Midnight Girls

by Lulu Taylor

  ‘Great!’ he said, cheering up. ‘How are we getting to Cannes? Will your family send the yacht?’

  ‘I can ask them, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Vincente said happily. ‘I like the yacht.’

  Romily rolled her eyes at Bianca. ‘It’s because of the recording studio Papa had installed on La Belle Dame. So many of our musician friends came to the yacht and then complained that they’d been struck by inspiration in the night and had nowhere to work that he decided to help them. Vincente likes to pretend he’s a pop star. When he’s not lazing on deck or swimming in the pool.’

  ‘Sounds charming,’ Bianca said, tossing her hair again in her favourite gesture. She sipped her drink. ‘Now, darling, we need to compare diaries. I’m going to be in London at the same time as you. We can go to all the parties together. Except …’ Bianca frowned. ‘You were at school in England, weren’t you? You probably have your girlfriends there to see and spend time with.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Romily replied lightly. ‘I don’t have any special friends in London. Just the usual crowd. You know them all, of course.’

  Bianca’s face cleared. ‘Good. There are so many parties and I can’t stand going to them without you, cara.’

  The butler came in and announced that dinner was served.

  ‘Thank you,’ Romily said. ‘Now where is your Rudy? He’s so vain, that man. Still preening, I should think. Well, we’ll start without him.’

  Later that night, after they had dined and spent a quiet hour on the terrace talking, Romily had retired and was sitting at her dressing table in a silken robe, preparing her face for bedtime by removing every scrap of make-up, cleaning, toning and moisturising using her tailor-made skin system. There was a knock on her door.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called, smoothing rich cream into her eyelids.

  ‘Me,’ a voice announced.

  She sighed and turned towards the door. ‘Go away, Vincente!’ She went back to her mirror, rubbing in the lotion with light circling movements.

  ‘No,’ came the muffled reply, and he knocked again, more loudly. ‘Answer the door.’

  Romily made a cross face at her reflection. Then she sighed again, got up and went to the door. Vincente was standing in the corridor outside looking sulky.

  ‘What is it?’ Romily asked, putting one hand on her hip and staring at him.

  ‘I suppose you’re not going to sleep with me,’ he said dolefully. ‘Again.’

  Her voice was crisp. ‘Correct.’

  ‘Why do you never sleep with me?’ he moaned. ‘I’m very good! All my girlfriends have been most impressed with my technique.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re an excellent lover, Vincente, but I don’t want to. Thanks anyway.’

  ‘You never want to. It’s not normal. You must have a hormone deficiency,’ he said frowning, his honey-brown eyes earnest. ‘Perhaps you should see a doctor.’

  ‘I’m perfectly well. Leave me alone and go to bed. Good night.’ And she shut the door gently in his puzzled face, and returned to the dressing table thinking, Thank God … London in only two weeks.

  Chapter 38

  London

  ‘MR MITCHELL, GOOD afternoon. Please come in.’

  The man in the elegant dark suit led the way into an office. It was situated above a busy and exclusive restaurant, the kind where there was usually at least one photographer loitering outside, camera ready to snap a celebrity coming or going. Mitch followed with Malik, his assistant, close on his heels. The two of them made an impressive pair, he knew that, with their superbly cut Savile Row suits – Huntsman for Mitch, Kilgour for Malik – both well-built, tanned and handsome. He spent a lot of time making sure that they projected the right image. They had to look like they meant business, like they knew what they were talking about. They needed to be taken seriously in a world where appearances and being able to fit in meant everything. So far, everyone had taken him at face value – if they guessed that he was just an ignorant chef from a small town, who’d spent most of his life stoned on dope, they’d think he wasn’t worth the effort. They’d be wrong, of course, but there it was.

  Their host took his place behind a large desk and gestured to them to take the seats in front of it. When he’d offered them drinks, which they refused, he sat back and said, ‘Now, gentlemen. Let’s talk about the reason for your visit.’

  Mitch and Malik exchanged a quick look. There were times when Malik’s Harvard and Stanford education meant it was best for him to do the talking, but in general it was Mitch who led the way.

