‘Oh, the nannies will do all the work,’ Maxie said, shrugging off this concern. ‘Madonna, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie – do you really think they spend as much time with their children as they say? They’re bound to have an army of nannies in the background. They’re just careful to keep them out of the press photos. Besides, she’ll be off at boarding school before you know it. We’ll say it’s to help her assimilate fully. You know – we’ll miss her terribly but we want her to have all the benefits you did.’
She leaned forward, crossing her slim legs, her feet shod in impeccable Ferragamo heels.
‘And the most important thing of all, Olly – do remember – you’ll have instant name recognition. More than any other MP, on either side of the House. I mean, “Gordon Brown’s got only one eye”, “Louise Bagshawe writes bestsellers” – all of that pales next to “Olly Stangroom adopted a Rwandan baby”! Every single person in the UK will know your name. I mean, right now, what are you? “Olly Stangroom, Under-Secretary for Used Cars”, or something. Who knows? Who cares?’
‘Under-Secretary for Social Justice actually, darling,’ Olly said crossly.
‘Well, exactly! “Social Justice” – what does that even mean? From now on everyone will know who you are! And no one else in the House will be able to go the African baby adoption route, because they’ll look like total copycats!’
Olly was smiling now. ‘You really are awfully clever, aren’t you, darling?’ he said fondly. ‘Mummy was absolutely right when she told me to snap you up.’
‘It’s a new world,’ Maxie said briskly. ‘New values. And most importantly, new ways of getting publicity. You have to think big nowadays to get the big pay-offs. Look at what I’ve done with Bilberry!’
Maxie was referring to the high-end leather goods company of which she was commercial director. She had taken it from a staid, old-fashioned brand whose clientele was aging fast, to a modern, cutting-edge firm whose handbags were named after supermodels and It girls. Bilberry’s mobile phone covers and crocodile skin Kindle reader sleeves were highly expensive and much sought after. Maxie’s stroke of genius – apart from getting the celebrity endorsements – had been to hike the prices and introduce waiting lists for practically every single item, thus ensuring that every rich wannabe in London society clamoured to spend their money on Bilberry products. At a recent launch of the latest shoulder bag – named after Helena Bonham Carter, who had not only a posh surname, but A-list status as an eccentric English fashion icon – socialites, trophy wives, titled nobodies and MTV presenters had practically trampled each other to snap up freebies and place orders for the bag.
Times had changed for the English upper classes. Not only was there no shame in being in trade, it was positively admired. Look at Samantha Cameron, wife of the current Tory prime minister – not only had she been creative director of Smythson, which pushed stationery at £200 a box of personalized notecards, but her mother, Lady Astor, ran a hugely successful home furnishings company which sold silk napkin tassels for £49 and rattan dog beds for £265. If you could make that much money pushing a version of upper-class taste to the aspiring middle classes, the aristocrats, rather than looking down on you, would not only applaud you, but try to marry into your family.
‘And I’m not going to give it up,’ Maxie continued firmly. ‘Not only would I go out of my mind being a stay-at-home mother, but it would look awful in the press. Really old-fashioned. The modern woman works – she has to. She juggles everything, she’s got tons of balls in the air. Most mothers can’t afford to stay at home, and they don’t sympathize with the ones who do. And the women without children would hate it even more than the mums if I stopped working.’
Olly winced. ‘Darling, don’t say “mum”,’ he said sotto voce. ‘It’s awfully common.’
‘I know exactly what I’m doing,’ Maxie concluded, making a mental note of her husband’s correction. ‘Trust me, Olly.’
‘I know you do,’ her husband said, coming over to pull her to her feet and press his lips briefly against hers. ‘You always do, Max. You should have been the MP.’
Maxie laughed. ‘Darling, I could have been the MP in two seconds!’ she said cheerfully. ‘But then what would you have done? You couldn’t have worked in the City – you’re no good with numbers.’
‘Oh God, I know!’ Olly said just as cheerfully. ‘I’m such a thickie! I do hope they don’t send me to the Treasury. That would be terribly awkward.’
