by Karen Swan
‘Oh no, Laura, I totally disagree. How could you have a baby if you had doubts about the relationship? I would have done exactly the same as you.’
Laura smiled gratefully for the support, even though she knew it couldn’t possibly be true. A baby was the one thing the Blakes’ money couldn’t buy them, and neither one of them would need ‘time to think’. They knew what she was beginning to realize too late – a baby was a blessing. Being up close and personal with the Bakers had shown her that much.
The waiter came over with their steaming Dover sole. Neither of them said a word as he set it down before them. Cat fiddled with the cutlery on either side of her plate.
‘It’s weird, isn’t it?’ Cat said finally when the waiter had gone. ‘I feel I can trust you. I knew it from the moment we met. I don’t get that with many people. I usually feel like most people want something from me.’
Laura felt herself swell at the compliment. She felt it too. ‘I don’t suppose this has ever happened to you, has it? No one’s ever broken your heart?’
‘Oh yes they have,’ Cat replied, spearing a minted pea.
‘Really? Let me guess – Alex?’
Cat laughed, a tinkling sound. ‘No. No, bless him, although I know I broke his a long time ago. I think he’s forgiven me, though.’
‘Who was it, then? Was he wildly handsome and romantic?’
‘Yes, yes and no. He was wild and handsome, but not romantic. In fact he was cruel. He took pleasure in watching me humiliate myself for him. He thought I was such a princess when we first met – he actually told me that. He liked seeing me broken.’
‘Broken?’ Laura stopped cutting. ‘He sounds sadistic.’
Cat stared into her plate. ‘Maybe he was. He just liked the game and having that kind of power over me. He threw just enough scraps to keep me hanging around him in vain hope. All my passion for him went completely unrequited. We only consummated the relationship once; I was so desperate for him, I actually begged him for it. But when we did it, it was like he was . . . bored.’ Her voice had become tiny.
She inhaled suddenly, coming to. She looked up at Laura, taking in her dismayed expression. ‘But what are you gonna do? I personally think all the most interesting people have had their hearts trampled upon by someone at some time or another. It makes you tough; it forces you to find ways to survive and adapt and go on. Don’t you agree?’
‘I do,’ Laura replied quietly, resuming nibbling her sole. She’d never felt less hungry. ‘Thank God you found Rob.’
‘Yes, absolutely,’ Cat agreed heartily, squeezing a half-lemon in its gauze. ‘Thank God I did.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Laura smiled at the woman looking back at her. She was poised, groomed and rich. Her hair shone like spun gold, her make-up, thanks to the expert hand that had applied it, was immaculate, and the dress she was wearing – baby-pink Marchesa with waterfall ruffles – hit all the right notes: formal but still funky, expensive but young. She barely recognized herself.
The knock at the door made her turn and Cat came in, quivering delicately in a long strapless grey feather dress. ‘Oh. My. God.’ Cat grinned at the sight of her. ‘Jack who?’
Somewhere inside, Laura winced at the mention of his name, but her smile didn’t slip. That bottle of Dom at lunch had kept her on a mellow ride all afternoon.
‘Are you absolutely sure about me wearing your dress?’ Laura asked. ‘It’s so expensive. What if I knock wine down it or something?’
‘It looks sensational on you. Far better than it looks on me.’ She came and stood behind Laura, staring at their mutual reflections in the mirror. They were like Gemini. Apart from their eyes, they really didn’t look dissimilar. Cat was prettier, blonder, skinnier and taller, obviously, but they were the same ‘type’.
‘I still don’t know how you’ve managed to make my eyes look like this,’ Laura said, peering closer in the mirror. ‘Whenever I’ve tried it before, I’ve ended up looking more like a victim of crime.’
‘Years of practice,’ Cat smiled, changing position to see the dress from another angle. She popped a hip, model-style.
Laura picked up her clutch bag, wondering whether she should stand like that when they were at the party. Cat grabbed her palest grey fur shrug, Laura the shahtoosh Cat had loaned her, and they caught the lift together, striding across the hotel lobby looking like it was Oscars Night in Bel Air.
