by Lulu Taylor
‘Oh, yes, tons and tons. But not the kind everyone else takes. Mine are dinky little pills that my doctor gives me. Now, shouldn’t you be getting your makeup done?’
The clothes were waiting on their rails for the models to put on at the very last minute. All around them people were crammed into the small backstage area. Some of the models lounged about half-naked, drinking champagne, while others were having their make-up done in front of the bank of brightly lit mirrors or else having their hair styled into the look Roddy had decreed for the show. Helpers in plain black clothes were hurrying about, doing sound and lighting checks, finalising the running order, organising the clothes and accessories so that they were easily located once the show was under way.
Iseult had hired the magnificent Holland Park house that had once belonged to the Victorian artist Lord Leighton and had since been restored as a museum. It was a grand residence, even by the standards of the time, and had been painstakingly brought back to the condition of its glory days. The show was going to take place on the ground floor, with the girls getting ready in the library before marching out into the tiled hallway, called – perhaps appropriately – the Narcissus Hall thanks to the statue of the Greek god that stood on a marble plinth in the centre. The models would walk across this hallway, where some of the less important spectators would sit, then cross into the grand drawing room, circuiting the room where the majority of the audience would be. Then they would return to the hall before ending up in the stunning Arab Hall, a showpiece room that Lord Leighton had added to his house to display his incredible collection of antique tiles from Syria, Turkey and Iran. The mosaics that covered the walls were in rich blues and turquoises, whites, creams and jade greens, in intricate patterns, some spelling out verses from the Qu’ran, others showing lush flowers, exotic birds, animals and creatures of legend. Here the most important guests would sit, waiting for the models to give them a close-up view of Roddy’s creations.
It was not the easiest venue for a fashion show and technicians had been grumbling all day to Iseult about the difficulties of setting up the sound and light, while the museum staff had been fluttering about anxiously, concerned about the priceless surroundings and all the electricians stomping around with wires, hot lights and gaffer tape. Iseult had refused to be worried. All problems could and would be solved. Everything would be perfect. She wouldn’t contemplate it being any other way.
Octavia found it all interesting and exciting and could tell the other girls were buzzing as well, though it was hard to distinguish between a drug-induced high and genuine excitement. Roddy and the clothes had arrived very late indeed – even Iseult had started to look a fraction less cool than usual – but when they did, it was obvious that they were sensational. The house was exactly the right frame for them as they were based around a theme of nineteenth-century boudoir influenced by Turkish and Gothic fashions: intricately embroidered slouchy velvet gowns worn like robes, bound at the waist with golden tasselled sashes; high heels made to resemble Turkish slippers with curling toes; harem pants in gauzy chiffon or embellished with tiny metallic mosaics, shimmering gold and bronze, teamed with ruffled sheer blouses or silk cowl-necked sleeveless tops; evening dresses in rich dark oranges and greens in floating many-layered chiffon, cowl-necked and sleeveless, again worn with long, loose fabric belts or sashes in silk embroidered in gold thread; tops and jackets in jewel-coloured silks and velvets. The collection was wildly sensuous, opulent and lavish, a riot of colour and texture.
‘They’re all amazing,’ Octavia breathed, reaching out a hand to stroke one of the velvet gowns. ‘I love these. I want to wear one right now. It’s like the most gorgeous dressing gown in the world. I like this one in midnight blue with the silver stars all over it and the oyster satin lining …’ Iseult lifted her veil for a moment, showing her yellow-green eyes. ‘Every single one is a masterpiece, hand-finished by Roddy. Buy whatever you can, darling. One day every museum in the world will be begging to purchase it from you. I mean it. I should know, I’ve bought just about everything else he’s made.’
Octavia’s make-up had been done. It wasn’t exactly what she herself would have chosen: it seemed far too dramatic even for party wear, with the shimmering peacock eyes, vast blue false eyelashes that glittered in the lights, and golden metallic lipstick – but she could see why this look had been designed. It emphasised the Byzantine richness of the collection, and brought out its themes of Eastern opulence and Victorian adoration of pattern and deep colour. With their hair put into long, loosely combed ringlets, all the girls resembled a Brontë heroine who had just unpinned her bun in order to go to bed. Octavia stared at herself in the mirror, noticing that her eyes were even more violet with the iridescent blues and greens around them. She looked quite unlike herself, though.
