon – she was a gold-digging, fame-hungry tramp who fucked you over.’ But she had learned her lesson. When Bridget had dated Hartley before, she should have been the embodiment of sweetness and light but had let her guard slip towards the end. Every woman put on an act until she had a ring on her finger, Bridget was sure of that. It was tiresome but needs must.
‘Of course you don’t know what to think, sweetie. Perhaps it had nothing to do with Lucy.’
Hartley had been surprised at Bridget’s response. She was so willing to give Lucy the benefit of the doubt, so perhaps she had moved on. She seemed so much kinder than he remembered. But Hartley had replayed the incident in Fife over in his head so many times and still could not think of another explanation. Beautiful Lucy. He had never even dreamed of being so happy. He kept his thoughts to himself. No matter what Lucy had done he had no intention of bad-mouthing her in any way. He had to admit it was a relief to have some female company – he missed Lucy so much, her femininity, her warmth, her laugh, her hair. No one could compare, but he was glad to spend time with Bridget and catch up on news of mutual friends.
He didn’t mind in the slightest when Bridget asked if she might tag along the following weekend for drinks at Tramp with Hartley’s friends. She told him she craved a night out – she too had split up with someone recently. He had moved to Hong Kong for work and they had both decided against a long-distance relationship.
‘I have to admit I was terribly upset. I really liked him. But life goes on,’ she chirped. ‘And the best cure for a broken heart is oodles of champagne.’
Hartley laughed and toasted Bridget with his mug of coffee.
Bridget laughed too. She had had no boyfriend since Hartley. But it was imperative that he think of her as a kindred spirit, facing heartbreak bravely just like him.
Hartley drank considerably more than normal at Tramp, determined to block out thoughts of his first encounter with Lucy at the club. Bridget timed her moment to perfection, planting a kiss on Hartley’s lips at the bar when he had insisted on buying another bottle of Krug. She squealed with delight as she did so, drawing as much attention from onlookers as possible. Hartley hugged her warmly, buoyed by alcohol and the camaraderie of two friends determined to get on with life. When news spread of their kiss, Hartley would assume it had come from an eagle-eyed bystander – not from her. She could always trust Fifi and Dorcas to spread any kind of gossip. For good effect she would, of course, tell them not to breathe a word, but she knew for sure the
y would be on the phone within moments of air-kissing goodbye.
As Bridget pulled up to the private members’ club, a thought crossed her mind and she was truly glad it had. She might have kissed Hartley but that was one hell of a way from where she wanted to be – sending out hundreds of invitations to their wedding. Perhaps there was a way to give him no choice. She had heard men talk crassly about a ‘rebound shag’, when they had slept with someone to get over the end of a relationship. Having seen the drunken state of Hartley the other night, she was sure she could coax him into bed. Every man needed sex and he was no exception.
She must organize a little night out with a few friends, and copious amounts of bubbly and shots. She would be careful not to drink too much – but look as though she was – and ensure Hartley’s glass was permanently refilled.
And what if she told him she was on the pill and there was no need to use a condom? Bridget had felt a mild sense of panic the other day when reading yet another magazine article repeating her mother’s warning about the huge decline in women’s fertility after the age of thirty-five. She would be damned if she was going to watch all her friends produce a litter while she looked like a barren spinster. Why should they get all the attention? There were only so many bloody ‘first lock of hair’ holders she could send before it drove her insane. Accidents happened all the time for women on the pill. Hartley need never know she had never taken it in the first place. Fifi all but admitted on their last skiing trip that she had used the same trick to conceive on her honeymoon. A little white lie could lead to an unexpected surprise for Hartley. He was such a gentleman he would do the right thing and propose. He would have no choice. He was hardly going to have some bastard child and not marry the mother. It simply wasn’t done.
It was not the sequence of events Bridget had hoped for, but there was nothing wrong with having a solid Plan B. They could marry straight away, when she was slim enough to squeeze into a breathtaking gown, or wait until after the birth – within six weeks she could be rake thin with the help of her trainer, nutritionist and a nip and tuck. With two people of their standing there would be no shame in marrying after having a child… so long as they wed eventually.
Time was ticking – and not just with her damned biological clock. The last thing she wanted was for that tart Lucy to bump into Hartley at some event and flutter her eyelashes at him. Bridget had put everything into winning Hartley over. It had almost killed her to smile when he talked about Lucy. She wanted to tell him never to mention that little slut in her company but instead she pretended to give her the benefit of the doubt – she can’t be as bad as everyone says, she must be misunderstood. It was to Bridget’s great annoyance that no one ever said a bad word about Lucy. Until, that was, Bridget had planted so many seeds of suspicion about her that people in their set couldn’t help but gossip about how badly she had treated Hartley. Bridget’s little plan to make her friends believe Claudia had told her all about Lucy’s devious plan in Scotland had been a stroke of genius. The more she said it, the more people believed it. It had worked. The cause of Lucy’s split with Hartley being his discovery that she’d tipped off a photographer was now repeated as fact in her set. Bridget had even seen snippets hinting at what had happened in the broad-sheet diaries.
That reminded her: now that she had a file on Lucy’s family history from the private investigator she had hired, she really should make good use of it. It wouldn’t do for her to simply blurt out everything she had learned about her scummy working-class roots to Hartley. That would be too obvious. Far better she remained the picture of innocence. No, much better to make sure the details got into the hands of a writer on a newspaper.
