by Page, Sophie
‘Well, no wonder you look so terrible.’
‘Do I?’ Startled, Bella peered at herself in her predecessor’s massive mirror.
What she saw was not that bad. OK, the blonde hair was a haystack and her hands were a bit rough by Lottie’s Metropolitan PR Industry standard. But she had a faint golden tan from working under the tropical sun and her eyes sparkled. She’d certainly lost that puffy, pasty look she’d had when she left England last November.
She decided to take a stand. ‘I think I look pretty good, actually. I’ve got cheekbones, for the first time in my life.’
‘Huh. That’s not all you’ve got. I could cut myself on those shoulderblades.’
‘What?’
‘Look at yourself,’ begged Lottie. She took Bella and turned her round, so that she could see over her own shoulder into the mirror. ‘You’ve got a backbone like a kipper.
‘Bloody, bloody Francis!’ she spat, her eyes bright. ‘He manipulated you, ran you ragged. Then on top of that he went and starved you.’
Bella put an arm round her friend’s shoulders and hugged her.
‘Don’t worry, Lotts. Give me a week in the same town as Maison Paul’s chocolate doughnuts and I’ll be back to the pudding you know and love.’
Lottie fished for a tissue but said tartly, ‘Well, I certainly hope so. And I’ll book you an appointment with Carlos, too. He’ll have a heart attack when he sees your hair.’
‘OK,’ said Bella peaceably.
‘And you need to reactivate your cellphone. Gotta keep in touch.’
Peaceable was one thing. Doormat was another. ‘You know, you’ve got very bossy.’
‘Bossy? Nonsense. I’m a decisive manager,’ corrected Lottie loftily. She fled as Bella threw a pillow at her. ‘And get your nails done,’ wafted back from the sitting room.
So Bella went out and bought everything from the skin up, including a party dress for tonight, and a woolly hat, scarf and gloves for immediate use. A nice guy in the phone shop tried hard to get her mobile working again but in the end he had to give up. He wanted to sell her the latest one but her credit card was still in suspension until she rang them up and told them she was back in the country and her mother’s maiden name. So she reluctantly shook her head at an all-singing, all-dancing Formula 1 of a phone and settled for a plain old replacement. The shop guy sympathised with her credit card hiccup and threw in a pink and glittery clip-on cover for the new phone, as consolation. He even transferred the SIM card for her, and handed it over with a flourish.
Bella went back to the flat in triumph.
She found Lottie wedged into a corner of the kitchen, waiting for the microwave to ping while leafing through a thick, glossy magazine. She looked up as Bella came in.
‘Hi there. Did you buy this copy of Mondaine?’
Bella put down her carrier bags and unwound the new woolly scarf. ‘Yup. I had to break into a fifty-pound note at Waterloo last night. It was the most expensive mag I could find.’
Lottie nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ll bet. We take it at work, but I never get to see it. People pounce on it as soon as it comes in. Have you looked at this piece on the Top Ten Eligibles? Just gorgeous.’
‘The men or the article?’
‘Both.’ The microwave pinged and Lottie removed a frothing mug of hot chocolate. ‘Do you want one?’
Bella didn’t really, but she said yes to be sociable. She looked at Mondaine’s gallery of gorgeous guys for the same reason. Shedding the cherry red hat and gloves, she fluffed out her hair and peered over Lottie’s shoulder.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Milo Crane. From Si Fy the Movie.’
Bella looked blank.
‘You must have heard of him. He’s the newest hottie on the block, ever since the movie came out.’
‘Haven’t seen it. Don’t forget, I was fifty miles away from the nearest internet connection, Lottie. TV and films didn’t figure at all.’
Lottie shuddered. ‘Unbelievable. Well, who do you know out of this lot?’
The photographs were works of art: a lithe fast bowler stretching up to a cloudless sky; the newest software billionaire, endearingly scruffy, staring blankly at a screen where his company’s share price was rocketing; Richard, Prince of Wales at some ceremony, looking startlingly handsome in a scarlet uniform that any one of his ancestors of the last three centuries could have worn, gleaming gold-embellished sword and all.