For the first time in my life, I look different from Flora, she realised. That felt very strange. Nerves fluttered in her belly. I’m going to walk out in front of hundreds of people soon – important people, clever people – and they’re all going to be looking at me.
It was terrifying. But it was exciting too. She blinked at her reflection, seeing the blue eyelashes flutter like fans. My new life. I’m the muse to a fashion designer on the brink of fame. Ferdy will be waiting after the show. It’s all wonderful … I’m having a fabulous time.
* * *
The show was a triumph. Roddy walked out to massive acclaim when it was all over, his models thronging after him in their gorgeous outfits. Octavia was among them, feeling a high like no other she had experienced. She’d been nervous as she’d stalked out to do her walk, but Iseult had trained her well, teaching her how to thrust out her hips and advance with that swinging strut, gazing impassively ahead. She’d done two circuits, one in harem pants and jewelled corset, and the other as the finale to the show in her amazing wedding dress.
As she’d walked through the sumptuous rooms, she’d seen Otto and Flora in their seats a few rows back, craning to watch as she strode past, smiling their admiration and encouragement.
‘Wonderful, wonderful!’ declared Iseult when they were all back in the library, buzzing with excitement and full of pleasure at the show’s obvious triumph. ‘You were all fantastic.’ She came up to Jasmine, Rosie and Octavia, who were busy getting out of their clothes and scrabbling about for their own gear. ‘Thank you, darlings. You looked exquisite. Everyone’s gathering in Hurley’s after this. I’m buying champagne, so don’t be late because I can only afford three bottles. After that, it’s every girl for herself!’
Octavia changed quickly and hurried out to find Flora and Otto who were lingering in the Narcissus Hall, hoping to see her.
‘Tavy, you were stunning!’ cried Flora. ‘I had no idea you could look so different.’
‘The most beautiful girl in the show by far,’ Otto said, kissing her cheek in congratulation.
‘Thank you. As I’m your girlfriend’s identical twin, you can say that with impunity,’ Octavia replied with a laugh. She liked Otto. Flora had invited him to meet her the day after their romantic meal at Le Caprice. Octavia had been expecting some kind of tough guy with a moustache and a square jaw, her ideas of a German baron coming from the movies, so she’d been surprised by this quiet, unassuming-looking man with the kind face and the gentle manner. But he was rather funny, and very charming, and she could see exactly why he would appeal to Flora. What was strange was seeing her sister so … well, gooey was the only word she could think of. Flora was obviously in the full fervour of romance and Otto seemed just as smitten in return. It was sweet, and it made Octavia think a little wistfully of herself and Ferdy, and how different their relationship was. Romantic was not exactly the word to describe it.
‘We’re going to a club that Iseult belongs to,’ Octavia said. ‘Would you like to come?’
‘Oh.’ Flora exchanged a quick glance with Otto. ‘We were planning to go out together. Otto has tickets for a late show at a jazz club.’
‘Of course you must go and enjoy yourselve
s,’ Octavia said quickly. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s a fashion thing anyway, so don’t worry.’
They said their farewells and she watched her sister and Otto hurry off together, obviously eager to be alone, then went to find the others so they could share a taxi to the club.
Hurley’s was packed with fashionistas all vying to outdo each other with the up-the-minute trends they were sporting. Iseult and Roddy held court from her favourite sofa, so large that it was almost a bed and entirely filled the small room she’d dubbed ‘The Fuck and Buggery Chamber’. The two of them reclined on cushions like dissolute monarchs receiving their court while people thronged in, eager to congratulate the designer and pay homage to his talent. Bottles of champagne in ice buckets were propped everywhere, gifts from Roddy’s new fans.
‘God, I’m having a brilliant time,’ Jasmine said, sniffing hard, her pupils fully dilated, jaw moving furiously.
