by Lulu Taylor
Was it only this morning she had woken up in bed with Ferdy? He’d been zonked out beside her, his breathing sonorous and his arm thrown out so that it lay heavily across her back. She’d turned over to escape it and he’d woken up, yawning. He’d kissed her and his kisses had tasted sour at first and then sweeter and sweeter, and then they were unable to resist the desire for each other that possessed them. A moment later, she was on her back, opening her thighs to him and he was plunging inside her again. The effect of their hangovers seemed to make the sex even more intense than the night before and they raced to a fast and vigorous climax. With their initial desire slaked, they were able to spend a lazy hour in bed, playing with each other, kissing and fondling and licking each other, until they each came again, this time under the influence of tongues and fingers.
Sex is gorgeous, Octavia thought, happily. Ferdy and I must have something special between us for it to be like this.
After a shower and breakfast, she’d been summoned to see Roddy for her fitting. The dress had been lying on the floor of the solarium as she entered and he was cross-legged with its neckline in his lap, sewing away.
‘There you are,’ he said, looking up with a grin. ‘Did you have a good time last night?’
‘Yeah. Brilliant.’
‘I thought you did. All this is new to you, isn’t it? Still loads of fun.’ He pored over his needlework again. ‘The charm wears off after a while, I can promise you that. Now …’ He tied and cut the thread, then shook out the dress. ‘Here we are! The theme is, the Virgin Queen. What do you think?’
The dress was pure white – not the off-white, cream or ivory beloved of most brides, but an icy, almost futuristic white. It fell in a full silk skirt, and over that panels of white paper embroidered with silken thread in curling, Renaissance-style designs. The bodice was a mixture of silk and embroidered paper and a grand ruffled collar stood stiffly around the wide neckline, made of what Octavia could now see was white card intricately cut to resemble fine lace.
‘Wow, it’s amazing.’
‘Come and try it on,’ Roddy ordered.
Octavia slipped off her jeans, feeling self-conscious.
‘Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve seen more minge than Peter Stringfellow. Models drop their clothes all the time and don’t even think about it. It’s like a nudist colony backstage at a fashion show. Come on, down to your bra and knickers, chop chop.’
She obeyed, and when she was in her underwear, he helped her into the dress, easing it over her head and cautioning her to be very careful in case it ripped.
‘It’s not terribly practical,’ he said, pulling it down centimetre by centimetre, ‘but that’s the point, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be noticed. And no one wears a wedding dress twice. Not the same one anyway.’
It fitted her perfectly. Roddy stood back to examine it, his hand on his chin, frowning critically. ‘Hmm, let’s see. That skirt’s off a bit.’ He knelt down beside her and began to make tiny alterations. ‘This suits you. And you’ve got a just-fucked look that I find rather appealing, though it’s more like the morning after the wedding than the day itself. Or maybe you’ve just been in the vestry with the best man, getting your brains shagged out one last time before you’re chained for life, eh? I know that’s what I’d do.’ He pushed a hand up under her skirt and cupped one of her buttocks in his palm, squeezing gently. ‘What do you think? Shall we fuck? The thought of all your money makes me horny.’
Octavia looked down into his upturned face, confused. Did he really have her bottom in his hand? Had he really just said what she thought he’d said?
Roddy laughed, showing his surprisingly straight teeth. ‘I’ve shocked you, I can tell. You may have been initiated into our crowd, but you’re nowhere near jaded enough are you? I expect you’re thinking: He’s as queer as a coot, what’s he talking about? Well, I am queer, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get it up for cunt occasionally.’
She blushed a violent red, too embarrassed to speak. She’d never heard the word ‘cunt’ spoken aloud.
‘Maybe another time,’ Roddy said carelessly. ‘You’ve obviously been well serviced today already. I can smell Ferdy all over you, darlin’.’
He went back to pinning the dress, humming softly to himself.
They had all been too hungover for much partying on the Sunday so it had been a restful day, though that didn’t mean there wasn’t plenty more drinking done as they lazed outside in the autumn sunshine. Ferdy stayed close to Octavia, not too clingy but with a definite air of possessiveness. Iseult hardly spoke, but wrapped herself in a long black robe and retreated behind a huge pair of sunglasses, lying on a rusty old sun lounger for most of the afternoon.
