by Wendy Holden
Now, she felt less certain. She had been close enough to the doors to see that security was hardly the sort one just flounced past; two mean-looking men in uniform sat behind the gold-sprayed front desk. Alexa’s hastily concocted alternative plan had been to persuade an employee to accompany her in, but the idea of approaching any of them made even Alexa quail. There was something so disdainful about the privileged beauties who scampered through the door, tossing their hair and swinging their It bags. Seeing one look her over haughtily as she swept past in a cloud of delicious perfume, Alexa had retreated to the garden square to regroup. How was she ever – ever – going to penetrate this citadel of privilege and power?
She stared hard at the square metal-framed windows of Fashion House. Behind which of those anonymous apertures was the office of Socialite? That El Dorado whose desks were no doubt piled high with invitations to the parties she so longed to go to.
While the façade of Fashion House shone in the morning sun, the garden square remained plunged in shadow and was, for all it was the height of summer, chilly. On the bench opposite, a tramp was just waking up, rustling in his filthy sleeping bag among his plastic bags and paper carriers. Alexa shuddered. Was she looking at her own future?
Quickly, she pulled the much-thumbed copy of Socialite out of her bag. If this couldn’t galvanise her, nothing could.
Not every parent would willingly throw open their Elizabethan mansion to 500 teenage ravers, but Lord and Lady Huddersfield were characteristically relaxed about holding their own music festival for People Like Them. Classtonbury, brainchild of their spirited daughters Ratty and Moley Huddersfield, saw every funky titled teenager in Britain cram into the stately pile. Lady Florrie Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe thrilled onlookers by tippexing a bikini on her otherwise naked form and bareback-riding a Belted Galloway after one too many cracktails . . .
Alexa mused over the accompanying illustration of Lady Florrie in action. Despite being covered in correction fluid, mounted on a cow and obviously zonked on drugs, she somehow managed to look serene and beautiful. Of course, quite apart from her spectacular looks, she was the daughter of a rich and titled family. Oh, to have that sort of confidence, thought Alexa. To have that sort of anything. But she would, she would!
‘All right, darlin’?’
Alexa jumped in shock as the ragged figure loomed; it was the tramp, arisen from his couch and now stumbling confusedly around the path to her side. The stubbly face with the rheumy eyes came near; the toothless lips made a smacking sound. ‘Gi’s a kiss, darlin’!’
Alexa screamed, leapt to her feet and beat him off with the copy of Socialite. Then, wobbling on her high heels, she hurried across the road to Fashion House. She needed to make progress. She was running out of time.
The morning was melting away; soon, all the Fashion House girls would have arrived at work. She had to find someone to admit her. But who?
Rather than stand looking hopeless outside the Fashion House revolving door, Alexa took the more dignified route of buying a cappuccino from the café next to the magazine offices. Fishing out three pound coins from her dwindling funds Alexa briefly assessed the likelihood of being discovered as a magazine genius whilst working as a full-time barista. It seemed, at the very best, to be a somewhat meandering route to her object.
She carried the coffee to one of the rickety aluminium tables outside and sipped meditatively. Her agitations were interrupted by a terrifying roar in the square and an enormous, shining black vehicle swung into view. It had tractor-sized wheels, a gleaming, tank-like body and it bristled with lamps, bull bars and exhaust pipes. At first she wondered if the Third World War had broken out and she had been too busy reading Socialite to notice. Then she realised, as the terrifying machine screeched to a thunderous halt outside Fashion House, that yet another employee was being delivered.
There was a girl in the passenger seat; a very beautiful girl of about twenty, with long blond hair. She clutched a very short black mackintosh over long, slim, bare white legs. Was she wearing anything at all? Alexa wondered. She could see no trace of a neckline inside the flaps of the mackintosh collar. As the girl swung her legs fully out, Alexa saw that her feet were bare.
The girl seemed blissfully unconcerned by her undressed state, however. Having reached the level of the road, she then sprang back into the vehicle to bestow a protracted kiss on the driver, a stockily handsome man with fair hair and a wide face. Alexa could not see clearly but he appeared to be dressed in a pinstriped suit over a string vest, with several gold chains round his neck. His wrists and fingers blazed with bracelets, rings and watches.