The car Rob had ordered for them was waiting outside and they slid in with perfect synchronicity, the pavement in front of their boutique hotel miraculously clear of snow and ice as though it had been heated with hairdryers. Laura looked out of the window as they drove past the ornate black and gold gates of Kensington Palace and alongside the gardens into Hyde Park. Christmas was in the air as definitively as cinnamon and cedar; tracks left from bikes, walkers and animals criss-crossed the snowy lawns like dot-to-dot drawings, and pools of light punctuated the dark paths as office workers, Christmas shoppers and residents all hurried homewards. Laura looked across at Cat, excited that they – by contrast – were on their way out. When she thought of the evening she ought to be having – home alone in the studio listening to the tide rushing past and rifling through her trinket boxes; when she thought of the night she’d just had – sitting in Ottersbrook village hall watching the primary school’s nativity concert. . . And last weekend in Verbier. Where would she be next week? What was her baseline now? Not Suffolk, of that she was certain.
‘What’s the name of the charity this is in aid of?’ Laura asked, shuffling around so that she was facing Cat side-on.
‘Who knows? We go to so many. But this is one of the biggies. It makes bucketloads. Honestly, what some of the lots go for . . . even my eyes water!’
Just the minibar prices had brought tears to Laura’s eyes. ‘Will there be lots of celebrities?’
Cat laughed, amused. ‘No doubt. So brace yourself – there’ll probably be lots of pappers outside. Don’t worry. They’ll leave us alone as soon as they see we’re not famous.’
Laura nodded happily, feeling strangely invincible knowing she had Cat as her ally.
Traffic was light along the park and they were cruising into Knightsbridge within minutes. Laura looked on, dazzled, at Harrods’ year-round lights, which seemed so especially fitting at this time of year, and the opulent Christmas windows that had passers-by, even now, congregating in front of them. They passed Burberry, flying its distinctive checked flags and plastered with enormous black and white billboards of sulky, beautiful, young Brit things who could rival anything in Times Square. Laura was glad the traffic lights turned red before they could pass Harvey Nichols, and she and Cat scrutinized the displays hungrily: psychedelic snowflakes, ice caves, frozen stalactites and swooping snowy owls were the backdrops for insouciant mannequins draped in beaded dresses and felted wool coats.
‘I love that skirt,’ Cat gasped, pointing indistinctly to one in a row of eight windows.
‘Mmm, me too.’
The lights changed and twenty seconds later they were pulling up outside the hotel. As predicted, banks of photographers were huddled, shivering, on the pavement, waiting to get their money shots before they could go home and thaw out. Laura and Cat got past without much bother, just one or two ‘complimentary’ flashes for the effort they’d clearly put in.
Champagne was in their hands the moment they walked through the door – when was it not, in Cat’s world? – and Laura clocked Jemima Goldsmith and Boris Johnson within moments.
‘Come on, we’ll start over here,’ Cat said, nudging her gently with her elbow. Laura tagged along happily, smiling back as famous and frozen faces looked at her, the oblique question in all their eyes: have we met? Simply being in the room meant you were in the club.
Laura took in the room discreetly as they walked towards a table at the back where the lots were displayed. Cat had been right: long was de rigueur, and there was an astonishing number of variations on how men wore black tie the
se days. The ceiling was a vaulted golden rotunda, and deep, thick, red velvet ribbons had been swagged from corner to corner of the room so that it felt gift-wrapped. The magnificent tree – as wide as it was tall – was decked in hundreds of smaller velvet ribbons, and microscopic vanilla fairy lights made the room prickle with starlight.
Cat stopped by the table. ‘Fancy that?’ she asked, holding up a thick cream card. Lot 21: Private tennis lesson with Rafael Nadal.
‘I think Rafa would be the only person capable of getting me to a decent baseline return.’ Laura giggled. ‘I usually play like I’d do a better job with my arms in plaster.’
Cat laughed, moving along. ‘How about this?’
Lot 14: Dance class with Lady Gaga.
‘I’d be terrified,’ Laura hissed, eyes wide.
‘I know! What the hell would you wear?’ Cat gasped.
‘Ooh . . . that looks fun,’ Laura said, noticing Lot 12: One week at Donna Karan’s villa in Turks & Caicos.