  He smiled pleasantly at the man behind the desk. ‘Mr Evans, we’ve heard it on good authority that you’re considering a sale of the Belgrave Restaurant Group.’

  Evans looked surprised. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’

  ‘Just a rumour. It’s not widely known …’ Mitch shrugged and smiled. He found that playing the American naïf could be an effective card. People often underestimated him as a result and were lulled into a false sense of security by his good-natured, smiling bonhomie.

  ‘I should hope not,’ Evans said with a look of indignation. ‘It’s not public knowledge at all.’

  ‘So it’s true?’ Mitch pounced on the giveaway words.

  Evans looked uncomfortable. He folded his arms and pursed his lips. ‘Well … there have been discussions with my business partner, Alan Joliffe, but up until now it’s been a private matter between us and some of our trusted advisors.’

  ‘Those trusted advisors!’ Mitch said jocularly. ‘They’re the worst. They’re like sieves.’ He glanced at Malik. ‘Except for you, of course.’

  ‘Goes without saying, Mr Mitchell,’ Malik replied, his expression deadpan.

  Evans stared at them both, clearly wondering if they were mocking him. Mitch instantly turned on his best professional manner: powerful, in control, smooth and, usually, irresistible.

  ‘Mr Evans, I’ll come straight to the point. I’m interested in buying the Belgrave Group.’

  Evans raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure a lot of people are.’

  ‘OK,’ Mitch said easily. ‘But you’re not going to sell it to them. You’re going to sell it to me.’

  ‘I’m impressed by your confidence, Mr Mitchell.’ Evans appeared a little more comfortable now, as though he was back in control of the situation. He pressed his fingertips together and looked appraisingly at Mitch. ‘But the Belgrave Group isn’t simply about money. Alan and I put our life savings into creating La Joie. We’d both worked our way up in this mad business and knew what a risk it was. Nonetheless, we believed that our shared vision would make it a success.’

  ‘And you were proved right,’ Mitch replied, in a conciliatory tone. ‘Everyone knows what a magnificent establishment it is. And two Michelin stars are not to be sniffed at.’

  Evans sighed a little huffily and leant back in his red leather chair. The light from the diamond-paned windows flickered over his face as he moved, highlighting his long thin nose. ‘I’ve never been bothered about that. The chef likes them. Our bank manager likes them. They are good for business, in a way. But my partner and I believe good dining is about more than just food. It is an experience … an enhancement of life. We treasure that.’

  ‘Me too,’ Mitch said with a smile. ‘Now – are you going to sell to me?’

  ‘What I’m trying to explain …’ Evans said in a tone of infinite patience, as though he were talking to a child ‘… is that this is not simply about the money. Alan and I will only sell to the right person. And, of course, it’s not only La Joie. It’s The Old Print Works, Blowers and The Viennese Café as well.’

  Malik tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair and interjected in a cold voice, ‘We’re well aware of the group’s holdings.’

  Mitch shot him a look and made a slight gesture with one hand. ‘It’s good to be clear. Thank you, Mr Evans.’

  Evans frowned at Malik, but a little uneasily, as though he still couldn’t quite evaluate the men sit
ting opposite. ‘I’m trying to tell you that the personality of the buyer of our business is at least as important as the amount of money on the table.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Mitch said. He smiled again, and adjusted his green-and-gold checked Hermès tie. ‘I understand. These places are your babies. You don’t want to hand them over to just anyone.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Evans looked a little smug. ‘It must be someone we can trust to care for our precious children.’

  ‘Right.’ Mitch’s expression changed from genial to sharp. ‘So what are we talking, Mr Evans? How much?’

  ‘How much?’ Evans seemed to suppress a shudder. ‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself plain. I would need to know a lot more about you and your business before I could even contemplate making a decision. I must be frank with you, Mr Mitchell … I’ve never heard of you and neither have any of my friends or associates. You appear to have come from nowhere.’