Maxie waved her hand. ‘Oh, the civil servants do all the work and tell you what to say,’ she said, shrugging. ‘You’d be fine, darling. After all, that’s how it’ll be when you’re prime minister.’
Olly’s blue eyes gleamed with excitement at the mention of the magic words. It was every politician’s dream, whether they’d admit it to themselves or not, whether they had the abilities or not. There wasn’t an MP who had ever lived who hadn’t pictured themselves standing on the doorstep of 10 Downing Street, camera shutters clicking. Going to Buckingham Palace to officially tell the Queen that they were forming a government. Standing at the despatch box, defeating the leader of the opposition in debate. Jetting round the globe as a head of state, being treated almost like a sovereign by world leaders . . .
Maxie saw the glazed look of ambition in her husband’s eyes, and smiled to herself.
‘I picked the prettiest baby girl,’ she said, patting his cheek. ‘Don’t worry about that. I know you wouldn’t have liked an ugly little thing running round the house. She’s passed every health check, and if we take her to a specialist paediatrician here, she’ll be fine. No nasty contagious diseases in the house.’
‘Oh, phew,’ Olly said, his cheeks puffing out as he exhaled heavily in relief. ‘I don’t like sick people, you know that, darling.’
‘Of course I do!’ Maxie patted his cheek again. ‘I know you better than you know yourself! That’s my job!’
‘Talking of which,’ Olly said hopefully, shuffling his feet and going a little pink in the cheeks, ‘I’ve been awfully good about this whole African baby thing, Max.’
‘Rwandan baby,’ she corrected quickly.
‘Rwandan baby,’ he repeated dutifully. ‘Sorry! But you must admit—’
‘Yes,’ Maxie agreed, nodding tolerantly. ‘You have been really good.’
‘So I deserve a treat?’ he said hopefully, his cheeks going pinker. ‘It’s been ages!’
‘You do deserve a treat,’ she said. It was an old routine between them, but one of which Olly never tired.
‘Tonight?’ he said, so excited now that his voice was a little breathy. ‘Really? Really, Max?’
She leaned in towards him and whispered in his ear, as one hand slid down to briefly stroke his now hard penis through the fabric of his trousers. ‘Tonight, you naughty boy, I’m going to give you a jolly good spanking. Is that what you want?’
Olly, beyond words now, bobbed his head frantically up and down in assent.
‘Maybe,’ she said, drawing it out until he gasped in anticipation, her palm cupping the firm head of his penis, ‘maybe, if I’m feeling really randy, I’ll paddle you so hard you’ll have to sleep facedown . . .’
Olly’s penis surged so violently into her hand that she withdrew it, worried he’d come in his trousers.
‘Oh God,’ he panted. ‘Oh God, Maxie . . .’
He’s right, Maxie thought, as her husband staggered out of the room, clutching himself in gleeful anticipation. That suit is definitely part-polyester.
Deeley
They didn’t want her.
Neither of her sisters wanted her back in London.
If Deeley had let herself admit it, she’d been aware of the state of things since the first phone call she’d made to Maxie, a couple of weeks ago. It had been all too clear that Maxie had assumed that Deeley would be staying on in LA after her break-up with Nicky. When Deeley had explained that part of the settlement included the condition that she leave the States – and Carmen had later been
kind enough to clarify in an email that she’d make sure that Deeley’s US visa would not be renewed, thus ensuring that Deeley would have no option to stay on – Maxie’s shock had been audible.
‘But what are you going to do back here?’ Maxie had asked incredulously. ‘I mean, you don’t know anyone, you don’t have a job . . .’
‘Well, I know you! And Devon!’ Deeley had said, hearing her own voice falter. ‘I thought it would be a great opportunity for us to spend some time together, just hanging out and reconnecting . . .’
‘Hanging out and reconnecting? God, you sound awfully LA,’ Maxie had drawled, in her own artificially posh accent.
‘Well, I’ve been here for five years,’ Deeley had said defensively.
‘And it’s a much better fit for you than London,’ Maxie had said. ‘Isn’t it?’