‘Been there . . . Not to Donna Karan’s place, obviously. But let’s face it – nowhere’s slumming it out there,’ Cat remarked.
‘Are you going to bid on anything tonight?’ Laura asked curiously.
Cat looked around to check nobody was listening. Nobody was, although plenty of people were staring. ‘Well, I have to play my cards very carefully at things like these. Rob will refuse to put his hand up even for extra water if he thinks I’m expecting anything. But . . .’ She took Laura by the hand and walked further along the table. ‘Between you and me, I’m rather hoping he’ll go for this. It is my birthday after all.’
Laura looked at Lot 18: Styling session with Rachel Zoe.
‘Who’s she?’
‘Laura!’ Cat laughed. ‘She’s only Hollywood’s uber-stylist. She does everyone.’
‘But you don’t need to be styled. You always look great.’
‘I look passable,’ Cat said with raised eyebrows. ‘We both know there’s a lot more I could be doing.’ She saw a waiter approaching and drained her glass quickly, nodding for Laura to do the same. ‘What would you bid for?’ she asked as their glasses were refilled.
‘Ummmm . . .’ Laura walked slowly down the table, reading the cards: Share a table at Annabel’s with Kylie. Drive the Amalfi coast with Jenson Button in a ’63 Alfa Spider. A weekend charter on P Diddy’s yacht in St Tropez.
Laura stopped at Lot 19, and Cat read it over her shoulder: ‘Paragliding in Scafell. Seriously?’ she laughed, squeezing her arm affectionately. ‘You’re an absolute riot!’
‘Cat.’
The distinctive voice made them both turn, and Cat’s laughter died in her throat. A man with shaggy black hair, a beard and Arctic-blue eyes was standing in front of them.
‘Ben,’ Cat replied in an unfamiliar voice, prompting Laura to look over at her.
‘How are you?’ His Highland accent was tumbling and melodic; Laura knew instantly who he was.
A heavy, black silence settled between the three of them like a thundercloud.
‘You must meet Laura,’ Cat said suddenly, bringing Laura round so that she could ‘present’ her.
‘Hello,’ Laura said, smiling dutifully. ‘Laura Cunningham.’
‘Ben Jackson,’ he said, shaking her hand gently. ‘It’s a pleasure.’
Cat looked around the room as though searching for an emergency exit, making no effort to engage.
‘Are you, uh . . . are you bidding tonight?’ Laura asked, reaching for conversation.
‘Possibly. But I’ll be honest, I’m more interested in knowing how much my lot will go for. I’m up for grabs tonight.’
‘Oh.’ Laura didn’t miss the way his eyes darted fractionally towards Cat. ‘You’re the artist.’
His eyes came back to her with her use of the determiner. ‘That’s right. Have you seen my work?’
‘Not . . . not in person, no. But I’ve heard about you. Lots.’
He watched her, his eyes keen and sharp on her face. ‘Well, come over here. I’ll give you a private view.’
Laura glanced at Cat – eyes wide with excitement – as he led them towards an easel shrouded with a black cloth in the far corner of the room beyond the serving station. He lifted one corner of the cloth and stepped back to allow Laura and Cat alone a fleeting glimpse of the canvas beneath. It was a landscape in oils, so thickly daubed that in some areas the paint had clotted like cream into knobs you could hang a hat on. Its moorland vista was wild and open, the palette a smoky green, charcoal and black with just a vein of acid yellow streaking through it. It was like looking through a window into another world – fresher, blowier, wilder than the cultivated scents intermingling in this room. Rather like him. He looked incongruous, so wild and ungroomed in his dinner jacket, which was boxier than the waisted styles most of the men were wearing and appeared more likely to have belonged to his father – or at least his father’s generation.
‘It’s stunning,’ Laura breathed, looking up at him. He smiled back, quietly satisfied. ‘Can you see it, Cat?’ Laura asked, stepping away so that she could take a closer look.
But Cat merely gave a slight tip of the chin. ‘It’s lovely,’ she smiled, drumming a finger on her glass.