Octavia had called Vicky that morning and asked her to send Steve, not able to face the train. The others were going on to another party in Scotland, and though they said she could come along if she wanted, she had suddenly longed for home. Ferdy had kissed her goodbye and said he would call her.
Octavia was beginning to understand how her new tribe lived: for them life was really just a long series of parties with brief recovery periods in between. Because their jobs were so nebulous – if they had any jobs at all – it was possible to pursue this nomadic existence of constantly moving about, socialising all over the world. It was Scotland this week, but there was talk of meeting up in France or Italy, and getting together in New York, or going to So-and-so’s big bash in LA.
In the car she eventually fell fast asleep, only waking up when Steve pulled to a halt and announced that they’d arrived. The house was in darkness, the others were asleep. It was all Octavia could do to take the lift to her floor before collapsing into bed and sleeping far into the next day.
24
At Vicky’s suggestion they went to the private suite at the top of Harvey Nichols where Flora met Talitha, her personal shopper, whose mission was to bring the girls all manner of sumptuous things while they relaxed in luxurious surroundings, decorated with soft camel colours and a wall of mirrors that made observing the clothes as easy as possible. Soon the long banquette seat was littered with discarded garments from Chloé, Moschino, Donna Karan, Missoni, Stella McCartney and many others.
Vicky picked up a Vivienne Westwood asymmetric jacket in blue and white stripes, and tried it on. ‘Ooh, I like this,’ she said. She admired her own reflection, pushing her hair up on her head with one hand so that it made a big messy pile on top. ‘I look a bit like Vivienne Westwood like this.’
‘Do you?’ Flora had no idea what the designer looked like. ‘Oh, here’s Talitha.’
A tall, slim, stunning black girl came into the suite, her arms full of clothes. She was grinning happily, obviously pleased with her latest haul. ‘I think you’re going to love some of these,’ she announced. ‘I’ve got some amazing occasion dresses here.’ She gave Flora an anxious look. ‘That was what you wanted, wasn’t it? It’s a special occasion?’
Flora nodded. ‘Dinner out.’
‘Somewhere smart,’ added Vicky, with a smile.
‘How romantic.’ Talitha laid her finds carefully on the sofa. ‘You’ll adore this – it’s a chain-mail mesh dress by Balmain.’ She held up a black long-sleeved mini-dress with bandage panels and chain-mail mesh inserts at the hip and sides. ‘It’s incredibly now. All you have to do is team it with some chunky high gladiator sandals and a metallic clutch, and it will be perfect for dinner somewhere glam.’
‘But it’s so short,’ said Flora, her eyes wide. ‘I can’t imagine ever wearing such a thing.’
‘Go on, try it,’ urged Talitha, but Flora shook her head, laughing.
‘I’d feel too self-conscious,’ she declared. ‘Definitely not.’
Talitha looked surprised. ‘But you’ve got the figure for it – and why wouldn’t you want people to notice how wonderful and stylish you are?’
Flora’s smile faded and her eyes lost their sparkle. ‘I said n-n-no.’
‘Let’s see something else, Talitha,’
Vicky said softly.
She obediently put down the Balmain and picked up a demure coral shantung Chloé frock with a modest hem at the mid-calf. ‘This is a gorgeous tea dress. Not strictly for dinner, but you could easily dress it up with some accessories …’
‘Or how about this?’ Vicky said, picking up a knee-length dress of soft peach georgette and silk. ‘This looks like your kind of thing, Flora.’
‘That’s Donna Karan,’ Talitha said. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Very soft, very feminine. It’s a wrap dress, and ties at the waist with a bow.’
‘I do like that,’ Flora said, brightening.
‘Good. Then let’s try it on.’
The hours passed very quickly as Talitha styled Flora and Vicky too, who couldn’t resist the wonderful clothes the personal shopper brought in by the armful.
‘Oooh, this is a bit tight for me,’ she said, squeezing herself into a white quilted Alberta Ferretti skirt with frayed black edging. ‘You’re slimmer than me, Flora!’