Probably, Deeley thought now, looking out of the window at the grey sky, which seemed to hang so low that she was almost surprised it didn’t brush against the heads of the people scurrying, wrapped up tight in warm coats against the wind and the rain. It had been glorious spring in Los Angeles when she’d left, doing her best not to cry. She’d been crowded by the paparazzi at LAX, who were gleefully snapping candid shots of Nicky Shore’s now ex-girlfriend escaping LA in dejection because he’d dumped her. Stacks of suitcases piled up on a trolley, pushed by a porter, Deeley, in huge YSL sunglasses and a silk sweater under a fake fur gilet, a big Hayden-Harnett pony skin tote slung over her shoulder, holding up a hand to signal that she wouldn’t be stopping to pose.
It had been a suitably dramatic end to the last five years of her life. The end of a movie, she thought. Deeley gets on a plane and flies away. Maybe the last time in my life I turn left when I get on an aeroplane – from now on, it’ll be right. Into cattle class.
Neither Devon nor Maxie had invited her to stay. Maxie had specified that she didn’t have room in their vast Holland Park mansion, as she was adopting a Rwandan baby. Maxie had been very keen to specify that the baby was Rwandan, which presumably meant that it was the latest trendy location for sourcing foreign babies. Trust Maxie to be ahead of the curve, Deeley thought with appreciation. Maxie had always known exactly how things should be done: which university to attend, which group to hang out with, which son of privilege to target and marry, which career to follow that would ensure she placed herself exactly at the centre of the world she wanted to inhabit. Which African country was the hot place of the moment to source a baby.
Deeley had always unquestioningly admired this skill of her eldest sister’s. Maxie was able to manoeuvre through her own life, steering it precisely how she wanted it, while Deeley was the polar opposite – Deeley was blown around by any prevailing wind. Nicky had suggested that she be his fake girlfriend, and she’d gone along with it because it seemed like a good idea at the time; but then Nicky’s people had decided that Deeley’s stint was over, and Deeley was out. In other words, everyone else had made decisions for her.
I don’t have any control over my life, Deeley reflected miserably. I was hoping Maxie would help me get sorted out, but I can tell she doesn’t have any time for me.
And Devon hadn’t been much better. Devon didn’t have room for Deeley either, though she hadn’t given an excuse as to why there wasn’t a spare room in her Mayfair house. She’d suggested the boutique hotel in Fitzrovia where Deeley was staying now, and said that Deeley must come to the party to celebrate Devon’s new TV series. But, initially, that had been the entire extent of her welcome to her younger sister as Deeley started her new life in London. Deeley had had to repeatedly ring – almost harass – both her sisters enough for them to finally, grudgingly, get their secretaries to organize a dinner date for all of them to meet and catch up.
She’d been here for a whole week, and she hadn’t seen either Devon or Maxie – in the flesh, at least. Devon’s face had been all over the TV, with endless promos for Devon’s Little Bit Extra. Just her face, Deeley couldn’t help noticing. Not much of her body. Devon had clearly put on weight in the last few years, and wasn’t as keen to be filmed in full-body shots as she had been back in the heyday of Wake up UK, when the camera had literally followed her around like a little dog, charting her every move; but she was as beautiful as ever, her skin pale and smooth, her red lips pouting and full, her hair cascading around her face in a thick rich mass of dark curls.
Devon was always the beautiful one, Deeley thought without a hint of envy. Maxie’s the clever one.
But who am I? Just the youngest.
She sighed.
No wonder I haven’t done anything with my life. I can’t even manage one positive adjective to define myself against my sisters. Look how successful they are! How much they’ve achieved! And me? I’ve got a wardrobe of clothes that aren’t suitable for London weather, and a rapidly dwindling bank account. Plus, I’m mainly famous for being dumped by a guy who no one knows is gay.
Wow, Deeley. Slow handclap. Congratulations. You’re a real achiever.
Deeley was late for dinner with her sisters; she’d got lost coming from Fitzrovia, where her hotel was located, to Jermyn Street, below Piccadilly. Five years away and I don’t remember London as well as I thought I did, she reflected ruefully, finally entering Franco’s restaurant, her high heels already hurting. I should have taken a black cab. She stopped just inside the doors, getting her bearings. It was a weekday, but the bar was bustling, and as she entered, people looked up from their tables as if expecting to see someone they knew, always a sign of a restaurant with plenty of regulars or celebrity customers.