‘All of them except Milo,’ said Bella, somewhat reassured.
Lottie put her head on one side. ‘Fabulous photo of the Prince, don’t you think?’
Bella considered. He looked eager and determined. ‘Full of va-va-voom,’ she conceded. ‘But you’d want to stand well clear of that sword.’
Lottie choked. ‘I suppose so. But he’s still mega-fanciable.’
‘If you say so.’ The microwave pinged and Bella took out her own hot chocolate.
‘Don’t you think so?’
Bella shrugged. ‘Royals in military fancy dress don’t do it for me. I overdosed on The Prisoner of Zenda when I was a kid. Sorry. Don’t forget, I’m the daughter of a fully paid up anti-monarchist.’
‘Oh, but—’ Lottie started to say, then changed her mind.
‘What?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘I know that look. It isn’t nothing. Spit it out.’
‘You wouldn’t actually be nasty to Prince Richard, would you, Bella? I mean, if you came across him somewhere?’
She sounded so worried that Bella was touched. ‘Don’t worry, Lotts. I’m not that far gone. I wasn’t nasty to Francis and, as you pointed out, he starved me. Quite apart from breaking his promises, the toad. Hell, I won’t even swear at Carlos if he turns my hair green again.’
At that, Lottie looked really alarmed. ‘No, don’t. You have no idea the favour he’s doing you, fitting you in at all. He said it was for old times’ sake but, make no mistake, Carlos can pick and choose his clients these days. So play nice, Bella, please. For me?’
So, an hour later, Bella was siting in a very smart grey-and-lavender-decorated salon and not so much as murmuring a protest while Carlos, Lottie’s long-time friend and increasingly fashionable hairdresser, lectured her on Letting Her Hair Go and the Importance of Conditioner. He plastered her hair with something that smelled of apricots, wrapped it in a towel, and left her to leaf through a bunch of celebrity magazines. Unlike Mondaine, these were full of people she didn’t know. With their orange tans and day-glo teeth, the various celebrities had been photographed at buzzy parties and premières in London, Hollywood and the South of France. Bella didn’t know their names, their faces, or what they were famous for.
‘I don’t even recognise the names of the dress designers any more,’ she sighed. ‘Have I been gone so long?’
‘Much too long, doll,’ said Carlos, flicking her hair. ‘This is going to take months of work.’
‘Well, see what you can do for today. Lottie’s taking me to a party tonight.’
‘Ah-ha. A party.’ His eyes lit up at the challenge and he began to mutter to himself.
Realising that her participation was not required, Bella turned to Sherlock, the satirical magazine that her father always bought, with its wicked cartoons and sly comment on politicians and media figures. Though even there, many of the names were new to her. It was almost a relief to find a piece on the Royal Family. At least they were still the same, even if Sherlock didn’t think much of them. The magazine was running a spoof advertisement for The Royal Pantomime or Snow White’s Escape, starring a flashing-eyed brunette called Deborah as Snow White, with the King and his family as the Seven Dwarfs. Bella had never heard of brunette Deborah either.
‘I think I just lost a year of my life,’ she told Carlos ruefully.
He peered over her shoulder at a cartoon of the three youngest dwarfs tap dancing. Their faces were recognisably those of Prince George, Princess Eleanor, and the heir to the throne, Prince Richard. Dim, Ditzy and Dull were
excited, read the caption. Carlos grinned.
‘Poor bastard. Every time a girl dumps him, it’s all over the tabloids. And now Sherlock is calling him Dull. That’s got to hurt. It’ll stick, too.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Bella, not much interested in the PR problems of the King’s eldest son.
But the other people in the salon didn’t agree.
‘Who said she dumped him?’ said the grey-haired woman on Bella’s right indignantly.
‘She’s dating someone else,’ Carlos pointed out.
‘So? Maybe Prince Richard dumped her.’
‘Why would he do that? The woman’s hot, hot, hot.’
‘And now she’s dating someone else. That’s fast. What if the Prince found out she was a slapper and gave her the boot?’
Carlos was unconvinced. ‘Why wouldn’t he say so? I would.’
The grey-haired woman sniffed. ‘Because he’s a gentleman.’