As Alexa, too fascinated to look away, kept her gaze trained on the couple, they disappeared from sight below the steering wheel. She could hear gasps and shrieks. ‘Omigod! Not now, Igor!’
The girl, squealing with laughter, bobbed up again and scrambled out, her blond hair wheeling, her coat swinging open to reveal, as Alexa had expected, a body without a stitch on it. She wondered why the girl seemed so familiar, then realised. This was none other than Lady Florence Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe, seen naked, painted in Tipp-Ex and mounted on a large bovine not ten minutes before.
Chapter 13
Alexa, sitting stock still at the pavement café, felt tremendous excitement. Could this be what she had been waiting for?
‘Come back!’ Igor was urging in a thick, heavy accent.
‘I’ve got to go to work!’ Florrie laughed up at him from the pavement. Alexa recognised the green leopardskin bag she swung as one of this season’s most lusted-after models.
‘Work? Work he is for losers!’ Igor’s contemptuous laugh sounded like a hail of bullets. As he roared off, mowing down anything in his path, Lady Florrie sighed, pulled her short black coat about her and stared around cluelessly.
Her large violet-blue eyes came to rest, rather helplessly, on Alexa. ‘Er, hi there. I’m looking for Fashion House. Have you seen it?’
It was, of course, straight in front of her and so clearly marked that only an idiot could have missed it. But Alexa was in no hurry to point this out. She had been given an introduction, a way in; she could make capital out of this, she could just feel it.
She jumped to her feet. ‘Florrie! I thought it was you!’
As Florrie looked at her uncertainly, she added forcefully, ‘Alexa MacDonald. We met at Classtonbury! You must remember.’
‘Omigod, did we really?’ Florrie gasped. ‘I can’t remember a thing. I was stoned out of my mind all weekend.’
This was exactly what Alexa had been banking on. ‘Well, we had a great time together,’ she insisted. ‘You and me and Igor—’
‘Igor wasn’t there, was he?,’ Florrie said vaguely. ‘No, he wasn’t,’ she added more certainly. ‘He was busy murdering someone with his father, or whatever those Russian gangsters get up to. Omigod, can you believe I just said that?’ She giggled and her long fingers flew to her lips.
‘I was about to say,’ Alexa rejoined smoothly, ‘that it was almost as if Igor was there because you talked about him so much. You’re obviously very much in love.’
‘No, we just fuck all the time.’ Florrie’s angelic features were split by a grin of pure naughtiness. ‘So you know Ratty and Moley Huddersfield?’
‘Absolutely . . . Er, like a coffee?’ Alexa was anxious to avoid potentially compromising detail.
Florrie’s beam wavered. ‘Actually, that might be an idea. I’ve got the most awful headache.’
She slumped back in the aluminium chair and flipped her magnificent hair back. Up close and in the flesh, Alexa saw, Lady Florence Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe was more beautiful even than her pictures. Perfect cheekbones, bow lips and flawless skin. Her make-up was smudged and looked like it had been applied the night before, but this only added to her allure.
‘Poor you,’ Alexa cooed sycophantically. ‘Drink a tiny bit too much last night?’
‘Igor bought a methuselah.’ Florrie giggled. ‘It cost fifty K.�
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Alexa almost fell off her chair. Fifty K! On a bottle of champagne! ‘That must be thousands of pounds per glass,’ she couldn’t help exclaiming.
‘Really?’ Florrie said vaguely. ‘Well, I spilt mine. The first two, actually.’ She gave a sudden, uproarious laugh, then winced and clutched her head. ‘Omigod, it was just so mad. After the champagne, we all went off back to his penthouse – it’s the size of a football pitch. And he – omigod, this is so crazy – he got out his gun and – actually shot the television! Where’s my coffee, by the way?’
Twisting round in her aluminium seat, Alexa waved wildly in the direction of the back of the café, hoping a waitress would see her and come out. There was no chance she was going in there; the bird might have flown on her return.
Florrie, meanwhile, had spotted Fashion House. ‘Omigod, look, there it is. Right in front of me all the time. Can you believe I didn’t see it?’
Alexa smiled politely. ‘What are you going to do there?’