It was no less than Lucy deserved. Who did she think she was? Bridget was the one for Hartley. They were equals and he would come round to seeing this. She would simply be pushing him in the right direction. And the Earl of Balmyle desperately needed an heir.
As she smoothed down her Diane von Furstenberg deep-purple wrap dress (Shoreditch House was an exception to the East End) and applied a coat of gloss to her crimson lips, a smile spread across her face. The truth was she’d be doing Hartley a huge favour.
EXCLUSIVE: EARL’S EX HIDES HUMBLE BEGINNINGS
Lucy knew something was wrong the moment she walked into the office.
Genevieve was clearly halfway through talking about her when she walked past her desk.
‘Oh hi, Lucy. Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Are you?’
‘Are you sure?’
Lucy looked at the gaggle of girls gathered round Genevieve. She was an hour later than normal – having first picked up clothes for a shoot in the West End.
Tentatively and slowly, Lucy replied: ‘Yes. Has something happened?’
‘You haven’t seen the Daily Mail?’
Lucy felt faint. ‘No.’ It was as if they were speaking to her in a foreign tongue and all she could do was answer yes or no.
Practically leaping out of her seat, Genevieve marched over to Lucy’s desk and laid a double-page spread before her. Lucy was almost too scared to look at it but knew she had to. Looking down, she took in the headline: Earl’s Ex Hides Humble Beginnings.
Her mouth went dry as she read on. My God, her poor mother – she sounded like some bed-hopping hippy. And Max…
By the third paragraph, the words had blurred into one giant ink blob.
Looking up, she saw the huddle of girls gawping at her, waiting for her reaction – like scavengers circling a carcass. Christ, where was Carlos when she needed him? She couldn’t see him anywhere. They would have liked tears best, she thought – that would have sounded most dramatic as they retold the story to friends over cocktails. Or a tantrum; that would have gone down well too. Lucy had no idea where the strength came from as she rose to her feet. Inside she felt numb. She clenched her fists as tightly as she could to stop them shaking with shock.
Lucy could hear Max as clearly as if she was standing beside her. Head up, chest out, paint on the smile.
‘Come on, ladies, you should know by now not to believe anything you read in the papers.’
And with that, Lucy picked up her bag and waltzed out of the office. She could feel their eyes burning into her as she left. She didn’t care about them. It wouldn’t surprise her one bit if they thought less of her for having the words ‘working class’ linked to her family. That said far more about them than it did her. All she cared about was her mum and Max. The two people she loved and admired most had had their names tarnished for the world to see. It was bad enough that her name was dirt in certain London circles after the incident in Scotland, but how dare anyone drag Marj and Max through the mud.
Lucy took her mobile out of her bag. Shit! She’d missed seven calls from Max because it had been on silent. She punched Max’s number into her phone.
‘Hi, Luce.’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ Max knew her sister didn’t have enemies, with one notable exception. ‘It’s time for Bridget to get what’s coming to her.’
A TIME FOR CHANGE
Lucy had called her mother straight after she had spoken to Max. She hadn’t picked up so Lucy left a message. She wanted to be strong but felt ashamed that she had dragged her mother into this mess; she could not get the words out without sounding strangled.
‘Mum, I’m guessing you know about the newspaper. I’m so very sorry… I love you.’
Lucy sat on a bench down a quiet lane near her Mayfair magazine office. She could not face going back to work, with the girls whispering and watching. There were a couple of sweet girls on the floor. There was Sophie, with her hair freshly dyed jet-black in honour of another new super-model.
She had actually cried for a full hour at work the other day because her prized Burberry blazer, which she’d blagged a few months ago and had refused to take off even when temperatures in the office
had topped 30 degrees back in July, had been stolen from a nightclub cloakroom. Lucy had handed her a fresh tissue as she wailed that it wasn’t about the cost but it was virtually a one-off and irreplaceable.
Sophie had run after her on her way out of the office and Lucy assured her she was fine and thanked her for asking.
And there was Penny, the fashion desk PA with shoulder-length dark blonde hair, a long face and severe rectangular glasses, which she changed on a daily basis to match her outfit. Lucy was sure she would have run after her too, had she not been on holiday.
But most of the girls were too scared of Genevieve to break free from the pack and try to comfort her without having at least some juicy news to take back to the boss. God knew what she had said about Lucy before she’d come into the office that morning to instil this level of fear about being too friendly to her. The thought might once have bothered Lucy but, hell, after reading a malicious article in a national newspaper, seen by millions, not only about herself but about her family, well, Genevieve’s bitching was the least of her worries.
Lucy smiled wryly as she thought of the story in the paper. It made her sound like she was a fake – that she hadn’t gone to one of the most prestigious girls’ schools in the country, that she had put on a posh accent the moment she left her family council house. In truth she had lied about nothing – Lucy’s voice, her interests, her friends, were the product of her background. And it was one of which she was proud. Yes, she had mixed with the upper classes. But she had all kinds of friends from all walks of life. And it was her sister and mother who had shaped her, made her happy to be herself. How shallow it all seemed; the very fact a newspaper would give up two pages to dissect her social status was utterly unfathomable.
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