Midnight Girls
Page 1
Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Lulu Taylor
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part 2
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part 3
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part 4: Four Years Later
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Part 5
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Book
From the prestigious dormitories of Westfield to the irresistible socialite scene of present-day London: everywhere Allegra McCorquodale goes, scandal follows her. And in Allegra’s shadow are her closest friends since school, the Midnight Girls.
Romily de Lisle: super rich, brilliant and bored. She’s as blessed as Allegra when it comes to looks, but she’s a force to be reckoned with. And Imogen Heath: pretty, timid and hopelessly drawn to Allegra’s reckless charm. She longs to be a part of the glitzy high-society world where her friends move with such ease.
Once free of the cloistered worlds of school and university, the Midnight Girls face new and different challenges, but they are for ever bonded by a terrible secret they’ve sworn never to break.
Bitter rivalries arise as their professional lives soon cross paths. Greed, tragedy and sinister passions threaten their allegiance and each of them stand to lose what they love most…
About the Author
Lulu Taylor was brought up in the English countryside, educated at Oxford University, and has lived all over the world. Her novels, Heiresses and Midnight Girls, are sexy, dramatic and enthralling depictions of modern high society. She is married and lives in London.
Also by Lulu Taylor
Heiresses
To Emily Hamilton
The most glamorous girl in any room
Prologue
London
2009
The car drew to a halt in front of the most glamorous nightclub in London.
The uniformed doorman, accustomed to expensive vehicles stopping beside the discreet entrance, stepped forward and opened the door. A slim foot in a champagne-satin stiletto emerged, followed by a young woman with a pale cashmere cloak wrapped tightly around her oyster satin ruched dress. Her hair was pulled back into a glossy chignon and, despite the late hour, she was wearing a large pair of sunglasses.
The doorman shut the car door. As the vehicle glided away, she paused on the pavement at the entrance to the covered stairway leading down to the club. Then, pulling her cloak a little tighter, she descended swiftly, turned to the left and entered a long hallway.
‘Madam.’ A man in a suit standing close to the entrance stepped forward. He glanced at her face. ‘Are you with a member?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Mr White.’
‘Ah yes. Mr White is in the bar …’
Without waiting to hear more, she walked past him, poised and confident despite her high heels. The bar was crammed with well-dressed men and beautiful women, sipping cocktails or champagne or spirits, sitting on bar stools, leaning against the bar counter and the walls, perched on the low sills between the vaulted arches or on the velvet banquettes and comfortable little chairs in the sitting area. Scanning the room through her dark glasses, she still didn’t find the person she was looking for. She made her way through the crush to the dimly lit dining room.
‘May I help you, madam?’ asked the maître d’, smart in his dark suit, standing at his lectern with the reservation book before him.
‘Mr White,’ she said crisply. ‘He’s expecting me. Does he have a table?’
The maître d’ consulted his book and then said with the faintest tone of surprise, ‘He has the private room. Please, this way.’
He led her through the velvety darkness of the dining room, where the tables were illuminated only by candles in Venetian glass holders, and over to the right, through a door and up a small staircase to another door. He knocked.
‘Come in,’ said a deep voice from within.
‘Your guest, Mr White,’ said the maître d’, standing back to allow the woman to enter the room. She walked past him with slow, sure steps.
Mr White stood up.
‘Are there any more guests I should be expecting, sir?’
‘No. No, thank you.’
This time, the maître d’ remembered his training and did not show any surprise at there being only two guests in a room designed for thirty. ‘Very well, sir. I shall send up a waiter directly.’
‘Give us fifteen minutes, please, Gennaro. We have business to discuss.’
The moment the door closed behind him, the woman took off her dark glasses and cashmere wrap and let them fall to the floor. Then she moved quickly towards Mr White, who pulled her into his arms, sinking his mouth on hers in a passionate kiss.
After a moment, she pulled away, her eyes sparkling, and said, ‘This is very dangerous. Are you sure we won’t be seen?’
‘They’re not here. I’m certain of it. No one knows who we are.’
She laughed softly and they kissed again, more slowly and tenderly. This time, when they came apart, she sighed happily. ‘You’re here.’
‘Of course. What did you expect?’ He reached out and took her hand, and they sat down together at the table. He gazed at her yearningly in the soft candlelight. ‘You’re more beautiful than ever. Where did we last meet? Milan?’