‘I’m supposed to be starting work,’ Florrie groaned. ‘On Socialist magazine.’
‘You mean Socialite?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said, wasn’t it?’ Florrie blinked in surprise.
‘No, you said Socialist.’
‘Well, what’s the difference?’
Alexa started to laugh, then realised Florrie wasn’t joking.
‘Anyway,’ Florrie said, ‘it’s a mega-yawn, whatever it’s called. Work’s such a drag. I mean, why do people do it?’ The waitress was finally approaching, and Florrie beamed dazzlingly at her. ‘Omigod, you wouldn’t have any champagne, would you? I could really do with some hair of the dog.’
‘We only do champagne in bottles, madam,’ the waitress said in a flat eastern European accent.
‘Great,’ Florrie said excitedly. ‘Bring a bottle.’
Chapter 14
Was she making progress, Alexa wondered, raising her glass to her lips. The upside was that she was sipping champagne with the celebrated socialite Lady Florence Trevorigus-Whyske-Cleethorpe. On the downside, she still lacked a job and somewhere to sleep tonight. There was no time to lose.
‘You’ve done so well to have got a job at Socialite,’ she began sycophantically.
‘Have I?’ Florrie rolled her violet eyes. ‘Nothing to do with me. Daddy sorted it out. The managing director was at school with him.’
Alexa could not afford to dwell on the unfairness of this. ‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘I’ve got an appointment at Socialite this morning. Why don’t I come in with you? You could sign me in.’
Florrie was busy tapping the screen of her iPhone. Alexa was obliged to repeat herself and Florrie looked up. ‘Omigod, but you know, I can’t.’
‘Can’t?’ Alexa swallowed.
‘We’re not supposed to sign people in. I actually got a letter about it. Apparently all sorts of sad sacks try and crash the security; they want to work on magazines for some reason. Can you imagine?’ Florrie gave a disdainful giggle.
Alexa’s insides felt as if they were in freefall. That was it; her last hope. The end of the road had been reached right outside Socialite’s door.
She almost couldn’t help it. She burst into passionate tears.
Thanks to her absorption in her iPhone, Florrie did not immediately notice that Alexa was racked by agonising sobs.
Alexa sobbed louder and eventually she looked up. ‘You’re crying,’ Florrie remarked, in the same tone she might have used to observe that it was raining.
Alexa waited for Florrie to enquire into the cause of her grief, but she just continued humming and fiddling with her screen.
Alexa racked her brains. The job was a non-starter, but was there hope with Florrie on the accommodation front? She was bound to have a large apartment. If there was even a spare cupboard she could sleep in, it would be something. Otherwise . . .
Her eye caught the tramp, shuffling out of the park across the road with his plastic bags. He was muttering to himself.
‘I’m crying because I’ve been thrown out of my flat,’ Alexa said dramatically.
Florrie’s eyes flicked up from her iPhone. ‘Omigod, that’s, like, so weird. How can anyone throw you out of your own flat?’
‘It’s not my flat,’ Alexa explained.
This was amazing enough for Florrie to raise her entire head. ‘Not your flat?’
Alexa shook her head.
‘But it must be,’ Florrie persisted. ‘Who else’s can it be?’
‘I rent it,’ Alexa lied.
‘What’s renting? I’ve never heard of it.’ Florrie took a slug of champagne.
Alexa, who had never imagined having to go into such details, was forced to invent wildly. ‘It, er, means it belongs to my landlord. He’s come back unexpectedly and wants me out.’ Her eyes sought Florrie’s pleadingly. ‘I need somewhere to stay. Just for a few days. Overnight, even.’
Florrie picked up her glass of champagne again. ‘Oh,’ she said, smiling at something that seemed just to have appeared on the screen.
Alexa leant forward over the aluminium table. ‘I’m homeless,’ she urged, with unfeigned desperation. ‘I need a roof over my head, otherwise I’ll be sleeping on the streets of London.’
Florrie looked up excitedly. ‘But, you know, that’s quite fashionable. Wills – Prince William – slept on them, I think.’
Subtlety – in so far as this was subtle – was a waste of time, Alexa realised. ‘It would,’ she began, slowly and emphatically, ‘be just so wonderful if I knew someone who had a spare room in their flat.’