  Fuckin’ limeys looking down their noses, Mitch thought. Who cares if he’s heard of me or not? Asshole. But he didn’t show his feelings. He simply became very still and very focused, fixing Evans with his eyes and speaking quietly and clearly. ‘I own four restaurants in Paris, all top-class names making money. Bought the first four years ago, and one a year since then. I’ve had your business valued – it’s healthy, and it’s bankable. It’s worth around forty-nine million, with assets, profitability, liabilities, stock and so on. So here’s the thing. I’m going to offer you sixty. Right now. But the catch is you only have twenty-four hours to decide.’

  The blood seemed to drain from Evans’s face. His mouth dropped open. When he’d gulped for air, he said weakly, ‘Sixty?’

  Mitch nodded. ‘Million. Cash.’

  ‘Oh … oh, I see. Well, that’s very interesting,’ he stuttered, his pale skin flushing. ‘Sixty, you say … well, I’ll certainly talk to Alan …’

  Mitch stood up and Malik followed suit. ‘Great!’ Mitch said, resuming his big, friendly American persona. ‘Don’t forget, twenty-four hours. There are some other investment opportunities I’ve got my eye on and I like to move fast.’ He made for the door. ‘Thanks for seeing me. I look forward to talking to you this time tomorrow at the latest.’

  On the way out of the building, Malik laughed softly. ‘The personality counts as much as the money!’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Mitch said with a grin, putting his hands in his pockets. ‘They like to think that. But the buck will always win the day. ’Specially when it’s good old-fashioned hard cash. There seems to be a shortage of that these days, so no wonder he’s excited. What do you say we hear before the day is out?’

  ‘Maybe he’ll leave it until tomorrow morning – to save a bit of face.’ They walked towards the black Rolls Royce parked by the kerb, its number plate reading M1 TCH.

  Mitch opened the door and swung himself down on to the buttermilk leather seat. ‘Nope, I think today. He won’t want to lose this deal.’

  They were back in the house in Chelsea playing pool, Mitch bending over the table and shooting for the far pocket, when his business phone went off. He straightened up and grinned at Malik who was holding a cue and watching intently from the far side of the table. ‘Fifty bucks says we’re the owners of the Belgrave Group.’

  ‘You know what, Mitch? I never want to bet against you,’ Malik said, shaking his head.

  ‘Hello?’ Mitch put a hand in his pocket and strolled over to the window. ‘Well, hey. It’s great to hear from you. Yeah … yeah …’

  He turned back to Malik and nodded slowly, a big smile spreading over his face.

  Malik made a fist and shook it in triumph.

  ‘Our lawyers will be in touch, Mr Evans. Thanks so much.’ Mitch clicked off his mobile and stared at it for a moment. When he looked up at Malik, his eyes were burning with emotion. ‘This will show that bitch,’ he said, his voice suddenly icy. ‘Now I own one of the swankiest restaurant empires there is, and I’m not going to stop there. I’m going to make sure everyone who ever underestimated me realises what a fuckin’ mistake they made.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Malik breathed, eying his boss with admiration. He was a driven man, that was evident, though what it was that gave him that burning ambition wasn’t. And Evans was right – no one knew where Mitch had come from, or where he got his seemingly bottomless resources. He had appeared on the scene just a few years before, gradually buying up four of the best restaurants in Paris, and now he had his sights set on London. All Malik knew was that he was glad he was on Mitch’s side. He didn’t care to imagine what it would be like to be his enemy.

  Chapter 39

  ALLEGRA CHANGED HER Jimmy Choo pumps for Pedro Garcia Liberty sneakers in silver for the walk home from Mayfair.