‘I can get you a bigger size,’ offered Talitha immediately.
Vicky looked over at Flora, who said, ‘Of course, you must get whatever you like, Vicky.’ It felt very odd only to buy things for herself – and, besides, Vicky deserved it. She’d worked so hard for them over the last few months.
‘Oh, God, can I?’ gasped Vicky. ‘Wow … I could just never afford anything like this myself. How much is it?’
‘That’s part of a suit,’ Talitha said. ‘It’s four thousand altogether.’
‘Have it, if you want it,’ Flora said. ‘Really, please – I want you to. Today is a special day, we’re going to buy anything we like.’
Talitha’s expression didn’t change. She was obviously used to women spending vast amounts of money, charging it to their black Amexes or platinum private bank cards.
‘Have you secretly been swapped with Octavia?’ Vicky said with a grin. ‘I think she’s got a rival in the shopping championship stakes.’
‘Don’t get too used to it,’ Flora said, smiling back. ‘I don’t intend to do this every week! Twice a year should sort me out. Now, I need some jeans …’
By the time they left, there was far too much for them to carry or to fit into the car, so Talitha arranged for it to be sent on: boxes and boxes of shoes, accessories, clothes and make-up. Flora had put the whole lot, totalling nearly £100,000, on her card, a replacement for the stolen one in an identical mint green leather case.
When they got back to the house Octavia was there, looking exhausted with deep dark shadows under her eyes. She was eating chicken noodle soup from a tray in front of the television in the small den off the drawing room, but came out when she heard the other girls return.
‘Hi, where have you been?’
‘Shopping!’ said Vicky with a big smile. ‘We’ve had so much fun, haven’t we, Flora? You should see what’s coming in a Harvey Nichols van later!’
Octavia looked hurt, casting a quick glance at Flora. ‘You went shopping without me?’
‘You were asleep,’ she said quietly. ‘We seem to be keeping completely different hours these days.’
Octavia frowned, then sighed. ‘If you’d said, I would have got up. I’d have loved to come.’
‘Next time for sure,’ said Vicky gaily. ‘Come on, Flora, I expect Molly’s got something for us in the kitchen, and I don’t know about you but I’m starving.’
* * *
‘Did you have a good time?’ Flora asked. She knelt behind Octavia on the bed, brushing out her sister’s hair.
‘Oh, yes,’ Octavia replied. ‘It was wonderful.’ She wanted to tell Flora everything – talking was one of the things they did best, after all. They’d only had each other to talk to their entire lives. And yet … for some reason, Octavia didn’t want to tell her about the sex she’d had with Ferdy, not in detail anyway. And she didn’t really want to describe some of the antics of her new crowd – she had the feeling that the things she found charming, sophisticated and impressive wouldn’t come across as well when she tried to explain them. Something was holding her back. It was a strange emotion in relation to her sister, something she had never felt before.
I think it’s Vicky, she thought. She’s coming between Flora and me. It should have been me shopping with her.
Octavia glanced at her sister in the mirror opposite, where she could see Flora kneeling behind her, brushing out her hair. ‘You seem much happier.’
‘What?’ Flora looked up and grinned. ‘Oh, yes, I am. Actually … I’ve met someone.’
Octavia noticed suddenly that her sister looked better than she had in a long time. Her eyes were bright and her skin was glowing. ‘You met someone?’ she said, amazed. ‘Last week you couldn’t leave the house! Who have you met?’
‘Do you remember the man who rescued me from the muggers? I met him again by chance in Claridge’s. And he’s lovely, Tavy, he really is.’
Octavia blinked at her, lost for words. Then she said, ‘You went to Claridge’s?’
Flora nodded happily. ‘It was Vicky’s idea.’
Vicky again, thought Octavia coldly.
‘I’ve been spending time with Otto, and he’s so kind and sweet. He’s taking me out for dinner next week. A proper date! That’s why we went shopping.’
‘I see.’
Flora stopped brushing and looked at her sister in the mirror opposite. Octavia could see that her expression had become worried. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. It’s just …’ Octavia gazed at their reflection, each of them a copy of the other. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing all this without me, that’s all. You’re seeing someone and I didn’t even have the first idea.’