It was warm and inviting, with soft lamps glowing on the bar tables and huge black rectangular vases of orchids and sakura blossom on the reception desk and bar. A classic Italian restaurant, Franco’s was located in St James’s, an ideal location for the auctioneers, hedge funders, oil and mining executives, and headhunters who had their offices close by in the elegant and discreet little streets around St James’s Square, above Pall Mall. And Franco’s was a perfect reflection of the small, private section of SW1 in which it was located; it was equally elegant and discreet, one of wealthy London’s best-kept secrets. Rich and famous people dined at Franco’s because it served some of the best Italian food in London, and because its staff could be trusted, absolutely, never to call the paparazzi, or gossip to the press about the celebrities who had eaten there.
Lunchtime here was frenetic. Deals were being brokered, pictures were being sold to affluent ladies by suave art dealers; the atmosphere was buzzy, punchy, fizzing with energy. But in the evening, Franco’s was even more like the cosy private club it very much resembled; you felt at home as soon as you walked through the door. A waiter setting cocktails on a bar table smiled a welcome at Deeley. She was slipping off her fake fur Dolce & Gabbana jacket, looking for the cloakroom, when a man coming out of the restaurant area sidestepped to avoid the waiter, bumped into her extended elbow, and knocked her off balance.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry!’ he exclaimed, grabbing her upper arms to steady her as she tripped and nearly fell, her heels sliding away from her on the polished parquet floor.
He wasn’t holding her hard, just enough to stop her falling, but as soon as he touched her, everything went into slow motion. She could see herself from a distance, arms bent like chicken wings, scrabbling to get her Gina heels under her again, straighten her knees, find her balance, her head ducked for stability. It was like a comedy sequence in a film, the clumsy heroine who keeps falling over and needs to get rescued.
But it wasn’t funny at all.
Because his hands, somehow, were having a magnetic effect on her. Instantly reassuring, incredibly physical, out of any proportion to the comparative lightness of his touch. She momentarily resisted looking up to see his face, in case he was old, or ugly, or leering down at her cleavage – anything that would ruin the sudden, completely unexpected magic of this moment. But when she did, it was such a shock she stumbled again, and he had to close his hands even tighter on her.<
br />
He was absolutely gorgeous. Phenomenally sexy. And, as her eyes met his, she could tell his expression mirrored hers, that they were each as dazed as each other, trying to deal with the immediate impact of their physical contact.
‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled again, at the same time as she said, ‘Thanks – I’m OK . . .’
But he didn’t let go of her for a few seconds more. It was ridiculous, because her jacket was still halfway down her straightening arms, sliding down to her wrists, and only when she realized it was about to hit the ground did she move to catch it, which made him jerk his hands away from her, going red and mumbling his third ‘sorry’ of their encounter. She grabbed the jacket, bundling it up in front of her in a careless ball as if it were some cheap H & M knock-off, and looked up once more to meet his eyes.
Not an actor, she thought instantly. Thank God. He’s much too tall to be an actor. Deeley had met every male star in Hollywood, and barely any of them were over six foot. Besides, he doesn’t have the actor vibe. He’s not behaving as if I should know who he is.
In LA, his build and physical competence would have meant she’d take him for a bodyguard. But his suit’s too good – it fits him too well. Security don’t wear £2,000 suits tailored to their bodies like that.
And I recognize him from somewhere. There’s something very familiar about his face. I know I’ve seen him – on TV, I think . . .
The thought of his body made her heat up inside. She could still feel his hands on her arms, huge and warm and secure, so strong that it had felt as though he could pick her up and swing her around as if she weighed nothing at all. For one crazy moment she actually thought of tripping, falling against him, to feel his arms come around her as she pressed herself up against his solid, muscular body. The impulse was insanely strong, and she knew she was going red too as she deliberately took a step back to resist the temptation.
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