Carlos snorted.
‘I think he looks lovely,’ said one of the junior hairdressers dreamily. ‘Dark and brooding, like he’s got a secret sorrow.’
She put a magazine on Bella’s knee, open at a black-and-white photograph of an unsmiling Prince Richard.
‘Very nice,’ Bella said without interest. ‘What about my hair?’
‘But don’t you think he looks sad … underneath?’
Bella glanced down at the photograph again. It wasn’t a party shot, like the others, but a studio portrait with the subject looking straight at the camera. Hooded eyes, mouth like a steel trap, cheekbones to make a Renaissance painter do a jig with delight.
‘Secret? Maybe. Sad? Nah, not a chance. He’s got a General’s scarlet uniform at home and a nice bright shiny sword to play with.’
The grey-haired woman said, ‘But things like that are just for show, dear. He could still be sad, you know.’
‘What’s he got to be sad about? He’s rich and good-looking and he knows what he’s going to do with his life.’ None of which applied to Bella just at this moment, though she did not actually say so.
‘Well, he has just lost the delicious Deborah,’ said Carlos thoughtfully. ‘No matter who ended it, or how serious it really was, that’s always a bummer.’
But Bella didn’t want to think about ending affairs. Of course, it hadn’t exactly been an affair with Francis. Nowhere near. Right from the start they’d agreed – well, he’d announced and she’d agreed, of course she had – that they couldn’t do anything about their attraction to each other while they were working so closely. It would de-stabilise the team. It wouldn’t be fair, Francis had said, looking noble and handsome and terribly responsible, to anybody. She thought now: how many others had he said that to? Half of them? All twenty? She flinched. How could she have been so naive? How could she? She groaned in spirit.
She found they were all looking at her, surprised, and realised that she had actually groaned aloud. Somehow it was the last straw.
‘What about my hair?’ she yelled. ‘Come on, you idle crimpers. Don’t just stand there wittering. Work your magic.’
So they all went back to the important stuff. And Carlos piled her blonde shoulder-length hair on to the top of her head, leaving some feathery tendrils to caress her long neck.
I just hope it’s clean, thought Bella, uneasily aware that a couple of long showers might not have been enough to clear away the grime of ten water-restricted months spent living in a tent.
But everyone else told her she looked lovely. And Bella had to admit that the soft, artistically untidy style, had turned her wide-eyed and feminine. She hadn’t felt feminine in a long, long time.
She kissed Carlos as she left. ‘Thank you. You’re a miracle worker.’
‘But of course. Haven’t I always said so?’ But he was pleased, she could see.
So was Lottie on coming into Bella’s room to check that her instructions had been carried out.
‘Well, at least no one’s going to mistake you for a Shetland pony now.’
‘What?’
Lottie grinned. ‘I told you, this party is über-posh. Very smart people, deep into the horsey set. The way you were looking this morning, they’d have fed you a carrot and showed you to the stables.’
And, quite suddenly, Bella started to laugh. In fact, she laughed so much she jabbed the mascara wand in her eye and had to start again.
‘Oh, Lotts, I do love you,’ she said, when she could speak. ‘Gosh, it’s good to be home.’
2
‘Trees in Tubs Make Your Party Swing’ – Mondaine Magazine
Lottie called a minicab to take them to the party. Conscious of her own jobless state, Bella protested at the extravagance. But her friend was adamant.
‘These shoes are meant for dancing, not pounding the London Underground,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ll thank me later. Besides, it’s cold out there.’
That was undoubtedly true. Reluctant to spend her remaining cash on a stellar outfit, Bella had in the end found a pretty dress in an Oxfam shop, one of the better ones in Soho that sold nearly perfect vintage clothes, rather than size 20 tee-shirts from George. It was vaguely Ossie Clarke in a heavy, midnight blue crepe. The neckline plunged into a deep V, a bit risqué she had thought, but it also had long sleeves that gathered at the wrist with a row of tiny buttons and it swirled nicely when she walked. But it was almost certainly a retiree from the summer. It was not warm.
‘Odd but stylish. You look like Greta Garbo,’ said Lottie, deciding it would do.