There was a pause. Then Flora resumed brushing her sister’s hair as she said quietly, ‘But you’re the one who isn’t here, Tavy.’
‘I’m doing this fashion show,’ burst out Octavia, feeling indignant though she knew she shouldn’t. ‘And … and …’
‘And you’re living your life,’ finished Flora. ‘So am I. It doesn’t change us, does it? Nothing will come between us, remember?’
Octavia said nothing, but inside she was thinking, Only if you let it, Flora. Only if you let it.
‘Now tell me about Mabbes and this fashion show,’ Flora said. ‘I want to hear all about it.’
25
At the far end of Le Café Anglais, under the curved Art Deco window that looked out over the concrete jungle of Queensway and Westbourne Grove, a party of two was enjoying Parmesan custard with anchovy toast. The woman, who had taken the banquette seat, was a tall, elegant dark-haired figure, dressed in a Giambattista Valli bouclé tweed pencil skirt and a crisp white Jil Sander shirt, along with high square-heeled, peep-toe patent Lanvin shoes. Opposite her was a white-haired man wearing a lilac jumper over a Prada shirt, tight white Calvin Klein jeans, and highly polished Gucci loafers.
‘This is absolutely my favourite, favourite morsel in London,’ Gerry said happily, dipping his strip of toast into the small pot of custard and stirring it round. ‘I don’t want it to end. I may order it again. Or perhaps I’ll just have more toast …’
‘I can’t be too long, Gerry, I have to get back to work,’ Amanda reminded him. ‘What have you got?’
Gerry put down his toast and picked up a jade green leather document wallet. ‘Plenty,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘An enjoyable few hours at the computer doing some research and I managed to amass quite a lot. It’s funny, I thought I remembered all about the Beaufort custody case – but it’s incredible how much I’d forgotten. This has brought it all back. Honestly, we couldn’t get enough of it at the time. It was in all the papers, even the smart ones.’
‘I don’t know much about the detail,’ Amanda said, taking a sip of her fizzy water. ‘I was only a child myself at the time. The twins’ father was killed in an air crash, wasn’t he?’
Gerry nodded. ‘One of those senseless accidents. He was piloting his own plane and misread the condi
tions. At least, that’s what people thought … but there was no way of knowing exactly how he came to crash into the sea. He was fairly experienced, apparently, but even so – anyone can make a mistake, and sometimes it’s okay and sometimes it isn’t. Whatever, he was killed. He’d been on his way to collect his wife and children, so everyone was grateful that he’d crashed on the outward journey and only killed himself, rather than taken them all with him on the return. The girls were only babies.’
Despite herself, Amanda felt some sympathy. ‘Poor things. It can’t have been easy, losing their father like that.’
Gerry raised his eyebrows and pulled a face. ‘That was just the start of it. The wife, Diane, was a raving beauty. Funny how all multi-millionaires fall in love with raving beauties. Perhaps it’s something in the brand of water they drink. Anyway, by the terms of Arthur Beaufort’s will, his whole fortune went into trust for the girls. There was a payment to Diane, but nothing like as much as you’d expect for the widow of someone as rich as him. But, as guardian of the girls, she was entitled to a vast house and enough cash to keep them as little Lady Fauntleroys would expect: ponies coming out of their ears, velvet knickers, diamond-studded crayons – whatever it is pampered little rich girls need.’
Amanda frowned. ‘So what happened to the mother? How come they ended up living with their aunt?’
‘Well, that’s where it all starts to get really spicy.’ Gerry sat back and gave her a sly smile. ‘It was only a few months after Arthur Beaufort’s death that the paternal aunt, Frances Staunton, sued for custody of her nieces, alleging Diane Beaufort’s unsuitability to be their guardian. I’ve got some of the cuttings here …’ Gerry opened the leather wallet and pulled out some sheets of paper. ‘There isn’t all that much on the net, because the court case was in the early nineties before the papers went online. I had to go to the London Library, would you believe, to find some old clippings. But it was fascinating, I must say. Look at this.’