‘Yes, Milan. It’s been so long,’ she said, stroking his hand.
‘Oh my God, too long! I’ve been burning up for you, I’ve hardly been able to stand it.’
‘How much longer will we have to go on like this? Only seeing each other in secret.’
‘Until we’ve done what we need to do. I promise the wait will be worth it.’
She looked around at the room. ‘This is my first time in here, can you believe it? After all these years. Will it really belong to us?
‘In time, it will – I guarantee it. Every last napkin, sweetheart.’
&nb
sp; She laughed with delight. ‘I can’t wait. But I’ll be patient, I promise. Six months, a year – how ever long is necessary. And, you know, I’m getting rather fond of our clandestine meetings,’ she purred, stroking a finger down his cheek. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘I love it, you know that. I love this –’ he cupped one hand around the soft satin that encased her breast – ‘and this.’ He ran his hand down her thigh. ‘But I want you all the time.’ He pressed his mouth against hers again and she opened her lips to him, savouring the exquisite sensation of his tongue exploring her. He pulled away with a moan. ‘My God! You’re driving me wild …’ Then he took possession of her mouth once more, moving his hands up and down her body, heedless of the extremely expensive gown she was wearing. When he pushed the satin ruching down to release her breasts and took a small rosebud nipple in his mouth, she sighed with pleasure and whispered, ‘Oh, that’s beautiful … don’t stop, don’t stop, my darling … I want more. I want everything you can give me.’
They made an odd couple as they burst, giggling, into the dark, dusty, plastic-hung foyer of the half-built hotel. He was a young workman in a T-shirt and grimy jeans, his hair streaked with dust from a day on the site. She was a beauty, fine-boned, with a mass of thick hair twisted up in a lazy arrangement at the back of her head, and expensively dressed in a black boat-necked jersey dress and black stilettos that laced up to her ankle.
‘Are you sure this is all right?’ asked the girl breathlessly.
‘Yeah. My boss won’t find out. Probably wouldn’t care if he did,’ declared the workman with a touch of bravado.
They stood still for a moment and looked at each other, suddenly aware that they were complete strangers who had met only an hour earlier in the nearby pub. Then the girl reached for him, hungrily pulling him to her, not caring about his dirty clothes against her costly black dress. He didn’t resist – she was easily the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen and he hadn’t been able to believe his luck when she’d flirted so blatantly with him. Now she was all over him, kissing him wildly and running her hands under his T-shirt and over his torso.
‘Right here,’ she begged him, possessed with desperate desire. ‘Right here on the floor. Now. Please …’
The physical sensations she was igniting in him were so overwhelming that he could barely think straight, but he managed to lead her to a plastic-swathed sofa where they could sink down together. The girl moaned and cried, imploring him to kiss her, to touch her, to fuck her. He rolled up her short black dress to discover that she was wearing no underwear and she wrapped her long legs around him, pulling open his grimy work jeans to release his bulging cock, urging him to push it into her with no heed for the consequences. Unable to resist, he entered her soft dark warmth, gasping with pleasure as she dug her nails into his back and forced him deep inside. The pints he had drunk slowed him down a little, but he was soon in the grip of the fierce ride to his climax, pounding into her while she shouted and cried out, begging him for more.
‘Oh … shite!’ he yelled, as his orgasm burst out of him, and he collapsed on top of her, panting hard.
Barely a moment later, she was wriggling out from underneath him, pulling a tissue from her purse to mop away his spending, standing up and straightening her dress. He was still dazed by the whole experience as she looked down at him. There was a strange expression in her eyes: gratitude mixed with something else. Was it … sadness?
‘Thanks, darling, that was heavenly,’ she said in her low, musical voice with its perfectly rounded vowels.
‘No, thank you,’ he said with a lazy smile. ‘I’ve never enjoyed coming into work so much.’
‘Coming being the operative word.’ She flashed him a smile. ‘’Bye.’
And she scooped up her bag, ran a hand over her hair and walked casually away, disappearing into the night as quickly and mysteriously as she had arrived.
*
Only a mile away, in a hot Camden nightclub, a young man was watching a girl dancing. She was tossing her head with abandon, moving her arms and swinging her hips in time to the music, showing off her ripe curves and full breasts to their best advantage in an electric blue body-con dress.