She was very high on coke, Octavia realised. There’d been so much available at the show, and Jasmine had obviously dived right in. The other girl’s expression changed and she suddenly looked scornful.
‘Christ,’ Jasmine said bitingly. ‘There’s Radcliffe. Who the hell invited her?’
Octavia followed her gaze and saw Amanda Radcliffe standing at the edge of the room, looking about.
‘No one’s seen much of her lately,’ Jasmine said, ‘ever since you doused her at that party. Perhaps it was because I got thousands of hits on YouTube when I posted the footage.’ She giggled. ‘Very effective. She’s a laughing stock.’
Octavia glanced over at the other woman, who stood looking tall and rather elegant as she observed the raucous crowd. Have I really made her a pariah? she wondered. Well, she deserved it – those awful things she said about Flora. At that moment, Amanda looked directly at her and their eyes met. They stared at one other for what seemed like a long while and then, to Octavia’s surprise, Amanda’s expression became almost triumphant and she smiled a strange half smile before turning on her heel and marching out.
What was that for? Octavia wondered, feeling apprehensive. She noticed that Rosie was sitting among a crowd of people, staring into space and seemingly completely out of it. ‘Is Rosie all right?’ she asked Jasmine, who looked over at her friend.
‘Fuck, she’s out of it on K again! I’ll check she’s okay … you get some water.’
Octavia made her way through the crowd, trying to get to the bar. There were so many people, it was hard to see exactly where the bar was but she kept pushing until she found herself not by the bar as she’d expected but by the door. She stood there for a moment, puzzled, when a man arrived in the doorway, frowning at the sight of the heaving throng.
He looked down at Octavia and said, ‘What’s going on? Is there some kind of private party happening here?’
She stared up into his piercing blue eyes and gasped. She recognised him. He was the man who had reprimanded her at the Templeton House ball, after she’d chucked the water over Amanda Radcliffe. He was well dressed in a dark suit and a navy silk shirt, but she noticed again that he wasn’t good-looking, with his heavy brows, large nose and strong-looking face. He seemed harsh and rough around the edges compared to the polished beauties and male models everywhere. But once again she had the curious sensation of connecting with him; he had a powerful physical magnetism about him that she couldn’t help responding to. ‘It’s … it’s an after party,’ she said a little lamely. ‘We’ve just had a fashion show.’
He smiled at her, and immediately his face transformed into something quite different, going from craggy to almost handsome in an instant. Octavia was disconcerted by the attraction to him that buzzed over her. She quelled it immediately. Ferdy’s here, she told herself sternly. He’s my type. Not this guy. He’s old and ugly and he was damn rude to me as well.
‘I’m assuming you’re one of the models,’ he said, looking down at her appreciatively. ‘Unless you wear that kind of get-up all the time.’
Octavia realised she was still wearing the iridescent peacock-coloured make-up on her eyes, although she had changed into one of Roddy’s shredded tweed miniskirts and a silk top, which she wore with long boots. She put a hand on her hip and cocked her head at him.
‘Actually,’ she said, summoning all the attitude she could, ‘I’m the girl you were so vile to at the Templeton House Ball. Remember? You told me I was a spoilt child.’
He stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then recognition dawned in his eyes and a look of amusement crossed his face. ‘Of course. How could I forget? You’re the little Aquarian.’ He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve come without your jug.’
‘I certainly haven’t forgotten,’ replied Octavia tartly.
‘Well, if I upset you, I apologise. But you’ve got to admit, it wasn’t exactly a constructive way to settle an argument. I’ve been in a lot of dicey situations myself, and I’ve generally found chucking water around to be the least effective way of sorting them out.’ He smiled at her again, and she laughed despite herself.
‘So, this is a fashion party,’ he said almost to himself, glancing around the room. He noticed a pair of outrageously dressed men who were screaming and laughing with one another, and then looked at a girl who was ostentatiously wiping white powder away from her nostrils. He frowned at Octavia, studying her face intently. Then he said, ‘You shouldn’t be with this crowd, you know. I’ve seen these kinds of people at play and it isn’t pretty. They’re drug-takers and drunkards. I’m surprised the management here are closing their eyes to it.’