  She had bought a flat in an apartment building in Marylebone, just off the High Street, with all its desirable shops and restaurants. She liked being in the heart of London and there was still something of a village feel to Marylebone that appealed to her. It felt as though proper families with children lived in this area, with its playground, child-friendly cafés and glamorous young mothers pushing expensive Phil and Ted buggies as they roamed between Aveda, Agnes B and Brora or picked up some china in Emma Bridgewater’s shop. Just to the north was Regent’s Park where Allegra met her trainer at six-thirty every morning for a work out or a run, and where she often went for a peaceful stroll through the gardens when she needed to get her head together. To the south lay the madness of Oxford Street but, after crossing that and heading west, she’d find herself in the calm oasis of Mayfair, where very expensive shops and exclusive restaurants, gambling dens and grand gentlemen’s clubs, rubbed shoulders with the few remaining private houses that hadn’t yet been turned into those things.

  The walk home was always a good time to ponder over her latest problems. She adored Colette’s and never regretted for a moment taking the job David had offered her, but it had turned out to be a much bigger undertaking than she’d ever imagined. She’d envisaged taking on only whatever David was too busy for, but the truth was that very quickly she’d started to run the whole thing. Uncle David was getting old. She could hardly believe it because he seemed so youthful and vibrant still, but he was into his seventies and slowing down. He didn’t have the energy to put in a full day at the office and then spend his evenings in the club, overseeing its smooth operation while acting as a genial, if eagle-eyed, host.

  And the truth was, more and more of his days were spent going to the funerals and memorial services of his friends, which made him rather gloomy.

  ‘My generation is dying off,’ he said, ‘and it’s utterly miserable. They’re falling like flies, darling. Cancer here, cancer there, cancer every bloody where.’

  He was often fretful and melancholy, though he still retained his capacity for joy and amusement, and his insistence on perfection and routine was as strong as ever. Sinbad, the barman at Colette’s, had invented a special Mac cocktail, named after David, and every Sunday morning he travelled from his home in north London to David’s Knightsbridge home, an immaculate and gorgeous little house in a street tucked behind Harrods, and mixed him the perfect Bloody Mary, which he drank at exactly eleven-thirty.

  Like all the staff, Sinbad held David in a reverence and awe that was close to worship. He was their captain, their boss, and the fount of all that was good and true. As a result, it had been very hard for Allegra to get them to obey her at first. They were all very polite and professional, but immediately she’d finished issuing her instructions they would trot off to find ‘Mr Mac’ and run it all past him. If he was happy, they were. In the end, it took a staff meeting and David laying down the law to convince them: ‘Lady Allegra is my second-in-command. She has my complete faith and support. If she says to do something, you must do it. No more rushing off to find me and making sure I approve. I do. Understand?’

  After that she had no more trouble, and when the staff began to understand that she shared her uncle’s vision and didn’t want to change Colette’s radically
and sack them all, they relaxed and began to hold her in the same esteem as they did David. The one who held out the longest against Allegra was Freda who had been the ladies’ lavatory attendant since the club’s opening night. She had seen all manner of stars, grand ladies, princesses and even crowned queens use the facilities. To Freda, the only thing that really mattered was if they washed their hands after the event, taking the fluffy white towel she held out to each lady as she exited the lavatory. If a princess didn’t wash her hands, then in Freda’s eyes she was no better than she ought to be. She was still scandalised by a Hollywood actress who’d sauntered out, leaving the seat a mess, loo paper scattered everywhere, and without washing. She had vowed never to see another of the woman’s films because she wouldn’t be able to look at her again without feeling ill.

  Freda was not keen on Allegra and, although she said nothing overt, it was obvious she was spreading dissent among the others. There were mutterings about ‘young things thinking we old ones are useless’ and rumours about people being forcibly retired. Allegra guessed at once that anxiety lay at the heart of this campaign. She went to Selfridges and bought a big bottle of Freda’s favourite scent. Then, as soon as the club opened, she went to the ladies and presented it to her.

  ‘Very nice, I’m sure,’ Freda said without a smile. ‘Thank you, m’lady. Very kind.’ She stared at it with suspicion, looking anything but pleased.

  ‘I can see what you’re thinking Freda.’ Allegra settled herself down in one of the green-and-red-striped slipper chairs where ladies could rest and powder their noses. ‘You’re worried this is a sweetener. That I’m about to break some bad news. Well, you’re right. I do have some bad news.’