Lovely? It was like saying the Sistine Chapel was pretty. But Ben appeared not to be offended.
‘Our beautiful friend thinks I have sold out, I fear.’
Cat shook her head lightly. ‘Not at all, Ben. We all have to make a living.’
‘Well, some of us do,’ Ben replied, smiling, and Laura saw Cat straighten herself stiffly. ‘That was below the belt, I apologize.’ He looked at Laura. ‘It is to Cat that I owe my illustrious career.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Laura replied loyally.
‘You do?’ Cat frowned.
Laura faltered. ‘Orlando told me.’
‘Oh.’
‘We were talking about your great eye and everything you’ve done at the Cube,’ Laura shrugged. ‘And your job came up, at Min Hetherington’s gallery in Holland Park.’
Cat didn’t react to the mention of Min’s name.
‘Are you still there, Cat?’ Ben asked her, with a certain amount of incredulity. ‘I’d have thought you’d have moved on to Mayfair by now.’
‘It suits me working for Min. She’s happy to let me do only three afternoons a week. I know how to handle her, and it’s good for the motorways. ’
Laura winced at the lie, but was this just pride talking? After all, Cat had enjoyed enormous success with Ben’s exhibition. Laura could well see how she might not want him to know she’d been sacked.
‘Ah yes, Surrey,’ Ben teased with sparkling eyes. ‘And how are the Home Counties? Still so neat and tidy? Green and pleasant?’
Cat shot Laura an unimpressed look. ‘Ben prefers to live in mossy caves and under gorse bushes.’
‘Not strictly true – any more,’ he grinned, but Cat looked far from amused. In fact she looked positively icy. Min had said she hadn’t represented Ben after the Exposure exhibition, and now she could see why. The atmosphere between Ben and Cat was glacial; how the devil had she persuaded him to exhibit in the first place?
‘There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ Rob said, finding the three of them tucked away in the corner. He looked at Ben. ‘Hi. Rob Blake.’
‘Ben Jackson,’ Ben replied, shaking his hand.
Rob paused a second. ‘Are you the Ben?’ Rob looked at Cat for clarification. ‘At Min’s?’
‘That’s right,’ she nodded.
‘You must be Cat’s husband. Sorry not to have met you that night,’ Ben replied.
‘I was in New York, if I remember rightly. The private view was a great success, by all accounts.’
Ben nodded. ‘Thanks to Cat. Your wife’s a remarkable woman, so much more than just a pretty face.’
‘I’m always trying to tell her that, but . . .’ Rob shifted his weight. ‘She still spends three hundred pounds on face cream!’
Everyone, bar C
at, laughed.
‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I just stopped by to say hello. I’m supposed to be schmoozing my newest patrons. They’ve just commissioned four giant murals for the lobby of their new HQ in Farringdon.’ Ben widened his eyes just enough to show his real feelings about the project. ‘The commercial reality of artistic life.’
Rob watched Ben disappear into the sea of smartly tailored backs before he turned to face them. His eyes fell upon Laura for the first time and she breathed in nervously as he clocked her in his wife’s £1,000 dress.
‘I thought you bought that dress to wear here? You bought it specially,’ he said to Cat.
But Cat seemed lost. Laura watched as she stared at the floor, unblinking.
‘Uh, to be honest, she was helping me out,’ Laura interjected. ‘Nothing suited me in the shop, and the things that did I couldn’t afford. Cat said I could borrow this instead.’
That wasn’t quite how it had happened. Laura had set her heart on the grey dress herself – it matched her eyes – and she did have just enough to splurge on it if she lived on baked beans for a month. But she’d seen the fleeting wistful expression on Cat’s face in the mirror as she’d tried it on, and it had been the least she could do to let her have it after everything Cat had done for her.
‘So you’re telling me Cat bought a new dress so that you didn’t have to? Well, that’s certainly what I’d call redistribution of wealth.’
‘Don’t be horrid, Rob!’ Cat said coldly. ‘You know full well that most of the women in this room are in couture gowns worth ten times the cost of this.’
A tense silence settled, as Rob looked away from the two of them and Cat downed her glass. Laura turned her head away, embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time she’d been caught between them.