‘These are my friends, actually,’ Octavia said defensively. ‘And they’re just having fun.’ Who the hell are you to judge us anyway? she thought crossly.
He seemed almost sad. ‘Fun? I don’t need to remind you, do I, that Class A drugs are illegal? This stuff is serious. I’ve seen it in Colombia and I know what I’m talking about: organised crime, trafficking, murder and whole countries suffering so that a load of over-privileged idiots can get high. If they knew what misery their habit causes, maybe they’d think again.’
Octavia opened her mouth but didn’t know what to say. She had never thought of it like that before, and was suddenly gladder than ever that she didn’t take drugs. She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t part of that scene, but at that moment Jasmine came staggering up, supporting Rosie around her waist. She looked as manic as Rosie seemed blank and withdrawn.
‘Where’s that water, Octavia?’ Jasmine demanded. ‘What are you doing here? Ferdy’s been looking everywhere for you. Come and join the party. Rosie will be over the worst in a bit and then we’ll kick some ass. One of Roddy’s friends has some fantastic coke, apparently.’
The man at the door looked at the girls, taking in their state. Then his gaze moved to Octavia, something like disappointment in his eyes. ‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘You’d better go and have your fun. Who cares about anyone else, huh?’
‘Wait, you don’t understand …’ Suddenly she wanted more than anything to convince him that she wasn’t like that.
But his eyes had become icy and his face hardened again into craggy harshness. ‘I should have realised. All spoilt little rich girls together, snorting Daddy’s money, risking your own lives and other people’s.’ He shrugged, a look of distaste on his face. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, if that’s all right. This isn’t my sort of party.’
‘You’re not being fair! You don’t know anything,’ Octavia began hotly, but he had already turned on his heel and headed out of the club.
‘Who was that?’ asked Jasmine, struggling to hold Rosie up. ‘Kind of dishy for an old guy.’
‘I think he’s ugly. And arrogant.’ Octavia tossed her head, wishing she could have convinced him of the truth, or else responded with a witty killer putdown. Why should I care what he thinks anyway? ‘Come on, let’s get that water.’
28
Otto and Flora had seen one another every day since the night at Le Caprice. He had taken over
her life, but in a marvellous way.
Two months ago, I was a shivering wreck, she told herself. I’m not like that any more. She was standing in his suite at a Mayfair hotel, a simple but stylish room in a discreet brick building off Berkeley Square. She looked out of the tall windows at the grand old house opposite. In one hand she held a glass of chilled Sancerre, the other played with the string of pearls at her neck as she thought about the way her life had been transformed over the last eight weeks. Otto had not only helped her to overcome her irrational fear, he had opened up a new world to her, a world she had never been allowed to see when Aunt Frances had shut her away behind the great doors of Homerton. Otto had taken her to atmospheric little clubs where grizzled men played mournful jazz into the early hours. He’d shown her how to eat sushi, bought tickets for all kinds of theatre, from Shakespeare plays to brittle society comedies, and taught her how to enjoy life.
This evening he had taken her to the opera and Flora had utterly adored it. They had seen a production of The Marriage of Figaro, staged in period costume with a lavish set and such beautiful music she had frequently been moved to tears. She’d been so carried away that she’d laughed through her sobs as she clapped furiously during the curtain calls. She hadn’t wanted it to end – Otto had had to coax her out of her seat so that they could make their table at The Ivy. Something that evening had been subtly different though she couldn’t say what. The whole atmosphere had been more loaded, more heavy with significance.
For the first time Otto had suggested that they come back here to his hotel. Until now, apart from kisses to her cheeks and hands, he’d not attempted any physical contact. Flora had wondered why not. She was sure she had fallen in love now. She woke every morning with a warm sensation of happiness all through her, wondering how long it would be before she would see Otto again. She fell asleep every night with his image in her mind. She knew that she wanted him to kiss her and hold her. Beyond that, she wasn’t sure. One step at a time, she told herself.