Florrie, her attention back on her iPhone, did not seem to hear this.
‘Or even a bit of floor space,’ Alexa continued to spell it out loudly. ‘A cupboard, anything. Even the bath. Just somewhere I could shelter for a few days until I found somewhere else.’
‘Mmm,’ Florrie said absorbedly.
‘You don’t know anyone who does, do you?’ Alexa raised her voice.
‘Does what?’ This, vaguely.
‘Has some spare room in their flat.’
Florrie’s beautiful brow creased with what was clearly the enormous effort of thinking. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I live with my sister . . .’
Alexa’s heart sank. She had officially hit rock bottom. Frozen with misery despite the warm sunshine, she heard Florrie complete the sentence.
‘. . . except that she’s moving out today – she’s getting married.’
Alexa, computing the possibilities at lightning speed, felt her heartbeat race with a new, almost painful excitement. Not only a flat with an empty room, but a looming society wedding and all its attendant opportunities to meet the eligible elite. None of this could be allowed to slip through her fingers. No! No! No!
She poured the rest of the champagne into Florrie’s glass and spoke slowly and emphatically, as if to a child. ‘You Don’t Have A Spare Room Coming Up In Your Flat, Do You?’
‘Hey girls, sorry to interrupt . . .’
Alexa, staring up at the long-haired young man in vast black sunglasses with a large boxy bag suspended from one shoulder, felt she had never wanted to kill anyone more in her life.
‘. . . but I’m a photographer, and I was just wondering,’ his eyes were on Florrie, ‘whether you’d ever considered modelling.’
Possibly as a result of reaching for the iPhone, Florrie’s coat had slid down her arms and her pearly shoulders rose in perfect contrast to the black material; her hair, meanwhile, was streaming everywhere in a golden mass. She looked like the most glamorous magazine front cover in the world.
Florrie rolled her lovely eyes. ‘People are always, like, asking me, but I’m, you know, not sure I can really be bothered.’ She yawned.
There was no answer to this and the photographer did not try to come up with one. He merely shrugged and sloped off.
‘I’d better go,’ Florrie observed regretfully, draining the wine in her glass. ‘Anyway, great to see you again, er . . .’ She looked at
Alexa vaguely.
‘Alexa,’ Alexa supplied rapidly. ‘We met at Classtonbury. I’m a friend of the Huddersfields. We were . . .’ She hesitated only fractionally, ‘just talking about me crashing for a while in your flat.’
‘Were we?’ As Florrie looked at her, puzzled, Alexa could almost hear the rusty cogs – or possibly cog – struggling to turn in her brain. The question was, were they turning the right way?
‘Sure, why not. You can crash there for a bit if you like now Beattie’s gone,’ Florrie said casually as she rummaged in her green leopardskin bag.
Alexa, deeply relieved, expected the keys to emerge, followed by the purse to pay for the drinks. But Florrie looked up, grinning. ‘Omigod, I’ve left my dosh at home. You OK to get the champagne?’
Chapter 15
Back in Sedona Queen Astrid had endured yet another sleepless night. She walked, heavy-eyed, into the white and gold breakfast room.
The big French windows, as usual at this time of year, were open to the breathtaking panorama of mountains. Brightness and air poured in. But the Queen’s mood remained sunken and glum. She had lain awake pondering the absolute impossibility of dragging her son away from the studies he loved, and was so good at, and of making him marry someone he didn’t want to for the sake of king and country, as she had been forced to do herself.
Muttering a greeting, she joined her husband at the oval breakfast table. He looked up and rattled the newspaper at her. ‘The PR chap’s done a poll,’ he announced. ‘Ninety-nine per cent of the public, when asked, were in favour of the Crown Prince marrying.’
‘I see,’ Astrid said levelly, taking a tea cup with a shaking hand. She tried to focus on the court circular, where her day was set out for her. At half past ten this morning, His Majesty King Engelbert of Sedona, accompanied by Her Majesty Queen Astrid of Sedona, will formally open the new kitchens of the Bougainvillea Rest Home, Sedona. They will then proceed to open the new sunroom at the Amaryllis Rest Home, Sedona.