He was drawn not just to her feminine shape, but to the energy and vigour that emanated from her: it was obvious that she wanted to be free, to dance, to feel alive. Her life force was irresistible. He made his way across the dance floor towards her, pushing his way through writhing bodies. The girl he was watching sang as she danced, smiling with pleasure as she moved sinuously to the beat.
When he reached her she was oblivious, continuing to dance alone. Then she opened her eyes and saw him. For a moment she carried on smiling, gazing at him as though sharing her joy with him, then she came to a sudden halt, frozen on the dance floor, her eyes wide. She blinked. She mouthed a single word. He couldn’t hear it against the noise of the music, but he could see clearly what she had said. ‘You.’
He smiled at her, nodding slowly. Then he took her hand, leant forward, put his other hand behind her head and pulled her to him, pressing his mouth to hers.
She was too astonished to resist and then, as she appeared to realise what was happening, she relaxed under his touch and began to kiss him back. At first, their kiss was almost unbearably tender: slow, gentle and beautiful. Then it grew more passionate as they both felt the spark between them ignite into flame.
The man felt a tap on his back. He pulled out of the kiss and looked round. Someone yelled, ‘Oi, get a room, mate!’ though their voice was almost lost in the music.
He turned back to the girl. Her eyes were shining now, her hands clutching his. He raised his eyebrows at her and cocked his head towards the door. She nodded eagerly and a moment later they were making their way through the crowd, her hand held tight in his so he couldn’t lose her.
Outside the club, they stood on the pavement, taking no notice of the people milling about them.
‘It’s been a long time,’ the man said, smiling at her.
‘I can’t believe it’s you!’ she said breathlessly. ‘What are you doing here?’
He said slowly, ‘I guess I was supposed to find you … I always had a feeling I would, you know.’ Then he kissed her again, wrapping her tightly in his arms as though he was worried she would float away if he let go.
PART 1
Chapter 1
Westfield Boarding School for Girls
May 2000
‘WE REALLY HAVE to do something about that awful cow,’ declared Allegra.
She sucked hard on her Marlboro Light and puffed the smoke out of the open attic window and into the warm spring night beyond.
The previous term Allegra had discovered the caretaker had the key to the attics and, with her fearless charm, had persuaded him to lend it to her, then had it copied and returned it. ‘Now we’ve got our very own headquarters. Isn’t it brilliant?’ she’d said proudly. She’d insisted that they make the most of the unlimited access to their secret place, and almost every night led the expedition out of the dorms and up into the filthy attic with its mountain of junk – broken chairs, trunks, shabby old desks and boxes – where they could indulge in their favourite vice in private. ‘We won’t be able to do this next year when we move into the sixth-form boarding house,’ she’d said, ‘so we have to make the most of it while we can.’
Now she looked over at the other two. ‘I mean it, she’s totally doing my head in at the moment.’
Imogen knew exactly who was meant. She blew out a stream of smoke, pleased with the nonchalant ease with which she did it. No one would guess she’d only been smoking for a few months and that, the first time she’d tried it, she’d been violently sick. She seemed just as cool as the others now. ‘But what on earth can we do?’ she said.
Romily looked blank. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked as she pulled a packet of Gauloises out of her pyjama pocket.
‘I can’t believe you smoke those things,’ Imogen said, shaking her head
. ‘They’re so strong! They make me feel queasy even when they’re not lit.’
‘I can’t believe you waste your time on those,’ Romily said, gesturing at Imogen’s cigarette. ‘They taste of nothing. You might as well not bother lighting them and just breathe in.’
‘They’ll do me fine, thanks very much. They’re better for you anyway,’ Imogen replied. She held out the white and gold packet. ‘Lights, see?’
Romily snorted. ‘If you believe that, you’ll believe anything! I’ve heard there’s fibreglass in the filters that goes straight into your lungs and cuts them to shreds. Give me an honest French brand any time.’
Allegra frowned. ‘Aren’t we getting a bit off the subject? I was talking about Sophie Harcourt.’
‘Ah.’ Romily took out a lighter, clicked it into life and sucked at her Gauloise, the strands of tobacco and cigarette paper flaring orange. She exhaled a long plume of smoke. ‘That’s better! I needed that. So … what’s La Harcourt done now?’