She insisted on dusting Bella’s skin with gold glitter.
‘You’ve got the perfect tan. Light, real and every-where. Make it work for you,’ she instructed.
She also lent Bella a full length suede coat with a big fake-fur collar, along with a sparkly gold bag. They checked the contents of their bags together, just as they used to do when they were eighteen.
‘Lippy, perfume, hankie.’
‘Check.’
‘Phone.’
‘Check.’
‘Keys.’
‘Check. No, I left them in the kitchen—’ Bella dived to retrieve them.
Lottie was patient. ‘OK, that’s it. Except for running away money, of course.’
Their eyes met. It was Bella’s Granny Georgia, a Southern Belle of the old school, who had taught them that: never go to a party without your running away money tucked into your underwear. Ladies didn’t make a fuss but they were always prepared. If their gentleman escort wanted to stay too late at the party or had a little too much to drink, a lady quietly and discreetly made other arrangements and kept the cash to do so about her person at all times. Men, said Granny Georgia, momentarily less ladylike, Never Thought of That.
Bella chuckled. ‘I’ve got enough cash to get me home.’
Lottie clicked her fingers. ‘That reminds me, you’ll need the minicab company’s card.’ She dived into the hall drawer and with a flourish produced a dog-eared bit of pasteboard. ‘Put this number into your phone now.’
Bella complied. And while she was at it, she checked her incoming messages. No, nothing from her mother, so no surprise there. Her father hadn’t got back to her either, but he was probably up a mountain somewhere. And she knew Granny Georgia was in Brazil saving the rain forest until Christmas. But she was a bit hurt that her brother Neill hadn’t even bothered to leave her a message.
Lottie was oblivious. ‘I have an account. You won’t have to pay cash. Just say Hendred Associates.’
‘Hendred Associates?’
‘Well, I’m not going to be working for someone else all my life. Establish the brand early and keep it cooking,’ said Lottie blithely.
But later, in the back of the minicab, she said more soberly, ‘Tonight I’m sort of on duty, Bella. Networking stuff. I may even have to go on somewhere. I’m sorry, on your first weekend home. But I can’t get out of it. Will that be OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Bella, who was beginning to feel the effects of a day’s unaccustomed shopping, on top
of the jet lag. ‘I’ll probably push off earlyish anyway. What do we do? Should I text you when I want to leave?’
‘Good plan. And we can spend all tomorrow together.’
‘Sure. So who are the people giving this party?’
‘My boss. The Big Boss, I mean. Not my team leader.’
‘Coo,’ said Bella, impressed and just a bit wistful. ‘Your career must be really whooshing along.’
Lottie snorted. ‘Career, nothing. This is pay-back for personal services.’
‘What?’
‘Whoops! Sounds bad, doesn’t it? Memo to self: don’t say that to my mother. Actually, his idiot Number Three Son came into the agency for work experience in the summer. I was the one who drew the short straw and had to mentor the little toe-rag. Believe me, that family owe me.’
‘Ah.’
‘The party will be OK, though. Big Cheese is pretty much the last word in contemporary PR. He doesn’t do anything but work, but his wife is into charities and the arts and all sorts of groovy stuff. The kids aren’t all bad, either. And their parties are legendary. There should be some interesting people there. You’ll have a good time. Promise.’
She was right.
The party didn’t seem unduly posh, in spite of what Lottie had said. It was in a very smart house, though, in a very smart part of town, with some amazing artwork on the walls. But it all seemed friendly and casual, with dancing in a big, darkened room in the basement and people talking in every other room in the house, except the kitchen. Some were even sitting on the stairs.
Bella didn’t know anyone but it didn’t matter. She danced a bit, and talked a bit, and drank more than she had in nearly a year. The Oxfam dress fitted in nicely, neither too showy nor too casual, and the new shoes, not much more than sparkly gold straps atop four-inch heels, attracted enough envy to make Bella’s spirits fly. She had a great time until about three hours into the party when she suddenly realised that her head was ringing and she could not feel her feet any more.
‘Air,’ she said, and fought her way up the darkened stairs from the basement to the ground floor, where French windows opened on to a handsome terrace.